Beach Cottage Kisses (The Cottages on Ocean Breeze #2)

Chapter Eleven

T hey iced. And heated. Everyone but Dale had left. Dennis Mitchell, the professor married to his pediatrician wife, Cassie Miles—owners of the first cottage on the beach—had taken Harper to get Scott’s car. And Harper was bringing dinner back with her. Scott had requested supreme pizza. Until Iris had pointed out a paragraph in his discharge instructions. He’d ordered lightly seasoned pasta soup and salad instead.

And while Dale and Scott worked to figure out the best process for getting Scott to the bathroom, working on Scott’s crutch skills in combination with the back injury, Iris took the girls and drove down to her place to pack what she’d need for the next few days. Including a set of sheets and a comforter for the bare mattress in Scott’s spare bedroom.

The room Gray had used for a while the previous fall.

Chances were Scott had bedding. She’d opted for her own. Using his just seemed too…personal. Which was why she packed towels, too. Her own stuff, touching her own body, just not in her own house.

She didn’t take long, wanting to be back before dinner arrived, and walked in just as Scott was wheeling himself in his office chair, sitting on a long board upon which his left leg rested, keeping it straight. Dale was right beside him.

Other than a few gatherings on the beach, the bearded writer kept to himself, mostly. No one knew much about him. But all the dogs on Ocean Breeze loved him, which was enough for Iris to like him, too.

“We can rent a wheelchair for you,” she offered as the girls ran in and sniffed at Scott’s one bare foot on the floor.

He shook his head. “No need. This is only until I see the physical therapist tomorrow and find out what pain I just tolerate, and what indicates that I’m doing further damage.”

And so it went.

Harper didn’t stay for dinner. But she offered, once again, to take over for Iris anytime. Being neighborly. Kind. With absolutely no challenge attached. So no reason for Iris to get defensive about the offer. Or respond with the “no need” she blithely offered.

Dale, she thanked more profusely as he left. And hoped she didn’t have to take the man up on his offer to come down during the night, if necessary. But left that one openended.

And then it was just the two of them. With at least a couple of hours before the administration of his next round of medications. The pain meds he might or might not take, as the doctor had issued them as needed, but the antibiotics and anti-inflammatories were a must.

She could go to her room for a few. Had her laptop, tablet, SD cards and a camera, too. Could do some editing. Wasn’t at all moved by the idea.

Felt no creative fire.

They’d have to ice again soon. The back ten minutes per hour for the first seventy-two hours.

The knee, twenty to thirty minutes every two hours. One hour would be one ice pack. Every other hour would be two. She had the schedule set. And had come home with enough ice packs to get the job done consistently.

It was going to be a long night.

She’d had them before. A multitude of them.

Propped up on the couch, Scott had Morgan on his stomach and chest, with Angel curled around the nonelevated foot.

His bandaged leg, the discoloration around it, was visible to her now that he was wearing basketball shorts and a T-shirt. The bulge of the compression bandage wrapped around his lower torso wasn’t as obvious, but she knew it was there.

And the whole day, the call from Sage, her initial fear, the manic drive to the hospital, seeing him laid up…it all rained down on her. Tightening her chest. A sense of doom sliding over her.

Until she stopped it with the anger and determination she’d learned to use. A silent, mental action meant to take back control of her psyche from the fear that always loomed, ready to pounce.

Except that she didn’t stay silent. “What in the hell were you thinking? Taking on South Beach? It’s where the professional surfers go, Scott! Even I know that much. And you…you can’t stay up on a board on Ocean Breeze, which—” Shocked at herself, she stopped abruptly. Bit her lip for a second, but then, chin up, stared at her patient.

Her friend.

Opening her mouth with an apology ready to spill out, she closed it again as Scott looked her in the eye and said, “You don’t want to know.”

He had that wrong. “Actually, I do.” More than just about anything in that moment. If the man had a death wish, he needed more than physical help. And she wasn’t going to sit around and watch him dwindle without at least trying to get him what he needed .

“Trust me, you don’t.”

He had no idea. “Trust me. I do.”

His lower lip jutted as his chin tightened and he said, “Fine. You want it? I surf when I’m fighting the possibility of failure. The higher the possibility, the bigger the waves.”

She frowned. “But…you…can’t surf…”

She and Sage had talked about Scott’s continual pursuit of a sport he’d never mastered. Sometimes his twin worried about Scott’s refusal to give up. Sometimes she teased him about it. Everyone on Ocean Breeze knew of his quest to ride a wave. For all she knew, everyone in his office knew about it, too.

