Page 2

2

TORI

I tug the back of my hospital gown down as the nurse wheels me to my room in the Emergency Department. It’s a fight for my dignity. I already had to be damsel-in-distressed by the guy who brought me here. I don’t need him to get an unsolicited view of my backside when I move from the wheelchair to the bed. Assuming he’s still waiting in the room.

“The doctor should be in soon to talk about the results of the MRI.” The nurse pushes a button, and the door starts to open.

“Thanks,” I say, resigning myself to a wait of at least two hours. Soon is not a word that should be used by any hospital ever. I didn’t even want the MRI in the first place. Or the gown. I’ve got a high-deductible insurance plan, and I can only imagine what my bill will look like. Plus, my head is fine.

The door opens enough to reveal the room, but the guy who brought me isn’t there.

“Did your friend leave?” the nurse asks.

“Apparently,” I say, a little miffed. Guess he doesn’t actually care whether I live or die.

She helps me out of the chair and onto my bed. “Did you say he’s the one who saved your life?” It’s as if she read my thoughts and saw the need to put me in my place.

“He also rolled on me in the process, and you saw how huge he is.” I rub my arm. “Just figured he might stick around to see whether there was permanent damage.”

The nurse shoots me an amused glance, then takes my arm and inspects it. “It’s road rash. I’ll bring some cream for you. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, but thanks.”

She smiles at me and leaves me alone in the room.

Alone is fine. I don’t actually want the guy here. He’s slightly intimidating and really bossy. Maybe also attractive, but he’s not my type.

Now that I have a moment to myself, the enormity of this whole situation starts to sink in.

I almost died today.

Died.

I’ve always assumed I’d leave this world with plenty of notice—like ninety years of it. But a split-second and a stranger are all that stood between me and the end today, and that’s the most unsettling thing I’ve ever experienced. What if he’d been on his phone like I was? Or what if the semi had been going just a bit faster? I can’t manage to grasp how you can be young and vibrant one moment and dead the next. And what have I even done with my life in the last year? Nothing at all.

I’ve been stuck in a rut since the breakup. A long, boring rut. My rut was supposed to keep me safe, but clearly, that didn’t work. What if I died after spending an entire year of my life doing nothing but working my boring job?

It makes me sick to my stomach.

Or maybe I’m just hungry. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, which is a dangerous place for Tori Sheppard to hang out for very long. Dangerous and unnecessary.

I swing the cotton blanket off my legs and slip down from the bed, pulling the hem of my gown down again. I check the back to make sure I’m not about to flash anybody, then head for the door. There’s got to be food somewhere nearby.

I walk the sterile white hall until I come to a desk with several employees in scrubs, clicking away on computers and answering phones.

“Excuse me,” I say to the general area. “Can you tell me where the nearest vending machine is?”

“Down the hall and to the right,” one says without looking up.

I follow her instructions and make the right turn, then stop short.

My rescuer is walking past the four vending machines with a cup in one hand and his phone in the other. He’s got on a suit, but the tie is loose, and the collar is unbuttoned. With his height and muscular build, he looks like a Secret Service agent who just got off work. This agent had a very exciting day on the job, given the tear on the right shoulder of his suit and the shock of dark, wavy hair that’s escaped from his slicked bun.

He glances at the elderly woman in front of the snack machine and slows as she taps on the glass with a finger.

“Come on,” she urges the machine.

“Do you need help, ma’am?” he asks.

“It won’t give me my cookie,” she complains in a voice that shakes with age. “It took my money, but there’s no cookie.” She opens the flap at the bottom as proof.

“Which cookie is it?”

“The pink one. With sprinkles.” She makes room for him to stand in front of the glass.

“Looks like it’s stuck.” He grabs the sides of the vending machine and shakes it like it’s a dog toy rather than a machine that weighs hundreds of pounds. The cookie doesn’t budge.

The old lady sighs. “Darn. Thanks anyway, son.”

Without missing a beat, he pulls out a credit card, taps it on the payment machine, and presses a couple buttons. The stuck cookie drops, and so does another. He pulls them out of the slot and gives them to the woman.

Her eyes light up, and she smiles, admiring the frosted cookies. She looks up at him, which requires craning her neck, since she’s almost a foot shorter. “What a nice young man. Thank you, deary. I can write you a check.”

“That’s not necessary. Enjoy your cookies.” He turns away from her and toward me, his eyes back on his phone.

I hurry to my room and close the door softly behind me, then rush to the bed. I hop in, then pull the covers over myself and pretend to be asleep.

