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“Joel?” There went that lip again, pressed between Bailey’s teeth.
“No problem, sweetheart.” I touched her cheek again, whispered, “You got this.”
Axel sat up, sleep disappearing from his eyes as they instead grew concerned. “What the fuck, buttercup?”
I stepped away, headed for the door to flag down the doctor before Axel could growl at me for touching his woman again.
When I got there, Ryan lifted his brows in question.
“Get ready for it,” I muttered, popping my head out into the hall and meeting the doctor’s eyes.
As though she’d been waiting for the signal—and she probablyhadbeen considering all the machinations Bailey had put in place—the doctor immediately headed for the room.
“For what?” Ryan asked.
Bailey answered for me. “I’m going to that game, honey.”
And then—no surprise—Axel lost his shit.
And kept losing it when the doctor gave her approval and the guys, including me, had Bailey’s back.
And kept losing it even as I moved close and tried (and failed) to talk him down from the edge, as Bailey held firm and the doctor left to fill in discharge paperwork.
He kept losing it until Billie Rose walked into the room, still in the clothes from the night before, only this time they were even more wrinkled and dirty and she had soot on her cheeks and in her hair, as though she’d been combing through a building’s remains looking for a priceless family artifact—
Hell, knowing her, she probablyhadbeen.
Probably found it, too.
Billie Rose didn’t let her appearance faze her. Then againnothingfazed her, not waking up naked with a man she hated, not her niece surviving a harrowing experience and calling her in for backup, not her town burning down.
She was still as calm and collected as ever.
“Why’s big, hot, and hockey glowering?” she asked the room at large.
“I’m being discharged,” Bailey told her.
A smile. “That’s a good thing.”
“She thinks she’s going to Game Seven tonight,” Axel gritted out.
Billie’s gaze swung toward Axel’s, holding it. Then she glanced back at Bailey, and they seemed to have a silent conversation as I came to realize that I’d seen at least one moment when Billie Rose had been fazed.
Last night.
In my arms, crying and letting it out, showing a vulnerable side I’d never expected. Then under the tequila we’d both begun drinking, a wild side.
Because now I was fully awake.
Had been for hours.
Those tequila-hazed memories had shifted, grown more in focus.
I remembered the buzz of the alcohol. The way it had flushed her cheeks and softened her eyes.
For a moment there, I’d liked her, and she’d liked me.
I’d kissed her, or maybe she’d kissed me, or maybe we’d just kissed each other.
