Page 16

I paw through my mail, which is basically a bunch of shit that I don’t need and I’ll have to now recycle because random companies think it’s a good idea to send this crap out.

I often wonder why I even bother getting my mail, but then again, every now and then, an actual bill comes through, and I’m reminded that I can’t just ban the post office simply because I hate looking through junk mail.

When I get to the last piece of mail, the cheesiest grin spreads across my face as my fingers run over the postcard sent from Maine.

A picture of a lighthouse with the beautiful shoreline and seagulls in the clear blue sky greets me, and when I flip it over, I read the message; the writing isn’t the neatest I’ve seen, but it still makes my heart flutter.

Brat,

Maine isn’t the same without you.

—Pretty Boy

It’s simple, and yet every part of me is buzzing as I stare down at it—even though it shouldn’t have this sort of effect on me.

We’re friends—that’s it.

Friends who have seen one another naked and done dirty …

delicious … bad things to each other.

Pulling my phone out, I open our text thread and type a message.

Me: Wow, Pretty Boy.

First, you follow me to the airport, and now you’re sending me cheesy postcards.

Stop being so obsessed, would you?

I’m getting Lifetime movie vibes here.

Even if we are just friends, we text sometimes.

Okay, that’s a bit of an understatement.

We text a lot. But Gemma isn’t big on texting, so he’s sort of become my bestie—second to Gem, of course.

When he doesn’t respond right away, I tuck my phone back into my pocket.

Keeping the stack of mail clenched in my hand, I head back out toward the door just as an elderly man and woman head toward me.

Instinctively, I hold the door open for them, and the women passes through, giving me a smile.

“Why, thank you, sweetheart,” she says, shuffling along.

The man with her, who I assume to be her husband, almost makes it to the door, but right away, I notice that the man’s color is off, his expression looks strange, and he appears off-balance.

Just as he starts to go down, I leap in front of him, catching him before he can fall face forward and no doubt injure himself.

He weighs more than me by at least twenty pounds or so, and right away, I’m sinking down, keeping him positioned against me.

“Marlin!” his wife screeches, pushing open the door that began to close.

When she moves beside me and I look up to see the sheer panic on her face, I scream to a man walking toward us on the sidewalk, “Call 911—now!”

There is no missing the shock on the stranger’s face, but seconds later, he’s pulling his cell phone from his pocket.

After hitting a few keys, he brings it to his ear.

Once I position Marlin on the ground and I hear the man explaining the situation to the operator, I check his pulse, sighing in relief that he still has one, before putting my ear to his mouth to check for breathing.

I’m almost positive this man had a stroke, but he’ll need to go to the hospital to find out for sure.

Keeping his head on my lap, I reach my hand up to his wife, and when she takes it, I give hers a squeeze.

“The ambulance will be here soon. The hospital is right down the street and has the best doctors,” I try to reassure her, though I’m sure it doesn’t help calm her down as she stares down at her husband, collapsed on the brick sidewalk.

She doesn’t answer, but I keep hold of her hand anyway.

With everything that I am, I am a nurse.

Not just in the four walls of the hospital, but everywhere else too.

It’s what makes me …

me.

“What are you all squirrelly about?” Smith says, frowning at me over his beer.

I quickly flip my phone over and take a sip of my water.

“I’m not. I’m just sitting here, waiting for my mozzarella sticks to come out,”

“Ooh, did someone say mozzarella sticks?” Logan says, plopping down right beside me.

“I love me some mozzarella sticks, man. Good choice.”

Right then, the waitress slides my appetizer to me before asking Logan what he wants to order, and as soon as he’s done, he reaches for my basket.

I narrow my eyes at him, knowing that in Logan’s mind, we’re all sharing.

“Dude, you just ordered your own. Why are you eating mine?”

“Because mine aren’t out yet,” he says, shrugging and dipping the stick in the marinara.

“I’ll replace the ones I eat when mine come out. Maybe.”

“Fine,” I grumble.

“But if I catch you double-dipping, I’ll break your fingers.”

“Touchy tonight, aren’t you, Cambridge?” he teases, nudging my side.

“Squirrelly, acting weird, and fucking touchy,” Smith says, keeping his eyes on mine.

“And checking your phone every thirty seconds for whoever the fuck is so important to send you a text back.”

Keeping my hands planted so that I don’t have the sudden urge to see if Saylor texted me, I attempt to shoot him a grin.

“I am not being weird. Don’t be jealous, Smithy. You know you’re my number one.”

He rolls his eyes at me and mutters something under his breath.

I’m thankful when Logan leaves my appetizer alone and starts chatting with Smith about our next game so that Smith doesn’t ask me anything else.

In Florida, I told him I had a thing for his sister, and he wasn’t all that happy.

