by Lush, Tamara
My first few steps are solid, and I glance up to see Kate already on shore. Max, though, is heading toward me on the rocks. He’s about ten feet away when he holds out his hand.
And then I step on a wet patch.
The slip and slide seems to happen in slow motion, and I squeal.
My right ankle twists and makes a sickening crack, and my squeak turns to a scream because the most intense pain I’ve ever experienced fills my entire right leg.
While my arms flail like out of control windmills, I try, and fail, to regain balance.
Max’s cell soars into the air, and I tumble sideways into the ink-like water.
Ten
Lauren
The next thing I know, I’m being lifted out of the Gulf of Mexico by the warm, strong arms of Max Hastings.
“Owww. Oh God. It hurts!” My ankle feels like someone’s repeatedly stabbing it with an ice pick. “It hurts so bad. I think I broke something.”
“I know, cupcake. You took a bad fall off that jetty. Your foot and ankle don’t look so good. I’ve got you, though. Try to breathe.” Something about his soothing voice pulls at my heart.
“Am I bleeding? I don’t dare look.”
“I don’t think so. We’ll see when we get on the beach.”
I cling to Max as he carries me out of the water. My eyes are squeezed shut in hopes I won’t start sobbing because of the pain. I’m a wuss when it comes to any sort of physical discomfort, and this hurts something awful.
A long stab of pain takes the breath out of my lungs.
“Oh God,” I whisper into his chest. “It’s like my ankle bone cracked like an egg.”
Embarrassing myself in front of Max wasn’t on my agenda tonight. Having hot sex was, but that plan’s clearly an impossibility now. And probably forever, because why would he want me after that embarrassing little episode?
Thank God no one caught that on video, because it would be a viral moment. One that would ruin my carefully constructed image on social media. There was nothing elegant or graceful about my fall off the jetty.
I hate that stupid jetty.
We reach the sand, and I expect Max to set me down, but he doesn’t. My God, he’s strong. He’s holding me as if I’m featherlight, and I’m definitely not a wisp of a woman.
“Nope, not bleeding. That’s good news, Lauren.”
“Oh my God, look at her foot, it’s all twisted,” yelps Kate. “I think I’m gonna pass out from looking at it!”
I whimper into Max’s chest. “Don’t want to look,” I mumble.
“I don’t think you should, cupcake. This definitely needs a doctor.” He pauses. “Remy? Damien? Let’s get her to the hospital.”
“I’ll get my truck.” Since my eyes are still shut, I’m not entirely sure who said that, but I think it was Damien.
“Dude, cops are cracking down on driving on the beach because of the turtle nests.” That must be Tate.
“Screw ‘em. We’ll risk it,” Max says roughly. I feel the rumble of his voice in his chest, and I whimper.
“Tate, can you go tell Mom and Dad what happened?”
I hear him say something in response and the sound of footsteps on sand, but the pain’s so intense I’m not paying attention to individual words.
Max carries me several steps, and maybe I black out, or perhaps time’s become elastic, because it seems that within seconds, I’m loaded like cargo into the back of a large, black SUV that’s appeared on the sand. Max slides in next to me.
Damien’s driving, and Kate pulls herself into the passenger seat.
I shift my body and cry out in agony. “My stomach’s upset. Might throw up.”
“Don’t move, Lauren. That’s probably the pain overwhelming your system.” Max’s voice seems filled with worry, but my vision is too unfocused to see the expression on his face.
“Pain mixing with the roast pork. I’ll try not to hurl in your brother’s truck.” God, I must look awful. That fact makes me even nauseous.
I glance at Max and force myself to home in on his face. There’s a line of worry between his brows. I sniffle, and he takes my hand.
“The hospital’s really close. Tell us if you feel like you’re going to throw up; I’ll get Damien to stop, and we’ll open the door.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“There’s absolutely no reason to be sorry. Shit happens. You would’ve made it off that jetty but the wave knocked you over. It’s probably a bad sprain. We know most of the doctors at the hospital. They’ll fix you right up, and you and I will be back in action.” He squeezes my hand reassuringly and winks.
