Page 97 of Austin

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“It’s important that you don’t get it wet for a few days. Let the stitches heal and come see me in two days,” the doctor says as he rewraps Austin’s head in a bandage.

They’ve kept him in the hospital for two days to monitor the swelling, and he finally gets to leave today.

“You need to have someone with you at all times,” the doctor says.

Austin looks at me. “I guess you’re stuck by my side. Doctor’s orders,” he teases.

“Eh. With your money, you can hire someone. I have better things to do,” I say, laughing and lightly slapping his arm.

“That’s true. I could get a hot little thing to come and give me a sponge bath.” He waggles his brows, and I give him a death glare.

“Then, I guess I can return the cute little nurse costume I bought for your recovery.”

He gulps. “You didn’t?”

I raise a shoulder. “You’ll never know now.”

He swiftly grabs my hand and pulls it up to his lips, softly kissing the back of it before placing it on his lap and not letting go. “Yours are the only hands I ever want touching me for the rest of my damn life.”

“Good save. Maybe, if you’re good, we’ll have those chocolate sundaes I promised you for dinner tonight.”

“With a cherry on top?” he asks, and I nod, my teeth skimming my bottom lip. “God, I love you.”

After the doctor finishes his exam and signs his release, we head toward the exit, ready to finally go home. I wheel him down to the lobby, fighting him to stay seated the entire way. The man might like a private sponge bath, but try to push him in a wheelchair, and he moans like a baby.

It’s not until we’re at the lobby doors that he bolts from the chair and declares his freedom. I roll my eyes and guide him through the parking lot to where Gregg brought his Jeep Grand Cherokee after taking the Camaro to storage.

When Austin sees it parked, he starts to laugh. “You sure you can drive that thing?”

I glare at him, confused. “I raced your Camaro. I can handle a simple drive home.”

“Yeah, down a straight road for a quarter mile. We have to drive the streets of San Francisco, and this thing is a beast.”

“It’s a Jeep,” I deadpan.

“It’s a Trackhawk.”

I stop mid-stride, putting my hands on my hips. “Do you really think I can’t do it?”

He shrugs with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I don’t know,” he singsongs.

I huff, ready to prove him wrong and put on a clinic about driving this beast, as he calls it.

His laughter grinds on my nerves, and I’m even more amped to set the record straight. I hurry my step, and he reaches out to me.

“How about we place a bet on it?” he says, and I turn to see him.

I want to be irritated with him, but his cheesy grin melts my heart.

“Is everything a game to you?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I think you already know the answer to that.” He steps up to me, placing his hands on the sides of my arms.

“So, what? You go from racing to betting? Is this a problem I need to know about?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to race you instead of bet you, but I figured, you know, due to recent events, you might not like that idea.”