He didn’t ask it casually, either. His voice was careful. He already knew he was stepping on unstable ground.
“I don’t know yet,” I said lightly.
Truth was, the thought shot ice through my veins.
Normal work meant normal schedules.
Normal schedules meant Adrian was back in the hospital more days than not.
And that meant the closeness we’d fought our way back to might evaporate like it once had.
I was terrified of losing him again.
Adrian closed his book, sensing more in my tone than I’d wanted to give away.
“Is it the pain?” he asked. “Or…?”
I forced a shrug. “Just taking my time.”
He didn’t push, not yet. Just nodded and kept tracing soothing circles, reading me closely. But the question hung between us the rest of the night, heavy as a storm front.
And I knew eventually we were going to have to talk about the real reason I wasn’t ready.
I didn’t wantto go car shopping.
I said I was ready. I even meant it. But the moment we stepped onto the lot, my chest tightened, each breath coming shorter than the last.
The bright sun glittering on windshields and the smell of rubber baking in the heat overwhelmed my senses, not to mention the pushy salesman.
Adrian didn’t notice at first. He was too busy being… well,Adrian.
He prowled the rows with purpose, zeroing in on thebiggest, most unnecessarily massive SUVs on the property—vehicles that looked like they came with diplomatic plates and a turret attachment.
“Absolutely not,” I said flatly when he stopped in front of something the size of a military transport.
He ignored me with expert precision.
“This one has reinforced side panels,” he said reverently, running his hand down the glossy door as if he were checking a patient’s vitals.
“I don’t need reinforced anything,” I muttered, crossing my arms before I even realized the posture was defensive.
He circled the next behemoth as a lion does, checking a flank for weakness. “Six airbags. Maybe eight. I’m not sure, but look how the frame’s designed to absorb pressure.”
“Pressure fromwhat?Meteors?”
“Impact.” He delivered this gravely, placing his hand on the hood as if blessing it in the name of the Father, the Son, and the National Highway Safety Administration.
God help me, a reluctant laugh ripped from me before I could stop it. His head whipped around, startled and smug at the same time because he’d coaxed it out of me.
I rolled my eyes but felt the tiniest bloom of warmth under my sternum.
Then he upped the ante, leaning in to peer through the driver’s side window.
“Lots of room for your legs,” he said lightly. “And for me to hover over you at red lights.”
I elbowed him. “Please don’t hover.”
“You love when I hover.”
