Chapter Twenty-Nine
November 6th, 11:47 p.m.
P aloma’s gaze darted to her phone resting on her dresser. She tapped the screen for what felt like the thousandth time. The harsh glow mocked her with each passing minute. She paced the length of her bedroom, her bare feet alternating between the cool hardwood and the textured loops of the braided rug.
She snatched her cell, thumb hovering over Max’s contact. Her chest tightened as she calculated the hours—no, lifetimes—since he should have arrived. The knot of irritation growing in her stomach twisted into something darker, colder.
Sinking onto the edge of her bed, a silk blouse she’d carefully chosen hours ago slithered to the floor, a pool of midnight blue at her feet. She bent to retrieve it, her other hand still clutching the phone. Muscle memory took over as she hit redial, pressing the device to her ear. Each unanswered ring tightened the knot in her stomach.
“Hel-lo?” Max’s voice crackled through the speaker, unusually slow and slightly slurred.
“Max! ” She said in a breathless rush, pressing the phone closer, straining to hear. Beeps and mumbles filled this silence of his reply. “Where are you? What’s happening?” she asked.
“I’m . . . I’m in the hospital,” he mumbled, his words barely audible over the din of bustling activity in the background.
“Hospital?” She shot up from the bed, stepping toward her door, her foot catching on the forgotten blouse. “What happened?”
A muffled voice in the background cut through: “Mr. London, we need to check your pupils again.”
His voice faded, and all she could make out was people talking but not what they were saying. “Max!” she called out, gripping her phone tighter. “Talk to me!”
“I . . . I think I fell asleep,” his voice returned, thick with confusion. “The car . . . I don’t remember.”
Another voice, clearer this time: “BP’s 110 over 70, heart rate elevated but stable.”
She choked, unable to breathe. The room was suddenly too warm, too small. She pressed her palm against her forehead, fingers trembling.
“Max, I . . .” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, but her heart was lodged in her throat. “You told me you were tired.”
“Still tired,” he muttered.
“Are you okay?” she asked. The question was barely audible as guilt constricted her voice.
“I’m gooood. Like really gooood,” he drawled, his words stretching and blending. There was a pause, filled with machine beeping and a background discussion. “They gave me something that makes me feel almost as goooood as when your mouth is around my cock,” he announced to the entire ward.
A startle d laugh erupted nearby, followed by a muffled snort and shuffling feet. She grinned despite the worry gnawing at her. “You’re really flying high, aren’t you?”
“Definitely,” he laughed, then grunted as if in pain.
That sobered her, and she grabbed her shoes and keys. “What hospital are you at? I’m on my way.”
“No. No.” he repeated something like ten times. “Don’t worry about it. It’s late. I know you gotta go tomorrow. We don’t want you driving tired. Believe me, it fuckkkking hurts.”
“I’m fine, Max, but I need to make sure that you’re okay.”
“Aw, you do like me.”
She choked out a laugh that sounded a bit like a sob. “Of course I like you. Now, where are you?”
He told her the name of the hospital. She heard the echo of the ER’s chaos ringing in her ears even after hanging up. Grabbing her keys, she raced outside. The night air was cold against her flushed skin, but she wouldn’t waste the time returning for a jacket and jumped into her car.
Streets usually bustling were now eerily quiet, lit only by the yellow glow of streetlamps. She sped through empty intersections. The clock on her dashboard mo cked her with each passing minute. Her only companions were the soft whir of her engine and the occasional flicker of a traffic light.
She arrived in record time, barreling through the hospital entrance, nearly colliding with the sliding doors. Her chest heaved as she skidded to a stop at the nurse’s station, her handbag swinging wildly at her side. Going by the grin the nurse was trying to hold in she was probably the one who’d been in Max’s room when he’d commented on Paloma’s oral skills.
After checking the woman’s name tag, she said, “Hi, Kathy, I’m here to see Max London.”
The nurse nodded, fighting a grin. “Are you—”
“Yes, I’m the one that gives the excellent blowjobs,” Paloma blurted, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the counter. “Can I see him?”