As kids, my sister Siena and I used to play Barbies next to the nightlight in our room after we were supposed to be in bed. When Mom or Dad came to check on us, we’d rush to our beds and fake sleep. I had no idea this guilty reflex would follow me into adulthood, but here I am.

There’s a knock on the door, and I debate responding or continuing to fake sleep. My debate lasts too long, and the door opens.

My ears are on alert as the footsteps stop short. There’s a pause, and I’m sure the guy’s eyes are on me. Unless he has a fascination with posters about chlamydia and the signs of stroke, I’m kind of the only thing to look at.

My heart races. He’s about to call me out on my horrendous acting skills.

Any second now…

A quick knock, and the door opens again.

The nurse’s voice sounds. “Hey, you’re still here after all. We thought you’d—oh!” Her voice turns to a whisper. “She’s asleep? I was just here a couple minutes ago, and she was wide awake.” Her voice is full of surprise and maybe a hint of suspicion.

Dang her.

Little does she know, sleeping is one of my superpowers. I can fall asleep in forty seconds flat in a cot, on the floor, draped over an armchair. I’m just not exercising that power at the moment. And to be honest, I’m not sure pretending to sleep falls under the umbrella of my superpowers. I’m best at the real thing.

“She shouldn’t be sleeping after a head injury, right?” my rescuer asks.

“No, she shouldn’t.” Footsteps approach, and the shadow of the nurse’s form falls over me, her hand covering my shoulder.

I panic and squint one eye open.

The nurse’s gaze falls on me, and her brows go up.

I shut my eye again.

“I think she’s okay for now,” the nurse says, a hint of amusement in her voice. “I brought some cream for her injury.”

“How did the scan go?” There’s a rattle on the tray next to my bed, and I get a waft of cologne.

“Unfortunately,” the nurse says, “due to HIPAA laws, I’m not allowed to disclose any of her medical information without her consent. But the doctor will be in soon to go over everything, and Ms. Sheppard can provide permission for you to receive information at that point.”

“I just wanted to know if she’s okay.”

“The doctor should be in soon.” The door opens again.

“Hey,” the guy whisper-yells. There’s a pause, then footsteps moving toward the door. When he speaks again, his voice is even lower and softer than usual. I have to strain to hear it—all while looking like a serene, sleeping goddess. “Has her boyfriend shown up?”

My face heats up. Do people blush while they sleep?

“I’m not sure,” the nurse says. “I haven’t seen anyone but you.”

Ugh. The on-the-spot boyfriend I created when I realized the danger I had put myself in by hopping into a car with a total stranger is really letting me down right now.

“I’m just wondering if I should take off,” my rescuer says.

“I think she’d like you to stay. She was pretty upset when she thought you’d left.”

Okay, no one blushes this much in their sleep. Or ever, maybe. If I could give this nurse a Google review, it’d be one star. I was not pretty upset . I was…slightly annoyed.

“The doctor should be in right away,” the nurse repeats for the millionth time.

I suppress an eye roll as the door shuts.

It gets quiet, and I try to keep my breathing slow and even, but it feels like the hospital pumped the room with cement instead of air. Why couldn’t the nurse have just told him he could leave?

From the sound of it, he takes off his coat, then sits in the farthest possible chair from me. The silence continues, and I’m suddenly unsure how often people move in their sleep. Should I turn over? Fake soft snoring? That seems risky.

A tapping noise starts, but I have no idea what it is. I let one eye open a sliver, and through the hazy speck of a view, I see the guy’s shoe. It’s a black Oxford, and it’s tapping an impatient beat on the floor.

This man wants out, which, to be fair, I understand. He went out of his way to save a stranger’s life, even ruining that nice suit of his, and now he’s been stuck with said stranger for a couple of hours at the hospital while her good-for-nothing fake boyfriend neglects her.

It’s time for action.

Shifting in the bed, I force a frown to my brow. I bat my eyelids a few times until they open, then look around like I’m trying to remember where I am. It’s an Oscar-worthy performance.

The foot tapping stops, and I lock eyes with my rescuer—whose name I really need to find out.

He scoots to the edge of his chair, his dark eyes fixed on me intently. “How are you feeling?”

“Totally fine,” I say, way too chipper for a person who just woke. But in comparison with this guy’s perma-frown, anything beyond deadpan is probably going to seem over-the-top happy.

