Page 117 of Tangled with the Tight End

“My body would ache despite the treatments—sometimes because of them—but I’d just lay there and breathe. It was always one of the few still moments I had in the middle of the chaos of the season.”

Winona doesn’t say a word. She studies me for a beat, and then she walks to the built-ins under the TV, pulling a couple of the french square pillows out of their cubbies and laying them down in front of the fire. Wordlessly, she calls me over to join her.

I abandon my crutches, covering the short distance by leaning on furniture and lowering myself to the ground when I reach her.

She lays back onto the pillow next to mine, staring up toward the coffered ceiling with the beveled crown molding squares twenty feet overhead.

Her breath is soft, but audible. Like she’s waking up—maybe waking up to my thoughts and feelings about her. I can’t be sure.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and tap my music app, pressing play on one of my favorites

Thomas Rhett starts singing Die a Happy Man.

Winona turns her head toward me. “I love this song.”

I turn my head and she’s right there, staring into my eyes, her face barely a foot from mine.

“Yeah?” I ask, my voice low and full of gravel. “Me too.”

She says, “I know.”

“You know?”

“Well, I figured as much when you sang it in the shower.”

“When I …” I rack my brain for what she’s talking about and then I remember—that first shower when I had my splint on. She could hear me.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she says, her eyes widening slightly.

“You were on standby,” I say.

It feels like years ago. My first shower after the hospital. She waited just outside the bathroom in case I slipped.

“Yes. I was on standby. In your bedroom.”

“In case I needed you.”

“Yes. In case you needed me.”

“And what about now?” I search her face.

“Now?”

“What if I need you now?” My eyes lock on to hers.

“I’m right here,” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

Chapter 18

Winona

I believe in kissing. Kissing a lot.

~ Audrey Hepburn

I stare across the space between us—if you can even call the distance a space. My hand itches to reach out and brush across Declan’s end-of-the-day stubble. His breath warms my face. He’s right there—so close—head on a pillow, turned on his side, staring at me.

Declan O’Connell.