“Great job pooping on the grass and not the sidewalk,” I told Piper as we scurried toward the entrance to the apartments. She pranced confidently toward the door like it had been her home for more than three days.
It was a cold, quiet night in Knockemout. The air was crisp and still.
I slid my key in the lock, opened the heavy door, and froze.
“Nash?” I ushered Piper inside, let the door slam shut behind us, and raced to his side.
He sat on the floor, his back to the wall at the foot of the stairs, his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, hands fisted.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
I ran my hands over his shoulders, down his arms. He caught my hand with one of his own and squeezed hard.
“Just…catching…my breath,” he managed.
I held on tight to his hand and used my free one to push his hair back from his forehead. He was sweating and shivering at the same time. Either the man was down with the flu or he was on the tail end of a panic attack.
“You okay?” he asked me.
“I’m fine. So are you,” I insisted. “You have enough air.”
Grimly, he clenched his jaw and nodded.
With a whimper, Piper shoved her face under Nash’s arm and crawled into his lap.
“We were out for a walk. I thought I’d take her out one last time so you wouldn’t have to when you got back. She did her business and we took a stroll around the block. I think her limp is a little better. Did the vet say anything about PT? I read this article about acupuncture for dogs.”
I was babbling. The man had scared the shit out of me again.
“Relax, Angel,” he rasped, his grip on my hand starting to loosen. “It’s okay.” His other hand came up and stroked down Piper’s back.
Still holding his hand, I sat next to him on the floor. My shoulder and arm pressed against his. His body’s fading tremors rolled through mine and I absorbed them.
“I’ll relax when you stop scaring the hell out of me.” I bumped my shoulder into his. “Starting to fade?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“Then let’s get you upstairs before you crash,” I said. I got to my feet, plucked Piper out of his lap, and set her on the ground. Then I held out a hand.
He stared at it, head cocked, thumb pressing into the spot between his eyebrows.
“Come on. You know as well as I do that the crash sucks almost as much. You can either lean on me or I’ll call your brother.”
“Mean,” he said before taking my hand. It took effort from both of us, but I managed to get him on his feet at the foot of the stairs.
“Kids in elementary school used to call me Meana because I was so bossy,” I confessed. I ducked under his arm and wrapped my own around his waist.
“Kids are assholes,” he wheezed.
We tackled the first step together. Piper dashed ahead of us, tail wagging. Nash was holding back, trying not to put too much of his weight on me. But there was a long flight of stairs between us and his apartment.
“It started with these twins in elementary school, Darla and Marla. Pretty, popular, and they wore matching, name-brand outfits,” I told him.
“They sound horrible,” Nash joked. “Want me to do a run on them? See how many times they’ve been arrested?”
I laughed and felt him give me just a little bit more of his weight.
My legs were trembling from my workout that morning. I was not looking forward to sitting down to pee tomorrow.
“So what are the odds that you’ll magically forget this ever happened tomorrow?” Nash asked as we took a break halfway up the stairs.
Piper returned to us, sniffed anxiously first at Nash’s shoes, then mine, before running back to the top.
“I can be bribed.”
“Name your price,” he said, taking the next step.
“Cheese sticks,” I decided.
“The cold, peeling kind or the clog-your-arteries kind?”
He still sounded winded as we trudged along, but not like he was fighting for every molecule of oxygen.
“No contest,” I scoffed. “Give me all the deep-fried goodness.”
“I’ll keep you in fried mozzarella for the rest of your days if you never tell anyone about this.”
“Unlike some people, I respect the privacy of others,” I said pointedly as we finally hit the top step. Piper danced in front of us like she was proud of our accomplishment.
He sighed. “There you go again, Meana. Kickin’ a man when he’s down.”
I angled us toward his door. “Keys, hotshot.”
He didn’t quite manage to hide the wince when he used his left hand to dig into his pocket.
Bullet wounds and panic attacks. Nash Morgan was a hot mess. Emphasis on the hot.
I took the keys from him and unlocked his door. Piper darted across the threshold into the dark apartment.
Nash pulled me along with him as he reached for the light switch and flicked it on.
“Wow. Someone got their act together,” I said, noting the transformation inside. It even smelled clean.
“Yeah. Right,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Let’s go, big guy,” I said, kicking the door closed and guiding him over to the couch.
He collapsed onto it, eyes closed. His face was pale and sweat still dotted his brow. Piper hopped up next to him and put a tiny paw on his thigh.
“It’s time for the Lina Special,” I decided, depositing the dog leash on the coffee table.