“Good.” He’s got a little tube of cream in his hands, and he holds it up. “The nurse brought this. She said to just rub some onto…the injury?” His confused gaze darts to my head.

“Ah.” I smile. “The injury you gave me.”

His thick brows pull together. “I…saved your life.”

“And crushed me in the process.” I hold up my arm to reveal the road rash.

His expression turns stricken.

“I’m totally kidding,” I say, reaching for the cream and frowning at the unpronounceable medication name. “I’d rather be under you than a semi.” My gaze flies to his and my cheeks ignite.

The teensiest hint of a smile crosses his lips, but he wipes a hand over his mouth, and it’s gone. Maybe it was never even there.

“That’s not what I meant,” I hurry to clarify. “I mean, it is. But not like—” I stop talking. This isn’t a train I’m prepared to take to its destination.

“I know what you meant.”

I twist the lid off the cream, eager to change the subject. “I’d better get some use out of this if it’s going on my bill. Any guesses how much it’ll cost me? I’m betting at least $300.”

He doesn’t offer his own guess, and I glance at him.

“What’s your name, by the way?” I ask. “I’ve been calling you Crusher in my head, but I assume you have a real name.”

“It’s Luca. You’re Victoria, right?” He indicates the band around my wrist, which has my name and birthdate.

I almost correct him—no one really calls me my full name—but it’s a minor detail, and it doesn’t seem like there’s much point. Circumstance has thrown us together for a couple hours, so he can call me Victoria as a courtesy for saving my life, I guess.

“Yep,” I say.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and turns on the screen.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” I say.

His eyes sweep to mine. He puts the phone down, but the brooding brow has returned in full force. “It’s fine. It’s better than the alternative.”

“Sitting in a hospital with a girl you nearly crushed to death is better ?”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he says. “Being here is helping, though.” He grabs the Styrofoam cup on the table next to the bed. “Here.”

I take it warily, but then I see what it is: ice chips. “The only good thing about hospitals. Thank you!” I tip some into my mouth and start chewing.

“You’re feeling okay?”

I nod, mouth full of ice. “I mean, considering I almost died today, I feel pretty good. In fact, I think I’ll just leave. My bucket list suddenly feels very important.” I don’t actually have a bucket list, though. Lists aren’t really my thing. I’m more of a leap-then-look person.

But not recently. Recently, I’ve been totally and completely lame. When was the last time I did anything that scared me?

Besides accidentally stepping in front of a semi.

How did I let it come to this? In college, I was the person everyone knew they could count on for a good time. I’ve always been spontaneous and fun—or as my family calls it, impulsive.

But then Ryan happened.

“You should wait for the MRI results,” Luca says.

“That’s going to take another hour at least. I can just call in for the results later. I really am fine. I didn’t hit my head that hard.”

“You really shouldn’t leave.”

I raise a brow. “You’re being bossy again.”

“If you leave before being discharged, your insurance doesn’t have to cover the visit.”

I shake the cup to loosen more ice. “My insurance is garbage. I’ll be paying this off for the next three years anyway. Thank you, catastrophic plan.”

He stands, and I have to tip my head back to keep eye contact. The man is a near-giant.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “The cafeteria has burritos, poke bowls, panini…”

“And tapioca, apparently. I’m fine, though.” My stomach growls loud enough to scare off a pack of hyenas.

His thick brow cocks. “I’ll just get one of everything, then.” He heads for the door.

“Fine,” I blurt out. “Beef burrito. Everything on it.” If he insists on getting me food, he might as well get what I like.

“Everything?” he asks skeptically.

“Everything.”

He salutes dubiously, then opens the door. He stops and looks back at me. “Don’t leave.”

“Okay, Mr. Bossy Pants.”

He smiles slightly, like he doesn’t mind the nickname, and then he’s gone.

I grab my phone and open a text to Siena, but after staring at the thread for a minute, I turn off my screen again. No need to worry my family. I’m not thrilled at the prospect of admitting I’m in the hospital because I couldn’t even cross a street. I’m already the one who makes poor life choices.

If the MRI comes back with anything, of course I’ll let them know.

I work on my cup of ice chips like it’s my full-time job, trying to fill the burrito-shaped hole in my stomach with frozen water pebbles. About ten minutes after Luca leaves, the door opens again.

Chart in hand, a man in a white coat enters and looks up at me. He grins widely, and I go completely still.

“I wondered if it was you when I saw the name on the chart,” he says. “Long time no see!”