A choking sound erupted to her left. It was another nurse, wide-eyed and spluttering, dabbing at the coffee stain spreading across his scrubs.
Kathy bit her lip, a chuckle escaping despite her closed mouth. “Actually,” she said, her voice thick with suppressed laughter, “I was going to say, ‘Are you Paloma Wagner?’”
A warmth infused her cheeks, but she shrugged it off. “Well, that’s me too,” she said, her gaze already shifting to the room numbers.
“He’s in room thirty-nine,” the nurse said, then added, “And you’ll be glad to know he’s been cleared to go home. However, he does have a concussion, so he’ll need some care over the next few days.”
Her stomach dropped. “A concussion? Is it serious?”
“It’s mild, but all concussions require careful monitoring. I assume you’ll be staying with him?” Kathy asked, her tone matter-of-fact.
Paloma stilled her hand that was fidgeting with the strap of her purse. Her gaze darted to the calendar hanging behind the nurse’s station. Tomorrow’s date was circled in bold red. She was supposed to be in Traverse City tomorrow. Yet, the thought of leaving Max physically hurt. She’d stay, at least through the night. “Yes, of course,” she told the nurse.
Kathy nodded. “Good. I’ll give you detailed care instructions before you leave. For now, you can see him. He’s probably eager to get out of here.”
Relief filled her, but anxiety gnawed at her edges. “Thank you,” she managed, already moving toward Max’s room.
The rubber soles of her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she strode down the hall. She slowed at his room. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the cold metal of the door’s handle. The acrid scent of disinfectant permeated the air, a stark reminder of where she was and why. She pushed the door open with a soft click.
Her gaze fell on Max. He was sitting up in bed, and the sight hit her like a discordant note in a familiar melody—recognizable yet jarringly wrong. His face was a canvas of scrapes and bruises, stark against his paler-than-usual skin. A nasty gash ran along his hairline, held together by a row of neat stitches. A deep purple bruise bloomed across his left cheekbone.
He wore a hospital gown, but his clothes were folded neatly on a nearby chair, ready for him to change. A small bandage on his arm marked where an IV had likely been earlier. His usually meticulous hair was messy, with a small patch shaved near the stitches.
“Hey,” he said, his voice rough but stronger than she’d expected. He attempted a smile, but it turned into a wince.
“Oh, Max,” she whispered as if speaking too loudly might shatter this surreal moment.
“It looks worse than it is, I promise. Doc says I can go home tonight.” He glanced at the clock opposite his bed. “Well, this morning, I guess. You shouldn’t have come. I’m sure you have an early start for Traverse City. I could’ve called my mom or one of the guys.”
She brushed aside his objections, her gaze darting between Max and the discharge papers on the bedside table. “Are you . . . Are you sure you’re ready to leave?”
“Yeah, doc says I’m good to go.” He reached for his clothes and grimaced.
“Let me help,” she said, snatching the pile before he could protest. She clutched it to her chest like a shield.
“Thanks.” He frowned. “You okay?”
She nodded, not meeting his gaze, and busied herself with his clothes. “You told me you were tired,” she said to the shirt she was unfolding, her voice barely audible.
“What w as that?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.
“Nothing, I just . . .” she exhaled. “Do you need anything else? Water for the ride home? I could ask the nurse—”
“Paloma, I’m okay.”
She nodded, still unable to meet his concerned eyes. Her bottom lip trembled, and she caught it between her teeth. She stilled, his shirt clutched tightly against her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I demanded you come by my house. You’d told me you were tired,” she whispered, swiping at a falling tear.
“Come here. Please.” He patted the spot on the bed next to him.
She perched on the edge, her gaze fixed on the linoleum floor. The harsh hospital lighting cast shadows that danced across her vision, mirroring the chaotic swirl inside her. He put his arm around her, and she leaned into him. “This is on me. I chose to drive.”
“When you didn’t show up—”
“You were pissed?” he teased.
