Page 193 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

A huff of laughter escaped him. I felt it in his chest, in the arms around me, in the way his body shook just slightly. “Does she win a lot?”

I shook my head against him. “No. She loses every time. That’s why she’s only allowed to go once a year. She spends the whole twelve months saving up all the money she’s going to lose in that one evening.” He was stroking my head now, slow and soothing. “Her other hobby is playing board games with Mr. Garcia. She says it’s the only time he’s competitive about anything.”

I felt his lips press against the top of my head. “They are adorable.”

“They are.”

His arms were secured around me, like they’d been made to hold me. Then, so quietly I almost missed it, he whispered against my ear. “We’re better.”

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Didn’t respond.

But a smile sneaked up on my face anyway. Small. Private. Real.

We fell silent. The world kept turning.

But all I heard was his heartbeat.

I focused on it. Let it fill my ears, my chest, my whole awareness. It felt like music. A rhythm that made sense when nothing else did.

“Let’s stay here a few more minutes,” he murmured. “Then we’ll go. Okay?”

“Okay.”

My mind was a chaos of a thousand things I needed to do. Naija. Michael. The media disaster that would hit by morning. Plans to make, damage to control, people to protect.

But all I wanted in that moment was to rest.

Just for a few minutes.

So I did.

In the middle of the night. On a random street. Wearing my pajamas and shoes with tiny bunnies on them.

I rested.

I rested by hugging Cassian.

Chapter 31

“How long did you blame yourself for this?”

Naija’s voice was hoarse, but the familiar edge was already creeping back in.

We were in her hospital room. Discharge was scheduled for later today. She looked better—color back in her face, voice stronger. More like herself.

I closed my tablet and set it on the bedside table. “About five minutes.”

“Fair.” She pushed herself a little higher against the pillows, moving carefully, and surveyed the room. Flowers occupied practically every available surface: vases on the windowsill, bouquets on the chair, arrangements crowded onto the little table beside her bed. There were cards tucked between them, balloons bumping lazily against the ceiling.

Her gaze landed on the bouquet of folded money.

“And all these?”

“The guys.” I leaned back in my chair.

She lifted an eyebrow. “And you didn’t think to mention that my favorite bouquet is the one that’s basically paying my rent?”

I picked up the arrangement and held it out to her. Each bill had been folded into the shape of a flower, an unnecessarily elaborate display of affection that had probably taken someone far too long to make.