Ugh. We were supposed to be in his hotel room, or mine, giving each other multiple orgasms right about now. Instead, we’re popping into the local ER.
I’m an idiot for ruining the evening, and there’s no way he’ll be attracted to me from this point on. My dress is wet and sticking to my body, my hair’s plastered to my head, and my mascara probably resembles a river of coal down my cheeks.
And that’s when I remember Max’s cell phone. Dammit. It was an expensive one, too. The latest iPhone model.
“I’m so sorry I dropped your phone.” I turn my head in his direction and blink back tears. “I’ll replace it.”
He reaches over and brushes the wetness off my cheeks with his thumbs. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ve got insurance. You think that’s the first phone of mine at the bottom of the Gulf? Remind me to tell you about the time I went fishing with Remy one night. It involves a cruise ship.”
He shoots me a heartbreakingly adorable grin, and I can’t help but try to muster a smile in return, through the excruciating pain.
He’s being so sweet about the phone loss. I know so many guys who would’ve probably let me drown while they tried to save their precious cell phones.
I open my mouth to apologize for ruining the other part of our night, the multiple orgasm part, but Damien drives over a pothole, and my leg bounces up. My ankle strikes against the back of the passenger seat.
The howl accompanied by the string of swear words I let out makes Kate whirl around with an alarmed look. It inspires Max to raise his eyebrows and makes Damien guffaw.
“The last time I heard those words uttered aloud was when I was drinking heavily with some Marines in Germany at Oktoberfest,” Damien chuckles.
“Damn right,” I mutter.
With every bump and jostle, I cry and swear a little louder. I’m such a baby. The pain seems to escalate with every passing second, and I try not to think about what this means for the wedding, the trip to Dubai, my entire life.
Being an Instagram influencer means I have to look amazing in every post. It’s nonstop pressure, and you’re only as good as your last trip. And my last trip to Italy was decidedly meh, if my account’s lagging metrics are any indication. I need to impress the world by going to Dubai.
I’ll still be able to go to Dubai, right? I turn the question over in my mind. Of course I will.
A glance down doesn’t help. It appears my foot and ankle are splayed at sickening angles—and not in the same direction, either—and my leg is swelling fast.
“How did I do this?” I wail.
“You looked like you were dancing on the rocks or something,” Kate mumbles.
I’m about to tell her this is all her fault because she decided to have a crying jag on an unsafe outcropping of rocks in the Gulf of Mexico, but since it’s her wedding weekend, and because she’s gone through so much crap these past few months, I refrain. Even in my agony, I hold back. Even though this isn’t exactly a real wedding, I hold back.
That’s how good of a friend I am.
Later, though, I’ll let her have it. I try to focus on something other than the pain and idly wonder if Max knows his brother’s relationship is a bit of a farce.
Probably not, given how many times Kate swore me to secrecy earlier.
“If I can’t move my foot and ankle, does it mean it’s broken?” I whisper.
Everyone in the car answers simultaneously.
“Yes.”
“Oh hell,” I mutter.
Don’t think about Dubai. Don’t think about Dubai. Just don’t think about what will happen if you can’t go to Dubai…
Modern medicine puts pig livers in human beings. I once even read an article about how specialists put a tiny camera in a tooth, then implanted it into an eye. Eww, right? Surely someone will be able to fix my ankle without effort. Even if I have to go to the nearest city to find the best orthopedic specialist. I pay a ton each month for good insurance—thank God my accountant set it up for me when I incorporated my social media business.
The island must be pretty small because there’s no traffic, and we’re at the hospital in less than ten minutes. Damien screeches up to the emergency room, and before I can even touch the door handle, Max chides me.
“I’ve got you. Don’t even think about moving.”
My door opens, and Max scoops up my body with gentle hands. “Hold on tight to me, ‘kay?”
By now I feel like I’m going to pass out from the pain, and it’s impossible to hide my sobs.
* * *
“No more pain meds. I don’t want to get addicted,” I say in a fuzzy voice, looking from Kate to Max, who are sitting on either side of my hospital bed.
