Page 43 of The KING Review
“Grant—”
“Neve,” he cuts me off, and I hear the car engine roar to life in the background. “Just ten minutes, angel. Okay? I know you can do that for me, can’t you? It’s all right. I’m on my way.”
Ten minutes turns out to be nine.
My whole body goes periodically cold, then hot, adrenaline fizzing under my skin. I nearly drop my phone when he texts me to let me know he’s parking his car. I can barely breathe. I’m clutching the crutches so tight my knuckles have gone dead white.
Then the curtain whips back, and Grant is there.
His hair is all tousled, like he’s been raking his hand through it on the drive over, shirt rumpled, breathing hard.
For a second, we just stare at each other. My whole body goes numb. I don’t know whether to laugh or scream or burst into tears—and then that’s exactly what happens.
I literally break down on the spot.
It’s so fucking embarrassing.
My chest caves in. All the air I’ve been hoarding comes out in a strangled gasp, and suddenly I’m sobbing—full-body, ugly, mortifying crying, face in my hands like the six-year-old that got traumatized in a stupid, awful hellhole like this in the first place.
Grant crosses the space in two huge strides and sinks down next to me, arms open, but waiting for permission to touch. I’m well past trying to be coy, so I just tip myself right into him, burying my face in his chest, and let it all go.
His arms come around me, and it’s so good, so safe, so warm. He doesn’t shush me, or tell me to calm down, or do anything patronizing. He just holds on.
“It’s okay, angel,” he murmurs, and if I thought hearing him call me that over the phone was obliterating, hearing it in person is even worse. “I’m here, it’s all right. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I shake in his arms for a good ten minutes, maybe more, until the worst of the crying is gone and only the breathless hiccupping remains. His shirt is soaked with my tears, complete with the remains of my sad-panda mascara, but Grant barely even blinks.
“You’re all right. Okay?” he whispers, over and over. “I swear it. I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod into his chest. Breathing is easier here, warm cotton—if damp—and his heartbeat under my ear. His hand moves up and down my back, tracing my spine. If I could, I’d stay right here forever, in this little bubble with him and nothing else.
Eventually, the ache in my ankle reasserts itself, and it’s enough to force my face out of hiding. I don’t look Grant in the eyes—I’m not there yet—instead, I rake the back of my wrist across my face and attempt to salvage what I can of my dignity. “Sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, so gently it makes my insides liquefy. “Are you okay?”
I nod again, though I’m not sure if it’s true. Grant doesn’t push. Finally, a nurse appears, clipboard in hand, and the next twenty minutes are a blur of x-rays, awkward crutching, and antiseptic smells. The x-ray tech is nice, but I’m overly aware of Grant parked in the hallway, waiting for me, like he’s my personal security detail.
When I return, Grant is waiting, arms folded, expression stern—but as soon as he clocks the moon boot on my right foot, his mouth twitches so hard fighting his smile that he looks like he might strain something.
“Stop it,” I warn, pointing at him. “Not a word.”
He lifts his palms, mock innocent. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Lie. He’s vibrating with glee.
“So, how many of these have you had in the past year?” he asks, feigning casual.
Unbelievable. “You. Are. Awful.”
He just grins, big and bright, dimples popping, and the little smile lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. I melt against my will.
“Yeah, but it made you laugh, didn’t it?” he says quietly as we step out into the parking lot. “I’ll take you laughing over panicking any day.”
Lord, help me. I’m going to fall head over stupid moon boot for this guy, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Chapter Thirteen
Star-Shaped Scar
