Page 87 of Tangled with the Tight End

“About sports injuries, yeah.”

“So you could help me?”

She smiles over at me, “Yes, Declan. So I could help you.”

There’s a beat of silence where we just stare at one another. Then she looks away, unbuckling and adding, “You are my patient, after all.”

I can’t tell if she feels something for me and is pushing it down, or if she’s just being kind and I’m reading into moments like the one I think we just had. My leg throbs, taking my attention off Winona and what we are to one another.

She hands me my crutches and pulls her cell phone out of her pocket.

“Let me just call Cass to let her know I won’t be home for dinner.”

“You can go ahead,” I offer. “I’ll be fine.”

She stares at me, popping a hand on her hip. “I didn’t ask you, Declan. I’m staying. Cass and I have varying schedules depending on our plans. She’s not sitting around waiting for me.”

“Okay, boss,” I say. Then, despite myself, I wince when I pivot to get out of the car.

I propel forward, hoping she didn’t notice my wincing.

“I saw that,” she says, reading my mind. “And I’m not leaving until I know your pain is managed and you’re stable.”

I smile through the pain.

“Your leg was dependent—below heart level—all the ride home. That’s not going to help the inflammation.” She’s walking past me to the door, all business.

She doesn’t call Cass. Instead, she moves like a bee in a hive, getting me situated on the couch, asking if I need to use the restroom before she sets me up, refilling my flask and bringing ibuprofen. It’s not lost on me that she’s setting her life aside again—for me.

“Take that,” she says. “And if it doesn’t do the trick in an hour or so, we’re going to call your doctor and get you something a little stronger to get you through this setback.”

“Setback?”

“Calm down,” she says with a smile. “Not a setback to your recovery. It’s not ideal that you had swelling, but your body is a fine-tuned machine. You bounce back faster than average.”

I swallow the pill and she gets busy propping my leg up on the memory foam pillows.

“Pain scale?” she asks.

“Seven. Solid seven.” I stare up into her eyes. “A fine-tuned machine, huh?”

She shakes her head, an amused smile curving her lips and bringing out the creases around her eyes.

I hear her mutter, “The finest …” as she walks into the hallway to call Cass now that I’m settled.

I’m pretty sure she didn’t intend for me to hear her.

Her voice carries through from the hallway and then she’s back. “Cass is fine. She told me to stay as long as you need me.”

“So you’re moving in?” I tease.

My eyes are shut, so I don’t see her reaction. Exhaustion is winning.

“You won’t need me that long,” she says.

I pop open one eye. I’m so very tempted to tell her I think I might, but pain and exhaustion have me sidelined. I shut my eyes again and practice the breathing techniques trainers have reiterated to me for years to push through pain.

I sense her near the end of the couch, checking my feet for swelling.