“Please tell me that’s code for some kind of sex,” he said without opening his eyes.
“Very funny. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Don’t go.” The easygoing humor vanished and those blue eyes pleaded with me to stay. “It feels better when you’re close.”
Now it was my turn to have trouble catching my breath. I’d never been with a man who needed me. Wanted me? Yes. Enjoyed me? Of course. But needed me? That was brand-new, terrifying territory.
“I’m going next door and I’ll be back in less than a minute,” I promised.
The subtle clench of his jaw was nearly my undoing. But he finally nodded.
I ducked back into the hall, leaving his door open, and made the two-second journey to my apartment. Inside, I quickly found what I needed. When I returned, Nash was still in the same position, watching the door.
“Fifty-seven seconds,” he said.
Juggling my haul, I closed the door again.
“Get ready to relax your ass off,” I said, switching off the overhead lights. I turned on the lamp next to Nash, then took everything else into the kitchen and deposited it on the counter. “I assume your phone connects to this manly looking speaker over here.”
“You assume correctly,” he said, still watching me. “Coat pocket.”
He was still wearing his jacket, a slim-fitting field coat in army green.
“Two birds,” I decided. “Lean forward.”
With my help, Nash slid his arms free. He was wearing one of those sexy thermal shirts that hugged a lot of muscle. It was an unnecessary observation given the current circumstances. Unnecessary yet somehow unavoidable. I could have been on my death bed and I still would have paused to appreciate the man’s form.
I found his phone and used his face to unlock it.
“Oh, come on! You have a playlist called Country Slow Dance,” I complained, pushing play.
“Got a problem with that?” he asked as George Strait’s voice crooned low.
“How are you not married with a pack of kids?”
He waved his right hand down his body. “Honey, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a brittle husk of a man.”
I sat on the coffee table in front of him. “The husk thing is temporary. You’re the marry-your-high-school-sweetheart type. How did some Knockemout cheerleader not tie you down?”
“I had some wild oats to sow first. Had fun sowing ’em for a while. Then fell in love with the job. Had a lot to clean up before I felt like I could give someone the attention they’d deserve.”
“You thought that someone might be Naomi,” I guessed. And why not? She was pretty, kind, loyal, and sweet. She didn’t have any of the rough edges that I did.
“For about five seconds. It was pretty clear she was it for Knox.”
I pointed at his feet. “Boots,” I ordered.
He glanced down wearily as if the task were too monumental.
I pulled one of his feet in my lap and worked the laces loose on his boot.
“I know this is supposed to be humiliating and all, but is it weird I’m also turned on?” he asked, head back, eyes closed.
“You’re a charmer, hotshot. I’ll give you that.” I took off the other boot and scooted off my perch to replace my butt with a pillow. “Feet up.”
“Bossy.”
“Feet up please.” I smiled when he complied. “Good boy.” I gave him a pat on the leg and returned to the kitchen with Piper on my heels.
While the coffee maker spat out a mug of hot water over a tea bag, I opened Nash’s freezer and found a bag of frozen broccoli.
I brought both the mug and the broccoli back to the couch. “The tea is some hippie concoction for relaxation. Tastes like you’re chewing up a bridal bouquet, but it does the trick. The broccoli is for your chest.”
“Why am I wearing frozen florets?” he asked as I positioned the bag. Piper wasn’t a fan of the bag of veggies and hopped down to inspect her toy basket.
“Thanks to science I learned from social media. Cold pressure applied to your sternum stimulates the vagus nerve.”
“And we want my vagus nerve stimulated?”
I took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “It tells your brain to calm your body down.”
He tilted his head on the cushion to look at me. “Mind sitting a little closer?” he asked.
I couldn’t come up with a good enough reason not to besides the fact that I was scared to death I was going to let him sweep me off my feet with his sexy vulnerability. So I eased toward him across the cushion into the danger zone until our shoulders touched again.
His sigh was one of relief.
“Try the tea,” I said.
He picked up the mug, sniffed, then blanched. “This smells like Liza J’s flower beds after the fertilizer.”
“Drink it. Please.”
“The things I do for you,” he muttered, then took a sip. “Oh God. It tastes like someone stomped on rose petals with their damn feet. Why can’t I have a beer?”
“Because as you’ve probably surmised, alcohol isn’t great for panic attacks.”
Squeaka-squeaka-squeak squeak.
Piper pranced up to the couch with a toy in her mouth. I took it from her and threw it across the room. She looked nonplussed and then headed back to the toy bin.