A watery laugh escaped her. “Yes,” she admitted. “But then I heard you were in the hospital, I . . . God, Max. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.” Her hands stilled, and she forced herself to look at him. “I guess I’m just . . . I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Hey.” He cupped her cheeks and kissed her softly. “I’m okay. Really. And I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” She leaned away, looking into his eyes, heavy-lidded from the medication.
He smiled, but it came out lopsided. “Let’s get out of here. You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow, right?”
The remainder of her impending departure was a physical weight pressing on her chest. She averted her gaze, focusing on their intertwined hands instead. “ Right,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Big day.”
The looming departure seemed to suck all the air from the room. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the inky night was slipping away.
Her chest tightened, and a feeling akin to homesickness washed over her. But that didn’t make sense; traveling had never bothered her. In fact, she usually considered it a perk.
Unless . . .
The realization hit her like a sucker punch, leaving her winded. Home wasn’t a place anymore. It was a person. It was Max.
No. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The last time it had was with her fiancé, who had left her heart homeless.
Panic clawed at her throat, threatening to choke her. This wasn’t part of the plan. She didn’t do deep. She didn’t do vulnerable. Not anymore.
But as her eyes traced the lines of Max’s battered face, she feared it was too late. She was already in freefall, and the ground was rushing to meet her. Fight or flight warred within her, leaving her paralyzed between opposing impulses—to flee from these dangerous emotions or to burrow deeper into them.
“I should . . .” Do what? Leave? “You should rest,” she finally managed, gently disentangling from him and standing. “Let’s get out of here.”
She helped him get dressed and discharged. The squeak of wheelchair wheels echoed through the hospital’s endless corridor as she pushed Max toward the exit. Fluorescent lights cast long shadows ahead of them, stretching his silhouette into a distorted shape on the polished floor. From behind, she saw the slight slouch of his shoulders and the tilt of his head as he leaned it against the chair’s headrest. Even without seeing his face, she could sense his exhaustion, his vulnerability.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, ” he twisted around, a flicker of pain crossing his features before he masked it with a wan smile. “I feel ridiculous being rolled out.”
“Hospital rules.” His frustration was palpable, and she wanted to ease it. “Think of it as your chariot, Your Majesty. Complete with your chauffeur.”
He chuckled softly and winced. “Well, if I’m royalty,” he said, his voice rough but warm, “does that make you my knight in shining . . . Chucks?”
“It does,” she said, pushing through the hospital doors.
The drive home was a blur of streetlights and silence. Every few minutes, her eyes were drawn to his form slumped in the passenger seat, his features softened by medication-induced sleep. Each time, something in her chest tightened so intense it bordered on pain.
She pulled into her driveway and rested a hand on his knee, gently shaking him awake. “We’re home.”
His eyes fluttered open, a small smile forming on his lips. “Home,” he repeated, the word carrying a weight she wasn’t ready to examine.
Getting him inside was a slow process. Each wince, each sharp intake of breath as he moved, had her tightening her grip on him, torn between the desire to pull him closer and the instinct to run.
Finally, they reached her bedroom. She helped him sit on the edge of the bed and kneeled to remove his shoes.
“Thank you,” Max said, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached out, his fingers brushing along her cheek and jaw. “For everything.”
“We should get some sleep,” she managed to say through all the emotions lodged in her throat.
He nodded, and she helped him get under the covers. She walked to the other side of the bed, her movements mechanical as she slipped under the sheets. The small distance between them was both too vast and not nearly enough.
She lay o n her back, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of his presence beside her. The steady rhythm of his breathing filled the quiet room. She should be comforted by it, relieved that he was safe and here. Instead, each breath seemed to chip away at the walls she’d so carefully built around her heart.
The blankets shuffled, and then his fingers found hers. He sighed as if he’d found all he needed. Almost immediately, his breathing evened out in sleep.
Her self-protection started repeating its mantra: pull away, protect yourself. She knew how this story ended—with heartbreak and abandonment. Instead, she held his hand tight and scooted closer.
The night deepened around them, yet she lay awake, Max’s hand warm in hers, facing a truth she could no longer deny: she was falling for him, hard and fast. And she had no idea what to do about it.