Page 56 of Their Stormy Reunion

“Are you sure?” Michael asked. “Mom’s really looking forward to getting a chance to catch up with you. I’ve been bragging on you.”

I looked up at him, and I could see he was serious.

What in the hell?!

“I don’t think I’m up for it,” I whispered.

“Fallon, what’s wrong?” Michael asked as he squatted down beside me.

I knew why he was asking like that. I’d already gotten an earful from him when he’d gotten back from the hospital with Mom and Dad and realized I’d taken a bath and washed my hair, all on my own. He’d been pissed. We’d had a bit of a fight about it. Damn man was positive I’d overdone it, and now saying I needed a nap was proving him right.

“Nothing’s wrong, I’m just a little tired.”

“Did you reinjure your ankle? How’s the swelling?”

He flipped up the hem of my maxi-dress so he could examine my ankle.

“Isla, can you get the icepack?” he asked.

“Seriously, Michael, I’m fine,” I protested.

“You’re not fine. You overdid it. You should have waited for me before you took a bath today.”

My mom snorted as she handed him the icepack. Michael didn’t even notice she was laughing.

I swear that someone could’ve fried eggs on my face with how hot my cheeks were.

He pulled a dishtowel off the counter and wrapped it around the icepack and gently rested it against my ankle. “There, that should help. I’ll go get your pills from your bedroom,” he said as he stood up.

“I don’t need a pill. I just wanted to go to lie down for a bit. But the ice should take care of things,” I relented. I’d face his mom like a big girl.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m—”

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” my mom said as she headed for the front room.

Michael must have noted the pained expression on my face, because he bent down beside me. “What is it, Fallon?”

“Your mother must hate me,” I wailed.

“Is that what this is all about?”

I nodded.

“I talked to her and Dad last week. I told them what happened. Trust me, my mother does not hate you. As a matter of fact, I would appreciate any kind words you could say on my behalf.”

“Michael, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking it was about damn time I manned up, is what I was thinking.”

“There you are,” Lana Rankin said as she preceded my mom into the kitchen. She looked as pretty as a picture. She was wearing a pretty sweater twin set, and the warmest smile imaginable.

“Oh, Honey, look at you. Michael told me you could have died.” Lana angled down and enveloped me in one of her warm hugs that included the scent of Chanel No. 5. I felt like ten years had melted away. As she pulled away, I could see the tears in her eyes.

“It was Michael who saved me,” I whispered.