Page 79 of Reckless Love

“Gage and Ember already dropped suitcases at the house for you and Landon. I put them in the bedrooms in the apartment,” Stephen says as he wheels me out of the hospital, a nurse following him with Landon in a separate wheelchair.

The thought of getting into the back of the car, one so similar to the vehicle we crashed in, is making my stomach flip-flop. My fear is irrational. I have traveled many, many times in a vehicle driven by someone else with no issues. I trust Stephen more than anyone else in the world.

We get to the car, and Stephen opens the back door. When I’m on my feet, Stephen sweeps me into his arms and sets me in the car before doing up my buckle. His gaze lands on the pulse at the base of my neck. He runs his thumb along the flutter.

“You’re nervous.” It’s a statement.

“I know it makes no sense.”

“Makes a lot of sense, actually,” he says. “The car accident was a traumatic experience, and you remember at least some of it. Does Landon?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. I’ve been afraid to ask.

“If we need to pull over or take a break on the way to the house, just let me know.”

“Okay,” I say, and I cup one side of his face while I kiss the other. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I crave the intimacy, the connection.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he says, voice gruff. Then he ducks out of the car, and his voice booms as he lifts Landon out of the wheelchair in exaggerated fashion and carries him around to the other door. He deposits him in the back seat and then does up his buckle before ruffling his air. “You ready?”

“This car’s a safe car, right?” Landon asks. “Not like the other one?”

“The safest,” Stephen says. “Because I’m the best at my job.”

Landon sets his jaw and nods as though shoring himself up. I reach across the space between us, and I take Landon’s hand.

Stephen gets into the driver’s seat, adjusts the mirror to see me, and then he pulls away from the curb.

Landon, bless him, managed to fall asleep in the car. My anxiety was through the roof, and he fell asleep. Stephen carries him in and lays him on the couch when we arrive. As he’s getting Landon settled with a blanket, I explore.

It’s clear Stephen cleaned the place, stocked up on groceries, and, when I get to the bedroom, that he put fresh sheets on the two single beds that his parents once slept on.

When I run my hand along the pillowcase, the texture is familiar. Stephen arrives to lean against the doorframe, watching me.

“Are these Franza sheets?” Petra and Paul Franza branched out into home décor a couple of years ago, and I’ve become addicted to their sheet sets.

“That’s what you had at your house, and I remember how particular you used to be about your thread count,” he says.

“You bought Franza sheets just for us?” They aren’t cheap.

“Is that really so surprising, Ava?”

It is and it isn’t. This is the Stephen I spent eight years with—the one who’d do literally anything to please me. I was such an idiot not to appreciate that at the time. I could claim I had no one to compare him to, and that would be true. Brief affairs with other men that never went anywhere. Maybe I couldn’t acknowledge it back then, but some part of me knew what I had with him, couldn’t help seeking it out over and over. For whatever reason, I wasn’t ready for him like I should have been, like I wish I was.

“Couldn’t have you sleeping on my parents’ old castoffs.” He shrugs like his thoughtfulness and care is nothing.

But those traits are everything. He didn’t buy just any new sheets; he bought the ones he knew I preferred.

“I never, for one instant, deserved you,” I say, my voice thick.

“Jesus, Ava. You don’t measure love by who deserves what. Love’s not a tally sheet or a checks-and-balances accounting venture.”

“How in the world did you ever love me? Explain it to me like I’m five.”

“How did I ever love you?” He raises his eyebrows, surprise coating his expression. “I can’t imagine a world in which I didn’t love you, and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to live there. In those eight years, I can’t think of a single thing I’d change.”

“Not even the ending?” I challenge.

“Maybe the ending,” he concedes. “Maybe the ending.” He holds out his hand to me. “Come on, let me feed you some real food.”