Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
I slept there.
Not on the lush pullout bed across the room. No, Kane had demanded I curl up in the —admittedly bigger than regular—hospital bed with him. I’d fought him on it at first, but he’d simply said if I didn’t, he’d get up and go to the pullout. It wasn’t a bluff.
I wasn’t exactly hard to convince.
I wanted to be close to him. Feel his skin, smell him, have his heart beating against my cheek.
Which is how we went to sleep, until Brax woke us up in the morning with the clearing of his throat.
Seeing the man at all, let alone first thing while feeling emotionally hungover, was not my favorite thing to do in the morning.
I tried my best to plaster on a façade for Kane’s sake.
It helped that Knox was at his side. His eyes were on the two of us. He wasn’t smiling, but the edges of his lips were almost turned upward. An almost-smile.
The warm look I gave him was not forced.
“Don’t get enough attention as it is, brother?” Knox asked dryly.
Kane leaned over to kiss my head before replying. I self-consciously tried to sit up, feeling uncomfortable, cuddling in bed with him with the two men standing over us.
Despite his injuries, Kane’s grasp was firm, so I couldn’t move unless I wanted to fight him and risk hurting him. So I relaxed back.
“Maybe I just wanted the good drugs without the judgment,” he teased. “And to get Chef to try out her hands at being my nurse.” There was a sexual innuendo that I didn’t think I would have a carnal response to, but damn, I did.
I didn’t miss the way Brax rolled his eyes.
“Just came to ensure you’re okay,” Knox said.
“Got nine lives. You know that, brother,” Kane waved off his concern.
Knox’s lips were no longer turned up. “You’re fast runnin’ out of those.”
There was an uncomfortable moment before Knox said, “Avery, take care of him.” The request felt sacred somehow, like he trusted me.
“Of course,” I told him.
He nodded once, didn’t acknowledge Brax, then left.
Brax tried to stay. Tried to go over interviews he’d scheduled.
“Not doin’ any of that shit,” Kane interrupted him.
“Kane—”
“I’m not doin’ it,” Kane repeated, not hiding the impatience in his tone. “I’m tired. I’m getting too old for this shit. This,” he gestured to his arm which was in a cast, “is not gonna be a money grab. No publicity bullshit. I’m gonna stay in New York with Chef until I feel like going back.”
“But we’ve got the Winter Games. I’ve already got a physical therapist who said if we work hard, you’ll be in fine shape for them,” Brax pushed, splotches of red creeping up his neck.
“I don’t do fine,” Kane barked. “I do it when I want to. If my body is ready by then, it is. If it isn’t, then it isn’t. Ain’t pushing shit. Deal with it.”
The disdain in Kane’s tone was unmistakable.
It was shameful for Brax. To be dismissed. I didn’t know if that was something that happened often, but I doubt it since Kane was so easygoing. I knew it was doubly embarrassing to be shut down publicly, though, in front of me.
For a split second, Brax’s gaze shot to me, and I felt the pure loathing in it.
I remained placid, even though that made my fingertips numb.
Brax blamed me for this. However insane that was. When a man felt emasculated, he usually looked for the nearest woman to blame.
I made a mental note to be careful of Brax. He’d want to punish me for this.
He looked back to Kane, wearing a tight smile. “I’ll take care of it. You may want to take care of this.”
He threw down the rolled-up newspaper he’d been holding.
Kane was on the front page.
With me.
I widened my eyes in horror.
Then I looked up to Brax who now had a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
“I’ll leave you both,” he said before turning on his expensive loafers and leaving.
I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was smiling because he’d landed a blow. One of many to come.
Kane grinned at the photo that was plastered on pretty much every news site—I’d found this out by frantically googling, noting all the missed calls from the restaurant and people who had seen it. I’d deal with that … later.
It was a picture of me. Me after pushing past every official and kneeling at Kane’s side, his arm reaching up to my face.
“Fucking love this photo,” he muttered.
I gaped at him. “You love a photo in which you are suffering from a ruptured spleen and narrowly escaped death?”
I hated the photo. All it was was a snapshot of the most terrible moment of my life.
Kane’s gaze softened as he must’ve heard the pain in my tone. “I don’t love it of me, although I do look handsome.” His fingertips trailed over the image of my face. I’d expected it to be contorted in worry or horror, but my features were calm, eyes intent on Kane. Except my hands. They were gripping on to the sides of his helmet for dear life.