“I surf,” he told her. “I just don’t stay up on the board.”

Which was the whole point of surfing.

Sending her a sharp-eyed glance, he said, “As long as I keep trying, I haven’t failed.”

Ahh . Her stomach flip-flopped. Tightened. They weren’t talking about surfing anymore. The waters she’d pushed them into were murky. Suddenly seeming far more dangerous than a fancy board taking on the waves of South Beach.

The man was deep. More so than anyone she’d known in her adult life. Except maybe Sage. Not because the people in her life didn’t have depth. But because she wasn’t open to experiencing it with them.

So how had Scott managed to slide inside?

More importantly, what did she do about it? While part of her went into immediate defensive mode, sending out orders to build walls, to distract, another part of her asked, “So what possible looming failure were you fighting this morning?”

His didn’t even blink as he continued to eye her and said, “Sexual attraction.”

Right. Somewhere, in her convoluted psyche, she’d known. Had needed to hear him say it for some unforsaken reason she wasn’t ready to pursue.

There was a much more pressing issue. “You could have been killed.”

His shrug left room for the possibility to exist. Which made her angry all over again. “That’s ludicrous, Scott! Better that we do it every day, twice a day, that we lose our friendship, end up unable to be in the same space together, to breathe the same air, than for you to…”

No longer be on earth.

* * *

What did it say about Scott that he was feeling better, more energized, more like himself, arguing with Iris than he’d felt all day? Even before he’d gone surfing.

She was pissed at him. Sage was, too. He got that. Even understood why. And regretted that he’d worried them.

And was putting Iris out for the night.

A situation he’d put an end to in the morning after the physical therapist gave him the information he needed to figure out how to tend to himself. By himself.

At which time he’d do what it took to forget the warmth he was feeling right then, with Iris’s concern bleeding all over him.

If he’d needed proof that she valued their friendship as much as he did, he was getting it.

Which was all the more reason for him to make certain that his desire for her, returned or not, did not ruin what they had.

Because there was no other road for him to take.

Platonic friends. Or nothing.

In spite of the fact that her do it every day comment had his crotch tightening amid the pain he was in from the waist down.

If she saw it, she did. Nothing he could about it in his current state. Nor was he sure he wanted to try. Pretending it wasn’t there didn’t work. They had to acknowledge the situation. Fight it together.

Which was something that had occurred to him as he’d been beaten up by waves that morning. And was only just then coming back.

“I oftentimes get insights when I’m out battling waves,” he said to her then. “The mental space I’m in out there…it’s unlike any other. The clarity, but also the way whatever is on my mind becomes the only thing there.” He sounded like a drunkard in his head. Stood by what he’d said as he told Iris something he’d never put into words before. Not even for Sage.

Her expression softened, which did nothing good for his midsection. But eased the tension in his heart some. More when she said, “Strangely enough, I get that.”

The way she said it, as though she’d been there, left him in no doubt that she had been.

And called to him, too.

When? Where? Why?

He couldn’t ask. Not without knowing what dangerous territory it could lead to.

But wished he’d said something, anything, to keep the conversation going, when, instead, she asked, “What clarity did you get this morning?”

He wasn’t ready to talk about it. Didn’t have anything concrete. “We’re going to have to tackle the sex thing head-on.”

“Have it, you mean? We already tried that.”

And it hadn’t worked. Or rather, had worked far too well for his body’s sake. And maybe for hers, too. He couldn’t help but notice that she hadn’t proclaimed being over it. Which would be half the battle right there.

He shook his head, her have it, you mean still ringing through him. “No,” he told her unequivocally. “Just…acknowledge it. Fight it together.” Peace settled as he heard the words aloud.

And when he saw her features relax, too.

They didn’t have to fight each other. They had to join forces, allow their friendship to work for them and, as a team, battle that which was threatening to ruin them.

A new regime. One that could actually work.

His body might be a little the worse for wear, but surfing had been a success once again.

* * *

She’d iced him several times already that evening. Somehow, doing so at midnight, with the lights so low, and both of them having been asleep, felt entirely new.

Cozy.

And probably far too intimate. At the moment, she didn’t care. She could see pain on his face even while he slept.

“How you feeling?” she asked as she woke him with ready ice pack in hand.

He groaned. Helped bear the weight of his leg some as she slid the pack in place. Adding another pillow to the elevation. And then went for the pack for his back. The leg was ten minutes longer. Came first. She had it down to a science.

So did he.

