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FRANKIE AND GABRIEL
It’s like a dream—no, a nightmare—as we rush to the emergency room. In all the years I’ve known Gabriel, I’ve never once seen him in the hospital, or even really hurt, for that matter.
A car.
He was walking out of a store, arms full, snow falling all around him, when some idiot in the parking lot didn’t see him until it was too late. Slamming on his brakes, sliding on the mix of snow and ice, he hit Gabriel.
With his car.
Knocked my larger-than-life man off his feet, slamming into the windshield and bouncing off the car to land hard on the curb.
Unconscious. That was all they said on the phone.
I pace the hall, shrugging off Rowdy and Cap’s concern for me to take it easy and sit before I wear myself out. I’m already exhausted. But I can’t stop moving, and I can’t make eye contact with Reese and Cher. They’re a mess, crying the tears I wish I could but refuse to.
Landry and Taylor stayed at the cabin with the kids.
Oh God, Maddox and Maddyn. What’ll I do if he dies?
No. Don’t think like that. This is Gabriel.
He saves people. He’s a rock—a Stone. He doesn’t let a thing like getting hit by a car keep him down.
“Mrs. Stone?” a man in scrubs calls as he looks around the waiting room.
“Yes.” I rush over. “That’s me. Is Gabriel okay?”
“Come with me.” He eyes my family at my back. “Only you, for now.”
Hours later, I send everyone home. He’s still out. The doctor said he has a head injury, a broken hip, femur, and fractured ribs. They’ve put off surgery until he’s more stable and the swelling diminishes.
More stable.
My man is the most stable man I know. He can’t possibly bemorestable.
It’s well into Christmas Eve before he regains consciousness. His heavenly blue eyes find me instantly. “Angel.”
I can’t stop the tears. “Big man.” I press a kiss to his hand I haven’t stopped holding since I entered the room. I don’t care if I’m in the nurses’ way. They can work around me. I’m never,neverletting this hand go. “You scared me.”
“S-shteak. I was buying you shteak?” He frowns, struggling with his words.
Oh no.His speech is lazy like he had a stroke.
“Steak?” Why was he at the store buying steak when we had plenty of food?
“An-n-nemic,” he stutters.
Oh, holy Jesus. Does he have brain damage, or is it the drugs?
“You were buying steak because you’re anemic?” That can’t be right.
“You.”
I shake my head. “I’m not anemic. I’m pregnant.”
God, I haven’t admitted that to myself or dared to say it out loud. Maddyn is only nine months old. I shouldn’t be pregnant again. Not so soon.
“Preg-a-nant?” He waves off his stutter, eyes shimmering, and kisses my hand before a tear slips free. “Angel.”
