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Lindy looks at me funny. “Yeah, why?”
“I think that’s a paparazzi behind us. Just being careful.”
“Ugh, when are they going to stop following us? We’re boring.”
“You’re never boring, baby.”
I pull onto the street and watch to see if the sedan follows.
Thankfully, he doesn’t.
Nothing like overreacting.
Stupid fucking tabloids.
Once we pull through the intersection outside of Ashlyn’s neighborhood, a motorcycle flies up next to us—in the fucking snow—and the guy pulls out his camera.
“What the fuck?” Lindy gasps in shock.
“Ignore him. We’re fine,” I tell her, even though I don’t like how close this guy is getting to us.
We pull onto Main Street, and headlights flash behind us.
It looks like the sedan from Ashlyn’s neighborhood is back, and he’s coming toward us at a pretty high speed, considering the snow that’s already fallen tonight. “Is that fucker taking pictures too?” I shout, and Lindy turns to look, just as the motorcycle slides on the ice and veers in front of us.
I slam on my breaks to avoid hitting him, but it’s too late.
He runs into us at my front corner. The bike slides across the hood of our SUV, and the guy collides violently against our windshield, just as the sedan slams into us from behind, sending us spinning into mass chaos.
Metal crunches, and time stops as I realize I have no control over what’s happening.
“Baby.” I look over at Lindy as our car comes to a stop in the middle of the road, and she screams.
I turn my head and am blinded by the oncoming traffic. Headed right toward us.
In a last attempt, I throw my arm across Lindy, helpless to stop what’s happening. I hear a car lay on its horn and see it barreling down on us, trying to break. But I know he won’t be able to stop in time.
Glass shatters, and the impact feels like an explosion as the front of the SUV crumbles.
The airbags explode, and the last thing I hear is my wife’s scream before the silence is deafening.
EASTON
Iwake up, disoriented and unsure of where I am before everything suddenly comes hurtling back to me.
The accident.
Lindy.
I bolt up and ignore the pain of whatever just ripped out of my skin. “Lindy,” I call out, and Juliette and Becket come into view. “Where’s Lindy. I need my wife.”
Jules runs a hand over my face. “You need to calm down, Easton. You just ripped out your IV.”
“Where’s my wife?” I ask again, frantic. “Lindy...” I yell.
Becks grabs my hand.
The one that’s not splinted.
