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“The wave came,” she says haltingly.
“It did.” I’m proud of how soothing I sound given my overwhelming temptation to chastise her for walking into such a tumultuous ocean.
“Did I almost drown?” she asks.
I nod, ice filling my stomach anew at the knowledge of how close she came to dying. “But you’re breathing now, and the paramedics are on their way,” I say, to reassure myself as much as her. “You should be all right.”
She sits up. “Paramedics? No. I don’t need that. I’m already all right.”
“You almost drowned.” Maintaining a soothing tone is becoming more difficult. “You need to go to the hospital.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like hospitals.”
My jaw ticks. “Only hypochondriacs like hospitals. And maybe not even them.”
“But I’m breathing fine,” she says stubbornly.
“You’re going to the hospital,” I grit out.
She narrows her eyes. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
I sigh in exasperation. “I’m obviously not going to drag you to the damn hospital. Neither will the paramedics. But you could have organ damage from the lack of oxygen, so you should go.”
She blinks. “All I wanted was to just relax, for the first time in forever,” she says, her voice cracking—like she’s on the verge of tears. “Is that too much to ask?”
I liked it much more when she was angry and irritable. This vulnerable side of her twists something in my gut. “Look, Brooklyn,” I say gently. “If the doctors clear you, you’ll still have six more days to relax. And the rest of today.”
“I think I’ve forgotten how to relax,” she says.
“In that case, I’ll help you,” I shock myself by saying. “I’ll take you to a beach without waves. And then Sealand—a nearby seaquarium run by a guy I went to high school with. And if you like that one, we can also go to Octoworld, a place where?—”
The siren of the ambulance drowns out my next words.
When the cacophony eases, Brooklyn sighs. “Fine. I’ll go to the stupid hospital.”
“We’ll go,” I say. “I’m coming with you.”
“You are?” she asks, looking at the paramedics fearfully.
“If that’s okay with you,” I say.
She catches my gaze. “Thank you. For everything.”
I scratch the back of my head. “No problem.”
“I’m going to ask a stupid question,” she says with a flush. “What’s your name?”
Chapter Five
Brooklyn
I feel like a complete idiot—and not just because of my last question. After all the grief I’ve given him, the guy has saved my life, yet still I manage to bitch at him.
“I’m Evan.” He extends his callused hand to me, and as soon as I shake it, I feel like I’m drowning again—this time in hormones that go haywire from his touch.
Maybe there’s something to the notion that when you have a brush with death, you feel like having sex to prove that you’re alive. Or maybe Jolene is wiser than anyone has given her credit for. Maybe this strong reaction is due to a severe dick deficiency. Alternatively, it could be that I do have oxygen-deprivation-related brain damage.
“And you’re Brooklyn,” Evan states, dragging me out of my stupor.
