Page 70 of More Than My Hometown

19

EWAN

“Faaaa…”

I crash down on the couch, my entire body aching in a way I didn’t know possible. Which means that tomorrow is going to introduce a whole new level of sore. Something that is hard to wrap my brain around right now, since this bone-deep throb is already overwhelming.

Propping my injured foot up on the coffee table, the plastic of the walking boot making a loud thud as it hits the wood, I suck in a breath, trying to ignore the hurt. To both my body and my pride. Because that second one definitely took a hit. Maybe a harder one than the first.

Definitely harder than the first.

My foot will heal. Detaching the muscles in my foot was not how I wanted today to go, and healing from this is not going to be a fun process. I’m stuck in this damn boot for weeks according to the ER doc, although I’m hoping that a visit to Doc Galindo here in town will provide a better update on Monday. It’s the living down the teasing from my brothers about falling through a hole in my boat and having to be carted away by my girlfriend at my own event that is going to hurt the most. Because those fuckers will never let me live it down.

Hell, they’ve already started.

Once they got the all clear text from Maisey while we were at the ER that nothing was broken, it was game on. Everything from that point on was fair game. By the time we got back to Reel Madness, I had more than fifty unread messages in the sibling group chat—that was on top of the twenty-plus I had already read. Five older brothers and a younger sister isn’t a blessing when it comes to group texts.

“Let’s get this bad boy off and see what kind of pretty colors we can see, huh?” Maisey says, sauntering into the living room.

I perk up, my weary body coming back to life with her choice of words. She’s changed out of jeans and her EMT T-shirt into a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top that is not helping matters either, showing off all of her curves and more than a little cleavage, making my dick twitch.

Parking herself on the coffee table facing me, she leans forward to grab a throw pillow, showing off even more cleavage, and it’s like I’m a teenager all over again, sneaking looks down her shirt. Doesn’t matter that I know just how perfect those tits are and how even more perfect they feel and taste—stealing a glance like this feels forbidden. My mouth waters and my fingers tingle, wanting to play, but I need to behave.

Maisey runs a hand down my leg, testing my ability to control myself, then starts to unbuckle the boot. The Velcro makes a harsh noise, filling the silence of the apartment, but only barely registering over the blood rushing through my veins.

“Ooof, now those are quite the shades of purple and green…”

I look down, and sure enough, my foot and ankle, which are about three times the size they normally are, look like I stepped on a tube of purple paint, with a mysterious shade of green mixed in. There is no question that I lost the fight here.

“Would you believe if I said you should see the other guy?” I joke.

Maisey laughs, her boobs jiggling under her tank top, stealing my attention for a second. But only a second, because then she runs her hand down my leg again, and my dick reacts as if on cue.

“Problem is, I’ve seen the other guy—he looks unharmed.” She continues to stroke my leg, making it harder to breathe, every inch of me wishing it were a different part of me receiving that treatment.

“Not true. Pretty sure one of the gas shocks on the fish box lid is busted.”

“Not quite the same thing as muscular detachment and a trip to the ER.”

No, no it’s not. A gas shock is a standard part that you can buy in any number of stores, including my own. Fixing it will take fifteen minutes at most. Maisey’s right—all the real damage done here was to me.

“When the call came over the radio, and they said Hooked on a Reeling…” Maisey’s voice cracks, her hand stilling on my leg. “I thought I was going to throw up. I know it could have been anyone, but…”

My stomach sinks, the realization hitting me of what that must have been like for her. Maisey was such a professional, handling the call today the same way she did with Kendall that day in the parking lot—although her bedside manner with Kendall was a little gentler than it was with my stubborn ass—that I didn’t think twice about it. She was in nurse mode. At least on the outside. But inside, girlfriend mode was still there. Freaking out.

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“I’m not saying you fell in the fish box on purpose.” She giggles, squeezing me before going serious again. “Just that I couldn’t turn off that part of my brain. Had you been severely injured, poor Landon would have been on his own.”

I nod, understanding completely. “I get it. But I’m thankful you were there. And I meant what I said; I loved getting to see you in action. I loved watching you that day with Kendall, and I loved watching it today on the boat and at the hospital.”

I pause, taking another second to allow myself to be distracted by her cleavage again. Her fingers strum lightly against my skin, making it zing with each new touch.

“Especially the hospital. I thought I’d seen you in your element helping Kendall, but that was nothing compared to this afternoon. And you seemed to really hit it off with the staff.”

Maisey’s cheeks tinge and she looks away. “I was worried there for a second that I was overstepping. Some ERs get really touchy about EMTs jumping in, and I get it, because I was that way. There are moments you just want to tell people to stand back and let you do your job, you know?”

I do. Well, I don’t, not like that. But, conceptually, I get it.