Kate smooths my hair. She knows why I’m paranoid about pills. “It was only one. The doctor said you should be able to switch to ibuprofen tomorrow.”
“Or you could take the pain pills and feel better,” Max says, his tone taking on a stern, almost fatherly tone.
Kate looks up from me and shoots Max a hard glare. My head falls to the side, not wanting to think about any of it. My eyes land on Tate, who is in a chair, on his phone, and ignoring the rest of us.
Damien’s in search of the vending machines because everyone but me has the munchies.
We’ve been here for hours. Or so it feels. At least I’m pain free and was able to change out of the wet clothes, because Tate brought a pair of soft cotton gym shorts and a black sweatshirt.
Kate points to the sweatshirt. “What does that mean? ‘Dog Dad AF’?”
I look down and a giggle slips from my mouth.
Tate looks up from his phone.
“Dog dad as fuck,” he says. “I got it at the shelter when I adopted Chunky.”
There’s a long conversation about how Chunky’s doing on his new diet, and I doze off. Someone mentions salmon kibble and dog farts, I think, or I’m having audio hallucinations. The next thing I know, everyone’s talking about my doctor, and I feel like I’m floating near the ceiling.
I’m in some time-space warp, one where Max won’t let go of my hand.
I squeeze his fingers. He returns the squeeze, and I smile.
“Thank God for Dr. Dos Santos,” Kate murmurs.
“She’s a gem, that’s for sure,” someone else says.
“And gorgeous, too.” That’s Remy.
Kate and the Hastings guys seemed to all know Dr. Sara dos Santos. She’d gone to school with Max and had greeted him like an old friend when she bustled into the ER shortly after our arrival.
Remy had immediately started flirting with her, I recall that much.
That led to the pain pills, the X-rays, and the MRI. Then the weird dog conversation.
Now all we need is the formal diagnosis. I know my ankle is messed up, but how much is the million dollar question.
One I’m not even speculating about. I can’t let my mind go down a dark path of what-ifs.
Dr. Dos Santos walks in with a sheaf of papers and what appear to be X-rays and grins at Remy. She’s cute as hell, and I wonder if they’ve hooked up. Remy seems like a player, the most of all the Hastings brothers.
“Well, Lauren, you certainly had a bad fall.” She flicks a switch, and a lighted panel on the wall near the foot of my bed illuminates. With quick, efficient movements, she attaches two X-rays to the clip at the top of the light.
“You have a medial malleolus fracture.” She gestures with a pen to a bone cut clear in two, and I wince.
“That bone isn’t supposed to be in two pieces, is it?” My words come out slow and sloppy, like I’ve eaten a spoonful of peanut butter.
“Blergh,” I add helpfully.
She chuckles. “No, it isn’t. It’s a little too early to know whether you need surgery, and I’d suggest you consult with an orthopedic surgeon on Monday.”
“Surgery?” Only it comes out sounding like smurgerfy.
She nods. “You’re not elderly and you have great bone density. It could heal on its own, but I recommend you discussing this with a specialist. I can refer you, or perhaps Max can suggest someone. God knows he and his brothers broke enough bones back in high school.”
Max, Damien, Tate and Remy guffaw. Kate giggles.
I scowl at the doctor.
“But…I have a trip coming up. I’m riding a camel in the desert in Dubai. And I’m going indoor skiing.” I squint at the X-ray, my throat thickening with panic.
The doctor clicks her pen three times. “I think camel riding should be taken off your to-do list for the near future. You did say camel, right?”
Can I reschedule my Dubai trip? The hotel’s notoriously difficult with invites to social media influencers. And there’s probably a hundred other Instagram influencers who are vying for that trip…
“What if I’m really careful and don’t go skiing? Can I travel? I mean, I’ll be mobile and will be able to walk, right?” I imagine myself hobbling into the luxury hotel on crutches and almost begin to weep.
“I’m not the orthopedic surgeon, but I can tell you this: you need to stay off that ankle for six weeks.”
“Six weeks?” I screech. “I’m supposed to walk down the aisle in Kate’s wedding. And go on the trip of a lifetime.”
