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“Her brother decided to turn her into a Christmas decoration when she was nine by covering her in glitter,” I explain, a smile pulling at my mouth at the memory.
“I was still finding bits of glitter two weeks later,” Charity says with a roll of her eyes.
Max chuckles. “Kids will be kids, I guess.”
Charity shakes her head. “Oh, Luke wasn’t a kid. He was nineteen.” She pauses and smiles wistfully. “He was always doing goofy stuff like that.”
“Well, I would say the nickname is even more appropriate now you’ve been electrocuted by a Christmas tree,” Max sniggers. “You don’t have much luck, huh? I’m surprised your hair isn’t standing on end.”
Charity touches her hair as if to check. “God, I’ve been on set for two hours and already caused chaos.” She pauses and looks at me. “The tree? Is it . . .?
“A pile of melted plastic? Yep. But better the tree than you,” I say gruffly, still recovering from seeing her fly across the room.Jesus,she scared me.
Tears well in Charity’s eyes as Max fastens a blood pressure cuff around her arm. “I need to find a new tree in”—she lifts her arm to look at her watch—"less than an hour.”
Max shakes her head. “What you need is to get checked out at the hospital. I don’t think there’s any lasting damage, but your blood pressure is elevated, and I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
* * *
Charity
“I can’t go to the hospital. I don’t have time.” I stand, a little woozy from being zapped, and try to move away from Ryder.
Being near him lights me up like the bolt of electricity I just received, only in a far more pleasurable way. The pull he has over me is faintly scary. I have zero experience with men, but the tightening of my nipples and the ache between my thighs are constant side effects of being in Ryder’s proximity. Not that he’s ever shown any indication he feels the same. He’s never shown any interest in me as a woman—or in any woman—since the stunt his ex-fiancée pulled on him.
“Come on,” he says, placing a hand beneath my elbow to steady me.
“I told you I can’t. I need to get another tree.” I look into Ryder’s dark eyes, and his expression is tormented for a split second.
Was he worried about me? I know he cares about me like a sister. He feels responsible for me since Luke’s death. But I’m an adult now, and I don’t want him looking out for me because of some misguided sense of responsibility. I don’t want him to see me as a sister. I want him to see me as his woman, as his equal. I want him to pull me into his arms and kiss me until I don’t know which way is up. I want him to throw me down on soft sheets and lick my naked body until—
“You’re shivering,” Max says, making me blush as she breaks across my little fantasy. “I’m not signing you fit until you get checked out at the hospital.”
“Great. Two of you ganging up on me,” I grumble, shooting them both glares.
“Hey, don’t blame me,” Max says, holding her hands up. “You’re the one who decided to get all watt and bothered with the Christmas tree.” She snorts, looking pleased with her clever pun.
Ryder shakes his head. “On that note . . .”
“Thanks, Max,” I call over my shoulder as Ryder herds me toward the trailer door.
“Any time. Remember, you’ve had ashock, so take it easy for the rest of the day.”
Ryder and I groan as we exit the trailer. Seems our medic missed her vocation as a comedian.
Ryder pulls out his radio, notifying Luca about the fire and assuring him it’s been contained. Once done, he turns his attention to me. “I’m taking you to the hospital. Then, I promise to go with you to get everything you need. They can manage without a tree for one scene.” The shutters come down on his emotions, and his tone leaves no room for argument.
“This is my job, Ryder,” I point out, my shoulders sagging in defeat.
“I know, sweetheart. It won’t take us long to get you checked out.” He’s already gently nudging me toward the parking lot.
Sweetheart? That’s new.He’s never called me by anything other than my name or Sparkles. I practically melt at the endearment, then tell myself to get a grip. Doesn’t mean anything, even if my heart disagrees.
* * *
The hospital lights are a little too bright as I sit, pen in hand, trying to fill out all these blasted forms. How is all this stuff not on some centralized computer system? It seems antiquated to use a pen and paper in this day and age.
“Ugh. I hate this,” I grumble, scratching my name into a box. The type is too small, and the words start to roll around on the page, sending a bloom of anxiety through my bloodstream.