I don’t want to keep things from him, but thanks to Saylor, we’re just friends anyway, so what does it matter if I tell her brother the truth?

The truth being … I sent his sister a corny postcard.

She sent me a message, calling me a creeper, and at first, I thought she was kidding, but then she started ignoring me.

And has continued to for the last two hours.

Maybe I shouldn’t have sent her a postcard, but I had seen it at the store the other day and just impulsively bought it.

I didn’t write anything inappropriate or deep on the card, but maybe our nonexistent rule book on being friends says that things like sending postcards aren’t allowed.

I mean, fuck if I know.

She’s a complicated human.

Just another reason why I can’t pull away.

Even though I want to check my phone again, I don’t.

Instead, I attempt to pretend like I care about what my best friends are talking about, even though all I can do is worry like a little bitch that I made Saylor uncomfortable.

All because she sent me a message and now is ignoring me.

With any other chick, I wouldn’t give a fuck.

Hell, I would have never even sent them a postcard to begin with.

Little by little, she’s fucking me all up.

I lie in my bed like the pathetic, whipped-ass man I am these days and stare at my ceiling.

I fucked my hand in the shower with thoughts of Saylor sucking my cock, and even that didn’t make me feel better.

I don’t recognize this person I’ve become.

We’ve barely spent any time together.

We’ve fucked a few times.

This is insane, and I know that.

Yet here I am, being a loser.

My phone buzzes, and I don’t even attempt to be too cool and not grab it instantly.

When I see Saylor’s name, my chest does this strange warming thing, and I open the message, cringing a bit when I take in the four ones I sent earlier, all apologizing if the postcard was too weird.

Saylor: Is it a good time to call?

Within seconds, I’m FaceTiming her, now coming off as whipped as the fucking meringue on top of my grandmother’s pie.

Her beautiful face appears on the screen.

Her hair is in a messy bun piled on the top of her head, and she doesn’t have an ounce of makeup on her face.

“I said call, loser. Not FaceTime,” she teases me, the corner of her lips turning up.

“Your hair looks wet. Were you in the shower?”

“Yeah, I had to fuck my hand so that I could go to sleep,” I say smugly, watching her throat suddenly swallow roughly.

“You’re gross,” she says, rolling her eyes and trying to pretend like she isn’t suddenly thinking about me stroking my dick.

“Anyway, I’m sorry that I didn’t respond—even though, wow, obsessed much? Four messages, Pretty Boy?” She laughs.

“Oh, no big deal.” I sigh.

“I only cried my eyes out, thinking you hated my postcard.” I tell her this as a joke, but let’s be real—I’ve been fucking distraught with her ignoring me.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure.” She giggles.

“The postcard was cute. I mean, do I think you share some characteristics with an obsessive Lifetime movie dude? Sure. But, hey, that’s okay.” She grins wider, showing me she’s kidding, before she suddenly inhales, and her expression grows serious.

She lays her head back on her pillow, holding the phone above her head.

“Right after I sent that message, there was a bit of a … situation.” She sighs.

“An older man had a stroke, walking into the post office. I gave his wife a ride to the hospital and then kind of … hung out there with her until he was stable.”

“Is he okay?”

She nods slightly.

“Yeah, I mean, he’s conscious, but they have to run a lot more tests on him to see what damage the stroke caused.” She looks down.

“His wife though … Ryder, it was so sad. She was a wreck. They’ve been married for sixty-three years. They have no children, just each other.”

She holds so much emotion in her eyes right now.

And all for a man and a woman she didn’t know before today.

She has the biggest heart I’ve ever known.

“I’m glad he’s okay, and I hope everything works out,” I tell her.

“You know, Saylor Sawyer … the world’s pretty lucky to have you.”

She frowns.

“I don’t know about that. I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. Anyone would have done the same.”

“No, they wouldn’t have,” I say honestly.

“Sure, maybe some would have. But they probably wouldn’t have spent their day off in the hospital with a stranger.” I smile.

“You’re a good one, Brat.”

Her eyes grow glassy, and she seems almost frozen from my words before shaking it off.

“Okay, enough ass-kissing, Pretty Boy. It won’t get you into my panties, you know.”

“Fine,” I sigh.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep taking those long showers then.”

I watch her mouth hang open.

“You’re a perv!” She scolds me.

“No thinking about me in the shower, Ryder Cambridge.”

“Babe, I can whack off anywhere.” I shrug.

“No skin off my back.”

Her eyes narrow as she fights a laugh.

“Okay, I’m going to hang up now because I need to shower and go to bed. Good night, perv.”

“Night, Brat.” I wink.

After she gives me a peace sign and ends the call, I toss my phone on the nightstand and relax back in my bed, knowing now …

I’ll be able to fall asleep.

And that might not be a good thing because that means she has a fuck ton of control over me.