Page 46 of Once Upon a Lie

“That’s probably because the patriarchy has forced women to feel like it’s our duty-bound role to be fine.”

He smirks at me. “And if we take the patriarchy out of it, are you still fine? Or are you having pain anywhere?”

I shrug. “I don’t think I have pain right now. Maybe a little sore.”

“And what about dizzy?”

I shake my head.

“What’s your name?”

I roll my eyes. “Valentina Cordone.”

“Where are we?”

“In your condo.”

“And who am I?”

My smile is annoyed. “My neighbor Shane.”

“And on a scale of one to ten, how handsome am I right now?”

I snort. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I never joke about neurological function after a serious trauma.”

“But you don’t have a baseline of how handsome I thought you were before the injury, so how would you correctly assess my neurological function with an answer?”

“Fine,” he concedes with a wink. “You’re capable of debate, so that’s a good sign.” I smile in victory, but he holds up a single finger and links our arms. “Still, we’re going downstairs.”

I feel relatively capable until we make it to the stairwell, and I’m staring down the barrel of an eighteen-story gun. “My legs feel like JELL-O. I don’t think I can do it.”

“So,” he says, “fine, but not fine.”

“Or I’m not in the mood for a cardio session.”

He grins at me, spinning his back toward me and vaguely gesturing something with his hands. “I’m not sure if the elevator is safe. Hop on.”

“What are you doing? Hop on? What does that mean?”

He glances at me over his shoulder. “Piggyback ride.”

“You’re going to carry me down eighteen flights?”

“Hop on, Valentina.”

Someone, it seems, is really in the mood for a workout.

“Come on,” he urges. “I’ve already carried you once today. I got you. I promise.”

On a sigh, I give in. With my own Gumby legs a no-go and the elevator potentially compromised, I’m plumb out of other options.

His shoulders are broad and solid, and for the first time since Ken Fortune tried to murder me, I feel my pulse slow down. When we reach the lobby, I slide off Shane’s back, trying not to swoon over the fact that he’s not even a little breathless.

Nothing about the situation down there says superficial, I’ll tell you that. Half the building’s gathered around while police and firefighters and paramedics try to get a handle on the situation, and news reporters with cameras hover on the periphery.

My chest seizes over the idea of this playing on TVs all over Nashville under a Breaking News special graphic and my family catching wind of the details that way instead of in a carefully crafted, downplayed-to-the-depths-of-hell, boring accounting told by moi, two to three weeks after all the scratches on my body are healed.