“She doesn’t understand the concept of fetch yet. How are you such an expert on the subject? Panic attacks, not fetch,” Nash clarified, hazarding another sip of tea and wincing again.
“I used to have them,” I said simply.
We sat in silence, staring straight ahead at the blank TV screen. I knew he was waiting for me to speak up and fill the gap with answers. But I was comfortable with uncomfortable silences.
“Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?” he teased.
I smiled. “Where did Nash come from?”
“Silence and a subject change,” he observed.
I reached over and flipped the bag of broccoli. “Humor me.”
“Mom was a country fan. Everything from Patsy Cline to Garth Brooks. She and Dad spent their honeymoon in Tennessee.”
“And then along came Knoxville and Nashville,” I guessed.
“You got it. Now it’s my turn for some answers.”
“You know, it’s getting pretty late. I should go,” I said. But before my sore muscles could contract to get me into a standing position, Nash gripped my thigh with his hand.
“Nope. You can’t leave me alone with thawing broccoli and this god-awful tea. You’ll be too worried about me to sleep.”
“You’re awfully confident for someone who claims to be a husk of a man.”
“Tell me why you know all the right things to do.”
I wanted to throw a quippy answer at him, to keep my own secrets. But for some strange reason, I didn’t want him to feel like he was the only one laid bare.
I blew out a breath.
“That sounds like the beginning of a long story,” he said.
“A long, boring story. There’s still time to send me home,” I reminded him hopefully.
He put the tea down and then carefully slid his arm around me.
“That’s your bad shoulder,” I reminded him as he used his other hand to press my head to his chest next to the broccoli.
“Honey, I know. You’re giving me a place to rest it.”
I didn’t know what to do with the fact that I didn’t hate the way his arm felt around me. Warm and solid. Protective. As a rule, I didn’t cuddle or snuggle or any other verbs that applied to platonic canoodling. That kind of touching was unnecessary. Worse, it gave men ideas about the future.
Yet here I was, cozied up in the danger zone with my head on the chest of a man who wanted a wife and kids. Clearly I had learned nothing.
Come on, Lina “I Make Bad Choices” Solavita. Sit up and get the hell out, I warned myself.
But I didn’t move a muscle.
“That’s better,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “Now talk.”
“The abbreviated version is I went into cardiac arrest at fifteen on the soccer field and had to be revived.”
He was silent for a beat and then said, “Yeah, Angel. I’m gonna need the extended director’s cut with commentary version.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Angelina,” he said with just a hint of grumpy cop in his tone.
“Ugh, fine. It was district finals on a cold, fall night during my sophomore year. The stadium was packed. It was the first time the team had made it that far in the tournament. Two minutes left in the game, and we were all tied up at 2–2. I’d just intercepted a pass and was sprinting with teenage confidence and energy toward the goal.”
I could practically reach out and touch that moment. Feel the sharp edge of the cold air as it hit my lungs, the warm looseness of my muscles. Hear the distant roar of the crowd.
Nash’s thumb brushed my arm, back and forth, and for once touch felt comforting.
“And then there was…nothing. It was like I blinked and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my back in a hospital room surrounded by strangers. I asked if I scored, because that was the most important thing to me. I didn’t know my parents were in the waiting room wondering if I’d ever wake up again. I didn’t know that an entire stadium of people—including my teammates—watched me go into cardiac arrest.”
“Jesus, baby,” Nash murmured, his chin brushing the top of my head.
“Yeah. My coach started CPR until the paramedics got on the field. My parents were in the stands. Dad jumped the fence. The other moms just made a circle around my mom and held on to her.”
Tears pricked my eyes at the memory and I cleared my throat to dislodge the annoying lump of emotion.
“They revived me in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. But information didn’t travel quite as quickly as it does today,” I said lightly.
“So everyone left behind thought you hadn’t made it,” Nash filled in the blank I’d left.
“Yeah. It was a big game. There were cameras and press there. I watched the footage…after. No matter how long I live, I’ll never forget the noise my mom made when Coach dropped to his knees and started CPR. It was…primal.”
I carried an echo of that scream with me wherever I went. Along with it was the image of my dad kneeling next to my lifeless body as paramedics tried to bring me back.
Nash brushed his mouth over my hair and murmured, “It’s official. You win our near-death contest.”
“I appreciate you conceding.”
“What caused it?” he asked.
I blew out a restless breath. “That’s a separate long story.”
“Honey, you picked my sweaty, pathetic ass up off the floor. We’re nowhere near even yet.”