With Kate, but that problem still hasn’t been solved. Crap.
Dr. Dos Santos nods and scribbles something on my chart. “When’s the wedding? And when’s the trip?”
Damien’s in the doorway, and he frowns.
“Two days. And two weeks from today,” I mutter.
Two weeks from today, I’m supposed to be flying business class on Air Dubai, taking photos of myself drinking champagne in an airport lounge. Maybe I can still do that if I have a cute cast? I imagine asking rich oil sultans to sign my cast in the business class lounge.
Oh, hell no.
The doctor looks up and beams at Damien. She sure seems to adore the Hastings brothers.
“You getting married?” She grins at Remy.
“Hell no,” he says, laughing and puffing out his chest.
“I am. We are.” Damien slides an arm around Kate, who looks like she’s about to burst with happiness. “Surprised you haven’t heard, I think our moms invited the entire island.”
“Well, congratulations.”
“I’m still looking for a date if you’re free, Doc,” Remy pipes up, grinning.
“Maybe now’s not the time for that,” she chides. And yet, she blushes as they lock eyes.
I look around indignantly and let out a soft snort. “Hey, I’m the patient here,” I mumble, and the doctor snaps back into professional mode.
Max rubs my arm and chuckles.
“Lauren, I’m sure you’ll recover quickly,” the doctor says. “And you can use crutches or a scooter to get around until you see the specialist. The cast will keep everything held together. I’ll write you a prescription for pain medication, which should keep you comfortable—but no drinking, okay?” She shoots me a stern look.
Crutches? A scooter? What the hell is a scooter?
“I don’t drink much. And I’m not taking the pain pills.” I try to speak clearly, but I’m sounding fuzzier by the second. “All I want is ibuprofen.”
“A round of the pain medication for a few days won’t hurt. Why don’t you want to take them? Do you have a history of addiction?” Dr. Dos Santos frowns.
“I don’t. No.”
My mother, on the other hand…
I shut my eyes, not wanting to think about what pills have done to Mom. Not wanting to imagine what this weekend will be like.
No walking down the aisle. No multiple orgasms with hot Max, because now that he’s seen me at my absolute worst, he won’t want anything to do with me.
And possibly, no trip to Dubai.
Eleven
Max
“Did she get any sleep? I sure as hell didn’t get much.”
Kate stands aside, and I walk into Lauren’s suite carrying two big cups of coffee.
“She got a few hours. It’s not like she ever sleeps a lot, though. She’s still in the other room. Managed to hop into her bathroom by herself. It’s gonna be difficult to keep her in bed today.”
Wouldn’t be difficult for me. I quirk my eyebrow at Damien, who’s sprawled on the pull-out sofa bed.
“Comfy?” I grin. He and Kate stayed on the pull-out.
I’d thought about offering to, but since Lauren and I met less than a day ago, I figured it would be a bit creepy to assume the role of nurse. She’d been dead asleep by the time we got back from the hospital, and Kate had insisted on staying with her.
And Damien, being the lovesick groom, had to stay with his bride-to-be.
He shrugs. “I’ve slept on way worse. Great company, though.”
Kate giggles and stands next to Damien. He slips an arm around her thighs.
“Guys, I need my coffee. Stop screwing around,” Lauren’s voice booms from the bedroom. Ahh, good. She’s back.
“How do you know I have coffee, cupcake?” I call out in a teasing voice.
Lauren and I have been texting for the past half hour. Teasing-texting, actually. Then she demanded I bring her coffee.
Not wanting to watch my brother and his girl be all lovey-dovey, I walk to the bedroom door.
“You naked? Because if you are, I’m coming in.”
“I’ll be whatever you want if you have coffee.”
I ease the door open, and there she is, sitting up in a little pink tank top, her long hair down, falling over her shoulders like a shampoo commercial. If it wasn’t for the temporary cast, I’d have never thought she spent half the night in an emergency room. She looks that fresh. Achingly pretty. The entire room smells like soap and coconut oil, and I’m immediately horny.