Page 28 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Well, that's good considering you'll be spending a whole lot of time there over the coming weeks.”

I will, won't I?

I picture the neighborhood. Those two looming gates. The scrollwork on the gate to get onto their property—and the double-high doors in that imperial entryway. The marble floors. The intercom. All that luxury will be the scenery of my life for the foreseeable future.

And then I'll go back to normal.

Just a regular woman, secretly feeding a stray cat and taking on goat-sitting jobs as a side hustle.

Chapter 6

Declan

Care about what other people think

and you will always be their prisoner.

~ Lao Tzu

I wake, squinting into the darkness. My leg throbs, the pain louder after six hours of spotty sleep. I rearrange my body, but I can’t get comfortable.

The room disorients me for a brief moment. Where am I?

Oh. Yeah. The downstairs guest room.

When I had the full use of my legs, I slept in the master bedroom upstairs, but for now, I’m grounded to sleeping on the main floor until I get my cast.

The sound of shuffling in the kitchen carries through to me. Someone’s here.

I rub my eyes, shifting my weight and groaning. Reality slowly dawns on me. My brother spent the night.

“Patrick?” I shout.

He’s in my doorway in under ten seconds, brows drawn in, mouth in a straight line. “Declan?” He looks me over. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. In pain, but okay. I forgot you were here. What time is it?”

“Five thirty.” He walks toward my bathroom. “I have to go into work. I can call off if you need me, though.”

He emerges from my bathroom holding pill bottles. “It’s time for your meds.”

“I could have told you that,” I say, smiling at him through the twinge shooting up my thigh. “And I think Winona’s coming by this morning. I’ll be fine until she gets here. You can go to work.”

“Do you want me to stay here until she arrives?” Patrick’s brows lift, making him look like he did so many years ago when he’d knock on my bedroom door asking if I wanted to go outside to play.

I hate this.

It’s not like I’m ungrateful. Some people don’t even have insurance when injuries happen. I have a team of the best professionals at my disposal, a home health nurse—well, a nurse’s aide, which seems like an odd position considering there’s no nurse here to aid—and a family who checks in on me and sets aside their lives to be at my beck and call.

I’m not used to depending on anyone.

People depend on me.

Having to ask someone to stand by so I can inch my way toward a knee scooter just to go from my bedroom to the family room is so far outside my comfort zone, I don’t even have words to express my frustration.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching my forehead with my pointer and thumb.

When I open my eyes, my brother’s face is etched with concern.