There was nothing pathetic about his ass, but now was not the time to discuss that. His thumb was gliding along my arm again. The heat from his chest warmed the side of my face and the steady thump of his heartbeat soothed me. Piper, finished with her chew toy, hopped up on the couch next to me and curled up against my feet.
“Fine. But just like your escapades tonight, we’re never speaking of this again. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Myxomatous mitral valve disease with prolapse and regurgitation.”
“You gonna dumb that down for me or am I gonna have to go find my dictionary?”
I smiled against his chest. “I had a defect in one of the valves of my heart. They’re not sure what caused it, but it might have been from strep throat infections I had when I was a kid. Basically, the valve didn’t close right, so blood was allowed to flow backward. Something in the electrical system shorted out, blood went the wrong way, and I essentially died in front of a few hundred people.”
“Is it still a problem? Is that why you monitor your heart rate?”
“It’s not still a problem. I had surgery—valve replacement—when I was sixteen. I still see a cardiologist, still monitor things. But it’s mostly to remind myself to be careful how I handle stress. I still get these flutters. Premature ventricular contractions. PVCs.”
I brought my hand to my chest and rubbed absently over the small scars.
“They feel like your heart is tripping or limping. Like it’s out of sync and can’t get back in the rhythm. They’re harmless. More just annoying, really. But…”
“But they remind you of what happened.”
“Yeah. I’d been stressing out over school and boys and normal hormonal things leading up to that game. Pushing myself too hard, not sleeping enough, living off Mountain Dew and pizza rolls. I hadn’t mentioned the flutters or the fatigue to my parents. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have keeled over in front of my entire school.”
“How long were you in the hospital?” Nash asked.
The man had an uncanny knack for digging up what I wanted to keep buried.
“Off and on for about eighteen months.” I suppressed a shudder.
That was when touch had stopped equaling comfort. My body wasn’t my own anymore. It had become a science experiment.
“A lot of tests. A lot of needles. A lot of machines.” I gave Nash’s thigh a cheerful pat. “And that’s how I became an expert on panic attacks. I started having my own. The nice thing about having them around medical staff is they can give you some pretty decent advice.”
Nash didn’t respond to my attempt at playfulness. Instead he continued to stroke my arm.
“Your parents call you every day,” he noted.
“You don’t miss much, do you?” I complained.
“Not when it counts.”
My heart gave a flutter and not the PVC kind. No. It was the much more dangerous kind caused by handsome, wounded men with broody eyes.
“I should go. You should get some sleep,” I said.
“That’s a lot of shoulds. Tell me about your parents.”
“There’s not much to tell. They’re great. Good people. Kind, generous, smart, supportive.” Smothering, I added silently.
“The kind of people who call their daughter every day,” he prompted.
“I moved on, but my parents didn’t. I guess there’s something about seeing your only child nearly die in front of your eyes that changes a parent. So they worry. Still. Chalk that one up in the Things We Never Got Over column.”
They’d never gotten over seeing me die in front of them. And I’d never gotten over the suffocating prison sentence the rest of my teenage years had been.
Because after figuring out the problem, fixing it, and recovering from the fixing, my parents weren’t open to letting me take any chances.
They still weren’t. Which was why they thought I pushed papers for an insurance company and went to a lot of trainings. White lies kept the peace and let me live my life.
“Does Knox know any of this?” Nash asked, his voice a low rumble against my ear.
I frowned. “No. Why would he?”
“Seein’ as you two have been friends for knockin’ on two decades, I would have thought you’d share some stories.”
“Uh, have you met your brother? Knox isn’t the talk-about-anything type. And judging from the way you’re pretending to be just fine right now, I’m guessing you’re not much of an open book yourself.”
“It’s the Morgan way. Why shine the light on things when you can pretend they don’t exist?”
“I’m all for that. Keeps things simple. But just so you know, that’s probably something you should work on before you catch yourself a wife.”
“Good to know.”
I sat up and slid out from under his arm. “It’s unsolicited advice time.”
“Who invited Mrs. Tweedy over?” he quipped.
“Ha. It’s your life and none of my business, but do yourself a favor. Instead of using up your energy trying to hide this from everyone, maybe try working your way through it. Both ways take a hell of a lot of energy, but only one of them gets you through to the other side.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything.
I gave his thigh another friendly pat. “I’m going to go home and you’re going to go to bed. And when I say bed, I mean you’re going to sleep in your bed under the covers. Not out here on the couch with the TV on.”
I felt the weight of his gaze, the hot caress of his need as if they were physical sensations.
“I’ll do all that on one condition,” he said.
“What?”
“You stay the night.”