Hadn’t even opened his eyes.

“Turn your head.” He did, confirming that he was still awake, and she put the fancy digital thermometer in his ear. And when the reading was normal, reached for his arm, applying the blood pressure cuff.

As long as vitals stayed good for twenty-four hours, they were in the clear in terms of invisible enemies creeping up on him. At least enough to not need to monitor blood pressure and body temperature. There were still symptoms to watch for.

And dangers to prevent.

At least his penis wasn’t hard. She wasn’t proud that she’d looked. But they were fighting together. She had to take an active role to ensure success.

And for honesty’s sake, too. Both self and otherwise.

When she saw his chin tighten, she asked softly, “You ready for a pain pill?”

“No.”

“You’d sleep better. Which would help you heal better.”

“No.”

Irritated, but resigned, too, Iris collected used ice packs as timing required. Put them back in the freezer and went back to the chair she’d decided to use as her bed just for that first night. The only way she’d seen herself being able to nod off was to know that she was close enough to hear Scott if he needed her, to reach him instantly if necessary.

And the chair, a recliner, with her own pillow and blanket, let her keep guard over a man who would try to fend for himself rather than call out to her, too.

* * *

Three in the morning and Scott had to pee. So bad he couldn’t keep holding it. Pain throbbed and shot whether he was lying still or moving, so he sat up, keeping a watch on the woman sleeping a few yards away. She looked beautiful. So much younger with her features relaxed in sleep. Oddly so. As though, awake, she carried a heavy burden.

He’d never have known the lifelines in her expressions weren’t just effects of years lived, and constant exposure to the California sun, if he wasn’t looking at the evidence.

His need to pee reared. A reminder to him. And he pulled the chair he and Dale had devised the foot or so necessary to bring it to the edge of the couch. Where he could use his arms to lift and slide, leaving his bad leg on the couch until last. Using his arms to help lift the leg to the chair.

The back pain would be intense for a few.

Less upsetting to him than peeing his pants would be.

“Tell me you aren’t actually planning to tackle that on your own.” The voice shot through him. Almost as painfully as the jerk her sudden conversation caused him to sustain in his lower back.

He didn’t bother responding. The truth was clearly obvious, right there, in front of them. Continuing with his plan, he raised his weight off the couch with his arms. And felt Iris’s hands slide beneath his pits, helping to glide him smoothly to the chair without wrenching his back. And before he could reach for his left leg, she was there, too.

Handling it completely by herself.

As much as he hated the helpless feeling she’d just injected into him, he was relieved, too. And without a word, used his good leg to wheel himself to the hall bath and, once inside, shut the door behind him.

Wise woman that she was, she let him.

* * *

Iris waited right outside the bathroom door. The nurse had told her to be sure not to leave him alone that first night. Most particularly during bathroom runs, if he refused to use the urinal. According to Nurse Windsor’s experience, falls, tears, further injuries, happened most often during the night in the bathroom.

She heard something pour into the toilet. Heard it flush. Heard water run.

Heard him swear.

And her eyes filled with tears. Crazy, uncalled-for, foreign tears.

What the hell?

The doorknob turned and she blinked quickly. Rapidly. Giving her psyche a sharp reminder that she was in charge of her own life, and was herself, ready for Scott, when the door opened.

Or thought she was. Until she saw him somewhat balanced, half on the desk chair, and half off, hanging on to the sink to keep himself from falling to the floor.

The beads of sweat on his upper lip were a hint to how much pain he was in. The steely look in the glare he gave her kept her mouth shut.

At least while she swept in, slid her forearms beneath his armpits and lifted his weight until he could get his good leg firmly underneath himself.

Then gently lifted his bad leg back to the board that would support it for the journey back.

“I had a muscle spasm in my back,” he bit out as he wheeled himself slowly back to the couch.

She wasn’t surprised. Didn’t bother expressing her I told you so that she was forcing herself to call up to distract from the sympathy threatening to overwhelm her. But calmly asked, “You ready for a pain pill?”

“No.” The word was as much growl as English.

Saying nothing more, she assisted as he got himself back on the couch. Handed him the blanket he’d tossed at the end of the couch sometime before she’d woken up.

And as he settled back, asked one more time, “Pain pill?”

He closed his eyes. Turned his head away.

And Iris shook her head.

The man was as stubborn as they came.

Determined to walk the course he’d set for himself. Because he’d set it for good reason.

And, as much as she prayed he’d put a buffer on his suffering, she kind of admired him for his steadfastness to his convictions, too.