CHAPTER 3
Samia
Physio-therapy could be used as a torture weapon, I’m more than sure.
My body is like wet paper as I redressed, ready to leave.
Gratefully, it’s helped improve my balance and coordination. Otherwise, I’m paying to be put through rigorous weekly exercises for sadistic reasons.
I’m reasonably healed, according to the doctors, except for the splotchy memories that won’t come back no matter what I do, issues with my balance sometimes, and dizziness that steals my equilibrium.
I will never get into a fight with a bus again. Those big metal beasts cheat.
All that’s on my mind is a sugar-heavy creamy coffee as I exit the elite rehabilitation center and nearly trip over a pair of long, outstretched legs. My heart instantly rolls over with an excited thump, and I resent the reaction to Kian as his smile increases and he climbs to his imposing height.
“All finished?”
“What are you doing here?” I snap, shocked at his sudden appearance and flustered by his smile. Why did someone so annoying have to have that kind of attractive face? It’s unfair for him to wield his weapons against me.
“Driving you home. You’re always tired after your sessions.”
Before I can throw a denial in his face, he bends to bring something off the chair beside him. When I catch the scent of caffeine, the locked and loaded sarcasm falls from my tongue as Kian offers me the tall takeout cup.
“Sweet, creamy latte, extra cream and sugar.” He smiles like he knows he’s tamed my crankiness, and dammit, he’s right, because as soon as my fingers latch around the white cup, I attack the drinking spout for a long sip. Sighing in gratitude.
“Fuck me,” he curses, and my eyes fly open to look up at him. We’re only several inches apart, I’m five-foot-seven, but I always feel bashfully smaller in front of Kian. “I get jealous every time you mouth-fuck a coffee.”
My lips gape open, wordlessly staring at him, my cheeks heating like a furnace.
“Have you always been this vulgar, or is this a new personality trait?”
Kian flashes a smirk. “I am what I am, baby.”
“Samia.” I remind him of my name because hearing baby in his deep, bad-boy voice activates an all-over shudder.
For the months since I’ve been home from the hospital to recuperate, Kian MacNamara, the once infamous boy racer and whatever other criminal activity he gets up to now, has dogged my steps, becoming my living shadow.
It’s still hard to believe he’s my boyfriend, according to him.
We’re so different in every way possible.
It’s wild that Ronan and Catherine MacNamara are his parents because they’re so lovely, and he’s, well…he’s Kian. We’ve never been what you’d call friendly. I was the nerd girl in school, and he was the bad boy everyone warns you about. Because we have friends in common, we’ve inevitably appeared at the same parties and events over the years, so his reputation has never been a secret.
There’s been a nagging thought in my brain that I liked someone before the accident. Maybe I was seriously dating someone important. But if that’s the case, where is he?
Is Kian that someone important?
I’m not sure why I haven’t ended it with him. Chalking it up to our differences and the fact I can’t remember our relationship. I suppose I’ve grown reliant on Kian in many ways. He’s encouraged me to tackle my brain injury with enthusiasm without babying me.
I still can’t figure out what he gets from our non-relationship.
“Where am I taking you, Samia?” he interrupts my thoughts, and I meet his gaze.
I realize I’ve been nothing but snappy to him for weeks. Just because I can’t remember us shouldn’t turn me into a bitch, not when he’s nothing but patient and kind, so I swallow back my default retort of refusing his help. The truth is, I’m tired and don’t fancy walking the twenty blocks to my next appointment.
“Thank you, Kian.” I give him the address, and he looks like I’ve granted him a free visit pass to the Formula One garage.
There is one thing I know about him: since school, he has loved cars, especially ones that don’t belong to him.
Before I can stop myself, I ask him, “do you still joyride in stolen cars?”
Kian chuckles, deep and rumbly. “I can afford my own now.”
Out on the bustling New York street, it’s instinct to move closer to him so I don’t get jostled by fast walkers, but Kian takes it a step further and hooks my hand up, wrapping it in his larger, warmer one.
“Don’t even try to pull it back, dreamgirl.” He warns silkily before I can attempt to, and I shoot him a side glare, to which he responds with a laugh. “I can read your mind.”
“Yeah? What am I thinking now?”
“You want to kiss me.”
My belly floods with heat. But he surprises a laugh out of me. “Sure, if that’s code for being violent.”
“Don’t turn me on, or we won’t be going to any appointment.” He warns with a growl. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask where we would go if I pushed the issue, but self-preservation means I bite my lip to stop that question in its tracks. I don’t want him flirting with me, and I don’t want to flirt with him.
He’s parked his Maybach illegally, and surprisingly, it doesn’t have a ticket. It must be the MacNamara Irish luck.
“I can’t believe you drove here. No one drives domestically in Manhattan. How long were you waiting?”
Kian shrugs as he opens the passenger door so I can slide into the car. “Give or take an hour. If you wouldn’t sneak off without telling me where you’re going, I wouldn’t have to chase you down.”
Chase you down. Why am I picturing Kian in a ripped shirt as he powers his long legs through a forest looking for me? Ugh, now my heart rate picks up, and I bury the sensation in a long sip of coffee. Kian rounds the hood and climbs in before starting the engine.
“A cab would be faster.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” He offers mysteriously, pulling out into traffic where we linger. New York is majorly overcrowded, and when I was at Stanford College, I was almost sure I wouldn’t live in Manhattan again, but the heart is a powerful force, and I missed the concrete jungle in all its congested glory. There’s no place on earth like New York. England is a close second since I spent much of my childhood there, playing in lush green parks and eating weird desserts called jam roly poly. I’m one of those rare Americans who make a proper cup of tea that doesn’t include boiling water in the microwave.
If he wants to rile my English-born sunshine mom, dad will prepare her a drink in that way to watch her act like he’s peed all over the kitchen. Brits take their tea-making seriously. And since I’m part English, so do I. It’s in my Earl Grey DNA, after all.
“What’s the deal?” I ask suspiciously. Rightly so. Kian isn’t to be trusted. I don’t know why I think this other than how my spidey senses tingle around him.
But there’s also something else I try not to focus on too much. Like a moth to a flame, I can’t help but be drawn to Kian, too. Rather than the light, it’s his masculinity and ability to be in control of any situation that captures my attention. Maybe we are a couple, and I’m denying the obvious for no good reason.
“Don’t fight me on everything today, and I’ll buy you anything you want.”
He offers it more like a sexual suggestion than a bribe, and I react without censor as my fingers tighten around the coffee cup.
There are half a dozen responses I could have used, but I realize I’d be combative for no reason other than being bratty. Maybe it’s the brain injury, but I know it’s a Kian reaction. He brings it out in me. For a while, he’s challenged me on everything, pushed to be in my personal space, insisting we’re as close as skin on grapes. Telling him to leave me during those first few weeks was like talking to a brick wall. The man might be the most cunning creature on this side of the Hudson, but he doesn’t listen so well.
Keeping the retorts to myself, I give only an agreeable hum. I won’t stop him if he wants to spend money on me. I like things, but who doesn’t? And now I smile, picturing his stubbled face going into shock when he sees the price tag on a purse I’ve had my eye on.
Hmm. A Kian MacNamara deal might not be so bad.
All I have to do is not argue with him.
Easy, right?