It takes me a second to form a response. I haven’t seen Tyler Warren for over a year. He was finishing his residency then, so I guess it makes sense he’s a doctor now. “Hey, Tyler. Er, Doctor Warren, I guess.” I smile at him, but inside, my heart is racing.

My eyes dart toward the door, like any second, my ex, Ryan, is going to pop up. Ryan was pre-med until he decided on law school, so he and Tyler were close friends.

“Finally, right?” Tyler takes a seat on the spinning stool. “How’ve you been? You know,” he says, not letting me answer, “it’s crazy seeing you today. I just had lunch with Ryan like two days ago.”

“Oh yeah?” It’s not easy striking the balance between polite curiosity and gimme-all-the-details-because-I’m-not-over-him. To be clear, I’m neither of those things. I fall firmly in the I-never-want-to-talk-about-him-again camp. As far as I’m concerned, Ryan is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

“With his fiancée too,” Tyler says. “You remember Kimberly?”

“Yep!” My voice is exuberant because there’s nothing I delight in quite so much as thinking about the woman Ryan broke up with me for. Finding out they’re engaged is the icing on the cake. I hate cake. And icing. “That’s just… so great they’re getting married!” I couldn’t show more thrill if I’d won the lottery.

“They’re so great together, right?” Tyler shakes his head, still grinning like he just can’t get over what a match they are. He aced medical school, but the man has never been able to read a room. He’s really likable and talkative, but he lacks a filter.

He flips a couple pages on my chart, looking over the information absently. “I just put in a request for time off for the wedding. I’ve never been to the Big Apple.”

“The wedding’s in New York?”

“Ry got recruited by a big firm there, and Kimberly grew up in Manhattan. He’s always been a huge Knicks and Giants fan, so it’s kind of perfect.”

I squeeze my fists together and shake them around. “Yay!” Ryan is a sports fanatic. He couldn’t care less about Hollywood celebrities. For him, it’s all about “people with real talent.”

Tyler sets the chart on his lap and looks at me. “What about you? What are you up to these days? Still working that secretary gig?”

Administrative assistant. Not secretary.

I have zero doubt Tyler will report back to Ryan on my response. I can just hear it.

Yeah! She came into the ER because she walked into oncoming traffic and got a head injury. Yep—still a secretary. Nope—not dating anyone.

Kind of ironic I’m worried about Tyler reporting that to Ryan when Ryan’s a big part of why I’m still at my job. He was always encouraging me to stick with something and come up with a five-year-plan so I could actually “go places” instead of “wandering aimlessly.”

Well, I’ve been at my job a couple years now, which is longer than any job before that, and guess what? I’ve never felt more aimless than now. And sticking with it didn’t get me the promotion Ryan assured me I’d get if I just put my head down and worked.

In short, since he broke up with me for the beautiful and driven Kimberly, I’ve made zero life progress. But I’ll shove this cup of ice up my nose before I let Tyler or Ryan know that.

“Oh”—I laugh and wave a dismissive hand—“no, I left that job a while ago.” I tip my head to the side and narrow my eyes like I’m thinking hard. “About the time I got engaged, actually.” My on-the-spot boyfriend has officially escalated to fiancé.

Tyler’s gaze sweeps to my hand.

I cover it quickly. “My ring’s at the jewelers.” I pause. “It needed resizing after the weight I lost.” I’m going full throttle on this my-life-has-never-been-better ruse. Thank heaven for this hospital gown, since it keeps Tyler from verifying the truth of my weight loss claims, which are absolute garbage. I love to eat. So sue me.

“That’s great, Tori,” he says, and I truly think he means it. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Oh, no one you know.” I waffle. That makes it sound like my imaginary fiancé’s a nobody, and what’s the use of that? “He’s an athlete I met at…a fundraiser.” I consider myself an honest person, but I’m pretty pleased with my choice of lie. Fundraising sounds so posh, and imaginary Tori and her hot athlete fiancé are super posh.

“Wow,” he says. “That’s great news! I’m so happy for you. Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling at the thought of all of this being passed along to Ryan.

Tyler slaps his hand on his thigh. “Well, should we chat about your scan?”

“Yes,” I say, more than willing to change the subject to one that requires less perjury.

“Excellent.” He picks up the chart again. “So, the radiologist looked over the MRI, and it looks like?—”

The door opens, and Luca’s massive frame fills the doorway.

Tyler turns around to look at him, his head tipping back because Luca’s so large. His mouth pulls into a smile. “Aha! This must be the guy!” He stands up and puts out a hand. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

Oh, dear.