AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A groan rumbles in my throat. “Jesus Christ, you’re making me feel old.”
“Well,” she hums, the picture of tipsy mischief, “if the shoe fits.”
Fuck, this must be my karma. I never thought the day would come when I felt the urge to apologize to Nicolas Silva but suddenly, after years and years and years of dishing out old man jokes, I empathize with my best-friend-turned-brother-in-law. Who knew all it would take was mockery from a woman who started high school the same year I went pro?
Or, as I told her, the same year I graduated from college. Which is true. The long, prosperous career as an accountant, though, is most definitely not.
Pretty pink lips part with a sigh. “Can you stop looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m still a minor.” She scoots to the edge of her seat, trapping herself between my spread legs, her knees brushing my inner thighs. “I’m twenty-seven, darlin.’ All grown-up.”
“Darlin’?” I tease, copying the hint of a drawl I didn’t notice before—too preoccupied by other, more tangible things. Like slender fingers tracing the ring on my thumb and sage eyes glittering at me. “Don’t tell me I’m in the presence of a real life cowgirl.”
Something in that perpetually sunny expression falters ever-so-slightly. “Texas born and raised.”
“How’d you end up here?” Whatever the opposite of the South is, I feel like Chicago is something close.
The corner of a pretty pink mouth quirks. “I drove.”
“Beautiful and mysterious.”
One shoulder lifts, that goddamn strap slipping again. “Girl’s gotta have her secrets.”
And, all things considered, who am I to hold that against her?
* * *
“Fuckingow, Amelia.”
The tiny redhead apparently doing her best to re-injure my arm scowls. “You know what’sow?” she huffs, repeating the stretching-and-twisting motion that makes me wish the surgeon had just chopped my damn arm off. “Muscle atrophy.”
Jesus Christ. Drama queen. “Nothing is gonnaatrophy.”
Except maybe my brain. And my dick. It’s only taken a month to confirm that a sober, semi-unemployed life of chastity is so fucking boring. Not that I’m dying to get laid, or even trying, especially not in this nosy town. But something about being told I can’t have sex makes me want it a whole lot more. Especially when the last time was so damngood.
As she always does when I dare question her methods, Amelia nods pointedly at the framed certificate hanging on the wall. “I’m sorry, did I misread the name on that? Did you get your DPT degree and forget to tell me?”
I restrain the urge to sulk. “No.”
Amelia smiles, wide and toothy and slightly terrifying. “Then shut the fuck up.”
“Y’know, motherhood hasn’t softened you for shit. Soft people are nice to their poor, helpless brother.”
Kissing her teeth, she rotates my shoulder again, eyes rolling when I whine in protest. “You didn’t hire me to baby you, Cassie.”
No, I hired her because I thought it was a stroke of genius. I wasn’t going to let just anyone nurse me back to health; busted as it may be, a golden arm is still a golden arm, an ace is still an ace, and I only trust the best to get me back to Major League-worthy form. I was sure that if there was any hope in me playing again, it lay in Amelia’s nimble, healing fingers.
I still think that; I just wish I didn’t. The moment I woke up from surgery, regret kicked in because as soon as she confirmed I was okay, Amelia’s concern dissipated, replaced by a rigorous, determined recovery schedule. There was none of the coddling I’d expected—and okay, maybe hoped for just a little. There was no leniency for her beloved brother. In the month she stayed at my place, my sweet little sister transformed into a drill sergeant.
At the time, I wondered if it was a combination of being pissed at me for getting injured in the first place—the Morgan-Silva family does not do well with hospital stays—and missing her husband and kids but I swear, relocating to Sun Valley has only made her worse. There might be two driveways and a sliver of road separating us now but distance hasn’t hindered Amelia in the slightest.
Physical check-ins haven’t relented—if anything, they’ve increased—but in addition, there’s never-ending phone calls. She does my grocery shopping to make sure I’m not buying any crap—ironic from a girl who’s ninety percent sugar. Every day is filled with stretching and strengthening exercises that I could easily do without supervision but she doesn’t trust me.
Wise, probably.
Offensive, definitely.
