Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“You better.” Her hand stays on my back as we climb the stairs. Damn, she’s a good nurse.
“You’re really serious about this whole watch-over-me thing?” I’m not used to this attention from a mom type.
“I am.”
“Because Declan would want you to watch over me?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Yes, of course he would want me to. But I’m here because I care about you. Deeply.”
“I care about you too, Cyndi.” When I make it to the top of the steps, I turn to her, my brow furrowing. “You’re not coming in our bedroom, are you?”
She laughs. “I want to make sure you lie down.”
A faint blush crosses my cheeks, heating my face. “Well, you know . . . it’s the bedroom, and all,” I say, stammering.
She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The bedroom where you have sex?”
My jaw drops. “Cyndi!”
She rolls her eyes. “You share a bedroom, sweetie. The jig is up.”
I scrub a hand across my face, hiding my shock. She’s so bold, but so cool too. I might be in love with her, just as a mom and all.
“Get in bed and get some rest,” she says, going full caretaker on me. Not gonna lie—I do like the attention.
When she leaves a few minutes later to head downstairs, I glance at the clock, willing time to speed up so Declan will walk through the door. We live together, and it’s amazing to share a home, and so much better than the alternative of us on opposite coasts. But we also live apart, and it’s hard when you need your person.
So hard.
Soon, sleep takes over.
A little later when the front door clicks open, I hear Declan’s voice and my whole body goes warm.
19
Grant
I listen at first, shamelessly spying.
“How is he?”
“He’s sleepy, sweetie,” Cyndi says, using the same endearment for her son that she uses with me.
“That’s not good,” Declan says, and I picture his frown.
“It’s fine, actually. It’s past two in the morning. He’s supposed to be tired.”
“I’m going to go see him,” he says. “And Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I’m so glad you were here,” he says, relief flooding his tone.
“Me too.”
The sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor grows closer and closer.
“Hey,” I call out softly.
“Hey, you.”
I hear the smile in his voice before he turns into our bedroom, then shuts the door behind him. When he does, I scoot up in bed.
Declan’s eyes widen. “Are you allowed to do that?”
“Yup,” I say, then cast my gaze downward to his shoes. “But dude, you wore your shoes in the house.”
“Oh, soooo sorry,” he says, as he toes them off, then sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, his expression soft and worried. “How are you?”
“I’m not wounded. I’m not broken.” I reach for him with my arms, but my head pounds as I go. With a wince, I lie back down.
“How do you really feel, babe?” Declan asks, taking my hand.
I thread my fingers through his, and a kind of rightness settles over me. A sense of security, even. “Good, now that you’re here,” I say, then I tug him closer.
“We’re not making out,” he warns.
“I know. I just want to feel you near me.”
I scoot over a bit, making room, and he slides next to me, wedging his body against mine. He’s so warm, and I want to suck up all his body heat. “You want me to hold you?” Declan asks.
“So much,” I whisper, my voice quavering.
He wraps his arms tight around me, gently presses his chest to my side, then drops a tender kiss to my cheek. “Good, because I want to hold you,” he murmurs.
Declan hums, a soft sound as he snuggles me, bringing me close, his palms coasting gently up and down my arms. His face rests near my neck, his heart beating peacefully.
“You seem happy,” I say.
He buries his face in my shoulder, sweeps a kiss above the neckline of my T-shirt. “You have no idea how worried I was.”
“Yeah?” I ask, my voice pitching up.
“Don’t sound like you like it so much.”
“But I do like it.”
“My worry?”
“Actually, I think I love it,” I admit, feeling all buzzy and happy in his arms.
“I was freaking out, to put it mildly,” Declan tells me.
“Why?”
“Why?” he asks, incredulous.
“Yeah. I don’t even think I have a concussion. And I’ve had two—one in my second season, and one in high school.”
“It looked really bad today. It looked terrible, Grant. I didn’t know what happened or how you were,” he says, emotion thick in his voice. “Wi-Fi was down on the flight. I was so damn worried about you. You’re my person. I wanted to be there for you so badly.”
This, I’m pretty sure, is what it means to swoon. I’m a grown man, and I am wildly swooning for my guy. “I wanted you here too,” I tell Declan. “Your mom is awesome, and I love her, and I’m so happy she was able to help but . . . she’s not you.”