Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Izzy’s eyes widened, and the corners of her mouth tilted up into a smile that made my pulse quicken. “You really are going to help me, aren’t you, Nate?”
God, that smile, those eyes . . .
“Yeah. I want you out of here as fast as fucking possible,” I said, gesturing to her ring. “And I bet he does too.”
Her sharp inhale told me I’d crossed a line, but I didn’t care. That was all we were together: one giant, crossed line that neither of us belonged on the other side of.
I put the folder on the table and got the hell out of there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IZZY
Saint Louis
November 2011
“Okay, I managed to scrounge up Twix, Butterfinger, and one very sketchy bag of SunChips,” Serena said as she walked into my dim hospital room, carrying her loot. “The vending machine is pretty slim pickings out there.” She did a double take at the television and snatched the remote off my bed. “Watching that isn’t going to help.”
I lunged for the remote and winced when she danced out of my reach. “Crap.” Falling back against the bed, I breathed through the pain that engulfed my entire left side.
“Shit, I’m sorry, Iz.” Serena grimaced and handed back the remote, then sat in the armchair next to my bed that she’d occupied ever since I’d woken up this morning, though she’d told me she’d been sitting there since last night. Two broken ribs and a ruptured spleen had done a number on my blood supply, but a couple of transfusions later . . . well, at least I wasn’t dead.
Thanks to him.
None of us had died in the crash, which was a miracle, considering the footage.
“I’m just hoping that watching the footage will help clear my memory up,” I told her, adjusting to sit up a little straighter and immediately regretting the decision. “God, it hurts.”
“Then push the little clicker thing.” She leaned over and put the pain-med pump in my hand. “You just had surgery yesterday—oh, and a plane crash. Give yourself a little break and clickity-click.”
“That’s not going to help. It’s only going to fog up my head more and put me to sleep.” I watched yet another replay of home video footage of the crash, shot by a fisherman who’d been on the Missouri. It was . . . horrifying.
We’d come out of nowhere, a roaring missile through the mist, barely missed that man’s boat, and rammed the water.
“You sure you want to remember everything?” Serena asked softly, handing me the Twix, my favorite.
I tore open the package and then sank my teeth into the sweet caramel goodness, thinking as I chewed and swallowed. “It’s mostly the stuff after getting out of the river that’s missing. I remember the takeoff, the moment I realized we were going to crash, and even the frenzy to get out of the plane. The water was so cold . . .” I shook my head. “I just can’t remember his name.”
Everything else was right there—the concern in his eyes, the feel of his hands pulling me up the bank. He’d kept me breathing and laughing, and then carried me to the ambulance, according to what the nurses had told me.
I would have bled out internally under that tree if he hadn’t.
“I’m sorry.” Serena sighed, tearing into the chips. “I wish I remembered, but I was in such a panic that I didn’t pay attention.” Her gaze darted sideways at me as I watched the coverage of our rescue—though I was long gone by the time news crews had shown up. “He was a hottie, though, I can say that much.”
“I remember what he looks like.” I rolled my eyes. And what he was reading, and that he’d grown up on a farm and was joining the army for college money. It was just his name that eluded me, and pretty much everything after sitting against the tree.
“And he cared enough to tell everyone he was your husband. Signed for your surgery and everything.” A teasing smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Miraculously knew your blood type and your allergies, too, which means you must have been conscious enough to tell him. And seriously.” She leveled a stare on me. “The doctor said you’re not supposed to be watching TV with a concussion.”
My sigh rose from the bottom of my blanketed toes, but I hit the off switch just as the nurse came in to do another round of vitals. Luckily, she kept the lights dimmed, since my head felt like it was about a billion pounds of pulsing TNT.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked, jotting down the numbers in the chart that hung from the end of my bed.
The chart.
“No, I’m okay, but thank you.” I gave her a smile, and she headed out of the room before closing the door behind her. “Serena, grab the chart.”