She nodded absently, then scanned him. “Are you okay to drive?”
“Yeah. And I’ll be one-hundred percent after some food, a shower, and a nap.”
“Thank you.” She fished her car keys out of her purse and handed them over. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave.”
“All right.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Bye.”
“Bye,” she called after him. As the sound of his footfalls grew fainter, she took Pierce’s hand again and let her tears fall. “I came as quickly as I could. Oh, Pierce… My gosh. I can’t even imagine how much you’ve suffered. You’re probably not aware I’m here, and it’s not much, but I’ll stay by your side. I’ll hold your hand. Together, we’ll do everything we can to make sure you pull through.”
Hours passed. She prayed and prayed. Nurses came in to check his vitals, draw blood, and change his sheets. She flipped channels on the TV until she found a sports station she hoped he might like. The shadows coming through the windows lengthened. She’d nodded off in her chair once or twice but awakened with his hand still in hers.
Early in the evening, the doctor came by to check on him. He glanced at Pierce’s chart, studied his progress, then ordered more tests. As the orderlies took him away, she squeezed his hand, then glanced at the clock. It was nearly six in the evening. She hadn’t eaten all day.
After a quick call to Cutter, he picked her up and took her to a nearby diner, where she devoured everything on her plate. At the motel room, she took a shower, then fell onto one of the two beds for a long nap. Cutter grumbled when she asked him to take her back to the hospital alone, but he did it.
When she arrived, it was late. The hospital was noticeably quieter. She was grateful the doctor had given her permission to stay as long as she liked.
She turned off the sports channel and turned on some of her favorite music, setting the device on the table close to Pierce. “I don’t know how you feel about Coldplay, but if we’re going to get along, you have to at least be willing to tolerate them.”
Silence, except for Chris Martin’s vocals.
She sat and stared.
Nothing.
Dang it, she had to stop hoping for the miracle.
“It feels strange not to have been at the church’s market tonight. It’s one of my favorite things to organize every year. I usually find a lot of Christmas presents there, you know. Well, you don’t know, but I do.” When she tried to imagine big, bad Pierce wandering around all the little handcrafted items that interested and fascinated her, she smiled. “It might not be your thing. But if we’re going to get along, you might have to tolerate that, too.”
She took his hand and squeezed it again. “When you wake up—not if, because I’m determined you will—we have a lot to talk about. And the first thing I want to tell you is how much I missed you.”
Tears stung her eyes and trembled on her lashes.
As they began to fall, he twitched in her grip…almost as if he was trying to squeeze her hand in return.
Her heart leapt to her throat. She watched him, blinking, holding her breath, almost afraid to hope. “Pierce?”
He turned his head toward her voice and tried to open his eyes. “Brea…”
Wednesday, October 15
One-Mile glanced at his phone. It was after seven in the evening. Brea was usually here by now. He’d memorized her schedule—hell, her every move—in the weeks since he’d been released from the hospital.
He texted her. She didn’t answer.
Fuck.
A solid dozen of his worst what-if scenarios—everything from a car accident to violence to her quitting him—rolled through his head. Panic crowded in. He sucked in a rough breath to cool his anxiety. Brea was a good driver. The likelihood of anyone shooting up the small-town salon where she worked was slim. And she would never turn her back on anyone without a word, much less the man for whom she’d been a savior for the last month.
After he’d awakened in the hospital in New Orleans, Brea had maintained her vigil at his bedside for the next two days. Cutter stayed glued to her, but by unspoken agreement, they’d kept the peace, in part for her. The other part… Well, he’d saved Bryant’s life in the past, and now the Boy Scout had saved his.
They were square.
Everyone had encouraged him to talk about his time in Mexico. His bosses and his team claimed they’d come to visit, but he knew the drill. They mostly wanted tactical information—how many men, what kind of operation, who were the key players. Brea had simply encouraged him to share his experiences with her. One-Mile had declined. First, he hadn’t seen much that would be helpful. Second, he didn’t want to traumatize Brea any more than she already was.
Since his release nearly a month ago, his condition had improved day over day. He and Brea had settled into a rhythm. She came every night after work to puree him some dinner, tidy up his house, and do an occasional load of laundry. They talked—at least as much as he could with his jaw wired shut—mostly about his physical therapy and doctor’s appointments, his frustration with lingering headaches, short-term memory losses, and periodic exhaustion. She empathized, always doing her best to maintain a cheerful front and positive outlook. Yes, he knew how far he had come in just over a month. But he was impatient to be one-hundred-percent healed.
When he could get her to talk about something other than him, Brea admitted how much she worried about her father’s heart condition and fretted about organizing activities at the church. He sensed she had something else on her mind, but the few times he’d asked, she’d given him a false smile and changed the subject.
He had no fucking doubt he was in
