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“How’s Greyson?” Libby asked urgently, ignoring Tina’s caginess in favor of more immediate concerns.
“They’re taking X-rays of his arm and leg as we speak,” Harris said. “He seems to be fine, Bug. He regained consciousness, and he was more embarrassed than anything else.”
Libby refused to be reassured until she had seen him for herself. She glanced around the waiting room and for the first time noticed that the room was filled with quite a few recognizable faces. Were they all here for Greyson?
Spencer Carlisle, Lia, Brand, a few familiar teens from the community center. A few more from the restaurant.
“Why are all these people here?” she asked Harris in a hushed tone, her eyes wide.
“We were all helping Greyson out with the roof.”
“All these people?”
“I know, right?” Harris said with a grin. “My brother is Mr. Popular in this town. I mean, I knew this place was good for Tina, but it’s been bloody great for Grey as well.”
“I want to see him,” Libby said. She wouldn’t be assured that he was okay until she had seen him for herself.
“He’ll be back from radiology soon.”
He had no sooner said the words than they heard a commotion coming from down the hall. A loud, irate voice that sounded remarkably like Greyson’s. But Greyson never shouted. Especially not in public. Libby’s eyes widened, and she dashed through the swinging doors for the wards, Harris and Tina in tow.
“No. I refuse to let you do it. You lay one finger on it, and I’ll sue this fucking hospital and everyone in it for malpractice.”
“Mr. Chapman, it has to come off, I’m afraid,” a tall older man in a white coat was saying in a calm, no-nonsense voice. “Cutting it off is our best option. I’m sure you can have it repaired.”
“What’s going on here?” Libby demanded to know in her most authoritative voice. She surged forward, going straight to Greyson’s side. He was on a gurney, and it looked like they had been in the process of wheeling him somewhere when this heated exchange had begun in the middle of a crowded hallway.
“Olivia.” Greyson sounded both relieved and alarmed to see her there. He looked awful, pale and bruised. He was wearing nothing but a hospital gown, and she could see the multitude of contusions on his arms and legs. His left arm looked horribly swollen and discolored, and Libby swayed when she saw it.
“Oh my God, your arm.”
“It’s just a little broken. Nothing too terrible,” Greyson said, in a voice that was noticeably taut with pain.
“A little broken?” Libby repeated, outraged by the understatement. “There’s no such thing as a little break, Greyson. Why are you screaming the halls down? Are they hurting you?”
She turned her fiercely protective glare on the staff, who were all watching her with slightly bemused looks on their faces.
“Uh . . . Mrs. Chapman?” the doctor asked hesitantly, correctly guessing her identity.
“Yes. What’s wrong with my husband?”
“We need to remove his wedding band; his fingers are swollen, and the band is cutting off the blood supply to his finger.”
“Don’t you dare touch my ring,” Greyson seethed, and Libby’s eyes welled with tears at how very much that ring meant to him. He had never removed it, not when he had believed the absolute worst of her and at no point after that. Even after he’d signed the divorce papers, the ring had remained firmly fixed on his finger, and he was now prepared to do battle with his doctors to keep it there.
“Greyson,” Libby said, stepping toward him and cupping his jaw with her hands. “Let them do what they have to do.”
“Olivia . . . I can’t. It means too much to me. I can’t let them take it.” He sounded so incredibly heartsick at the prospect of losing that ring that her tears overflowed, and she leaned down to kiss him.
“We’ll have it repaired. Or replaced.”
He stared at her uncertainly. “Replaced?”
“Yes,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “With a new wedding ring. Maybe an engraved one this time.”
He swallowed, his eyes still unsure and his face shockingly vulnerable. “Olivia . . .”
“Let the doctors fix you up . . . and then we’ll talk about what the hell you were doing on that roof.”
“Love you,” he said with a grimace that was trying very hard to be a smile.
She moved her mouth to his ear, kissing his cheek along the way.
“I love you too, Greyson. Now please focus on getting better.”
“A broken arm, two sprained ribs, and a twisted ankle,” Libby itemized as she glared down at her repentant-looking husband a few hours later. She hadn’t been allowed to see him while they’d strapped what needed to be strapped and plastered what had to be plastered.
He was under observation for a few more hours, but the doctor was confident they could send him home soon. He was sitting up in the hospital bed, cradling his plastered arm to his chest. Harris had gone back to the flat he had once shared with Greyson to get him some fresh clothes.
