Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 101758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“I’m sitting in the truck at the hospital,” I reply softly.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
“Just a shitty day. I’m okay. I’m hungry as fuck and really crabby, though.”
“Do you need me to come get you? I can be there in twenty.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m coming now. I apologize in advance for all the mean things I might say tonight out of hunger and exhaustion.”
He snickers in my ear, and it makes me smile a little. “You’re forgiven in advance. Come on home, I have lasagna in the oven, and I’ll run you a hot bath.”
“Oh, you’re my favorite boyfriend.”
He laughs again. “Better be the only boyfriend.”
“Duh. Okay, I’ll see you in a few.”
I hang up and blow out a breath before I put the truck in gear and pull out of the parking lot. I know that days like today aren’t normal. It was extra busy, and there was a dementia patient who had fallen and hurt his hip, and I had to work with him while he kept asking me when his parents would come pick him up.
God, it about broke me every single time.
Because I can’t help but wonder if that’ll be Xander someday. Will his memory get worse and worse as he gets older? Will there come a day when he looks at me and his eyes are empty because he doesn’t remember who I am?
It would fucking kill me.
I know he’s okay. He has pockets of memory issues, but aside from missing a word here and there, he’s fine.
But what if he gets hurt again? He has every intention of going back to hockey, for God knows how many more years, and if he continues to sustain concussions, his memory could get worse and worse.
And that terrifies me.
But I also don’t want to be the asshole girlfriend who tells him to give up on his dreams. I’m never going to do that, and if the doctors say he’s fit to play, then who am I to say otherwise?
It still scares me, though, and because of the rough day at work, I feel extra emotional tonight.
I finally pull into the driveway, and Xander’s already waiting for me on the porch. He’s standing there, barefoot, his hands tucked in the pockets of his blue jeans, wearing a blue flannel over a black T-shirt.
And just the sight of him immediately settles my nerves.
As I pull to a stop, Xander rounds the back of the truck and opens my door for me, holding his hand out for my bag, which I pass to him.
“Hi, baby,” he says softly and leans in to kiss my lips. “Come on, let’s get you fed.”
“Okay.”
My voice sounds so small, even to my own ears, and I follow him up to the house.
“You’re not wearing shoes,” I say as he holds the door open for me. “It’s too cold for that.”
“I’ll be fine. I live my life on ice, remember?” He turns to walk deeper into the house, but I tug on his hand, and when he turns to me, I walk into him, press my face to his chest, and hold on tight. “Hey. Hey, I’m right here.”
With a deep inhale, I breathe him in and let it settle my rough edges.
“I’m so sorry you had a rough day,” he says against my head before pressing a kiss to my crown. “How can I help?”
“You’re doing it,” I reply. “Okay, I’ll eat now.”
He kisses me once more and then simply lifts me in his arms, and I don’t fight him or tell him he shouldn’t carry me.
I bury my face in his neck and wrap my legs around his waist and hold on as he walks easily through the house and then deposits me on a stool at the island.
“Cassie made the lasagna, and it smells fucking good,” he says as he pulls a deep baking dish out of the oven, sets it on the stovetop, and then dives back in for what looks like garlic bread. “There’s salad too.”
“Just lasagna and bread for me,” I tell him. “I want carbs.”
“I know it’s been a shit day when you request carbs, so what happened and who do I have to annihilate?”
I smile softly. “It was back to back all day. Hip replacement that was tricky, pneumonia patient that I had to work on breathing with, a baby with a broken shoulder, and I don’t want to know how it got that fracture.”
He frowns as he passes me the plate and then leans on the counter. “Do you think a parent did it?”
“Probably.” I cut a bite with my fork, blow on it, and then shove it in my mouth and sigh as I chew the miraculous food. “So good.”
He’s standing across from me so he can see me, eating his own meal. He was good, though, and made himself some salad.