Chapter 11
Cole looked at the ceiling tiles of his hospital room, counting the tiny perforations in the panels for the third time in the past hour—anything to keep his mind busy while he waited for Conrad to come with the discharge papers.
Two days. He’d been in this room for two days, and every minute felt like an eternity.
The incision sites along his abdomen pulled whenever he shifted position, serving as a constant reminder of what he’d given up.
Three small laparoscopic entry points and one larger incision where they’d removed his kidney.
With the oral medication they’d switched him to yesterday, the pain was manageable, but the discomfort was steady enough that he couldn’t forget it.
Not that he wanted to forget. His kidney was working beautifully inside his mother right now.
The transplant team had told him that morning during rounds that Susan’s new kidney was functioning better than they’d hoped.
Her creatinine levels were dropping, her urine output was strong, and barring any complications, she’d be discharged in a few days.
It was worth it. Every twinge, every careful breath, every frustrating limitation, it was all worth it to know his mother would live.
But God, he was ready to get out of here.
He shifted again, trying to find a position that didn’t pull at the incisions, and his mind wandered back to the same place it had been circling for the past forty-eight hours.
Jewel.
As he recalled those fuzzy moments in the recovery bay, he felt the heat rise in his neck. The anesthesia was still heavy in his system, making the world soft and dreamlike, but some things had cut through the haze with crystal clarity.
Her hand in his. The relief in her voice when she told him the surgery went well. The way she leaned close, her dark green eyes fixed on his face as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world.
And then he’d gone and said it.
Love you.
His exact words sounded fuzzy. The drugs had muddled his ability to speak clearly, but he remembered the feeling behind his words all too well.
The urgent need to tell her, to make sure she knew, because what if something went wrong?
What if he didn’t wake up as he should? What if the last thing he ever said to her was some clinical instruction about taking care of Beckett?
So he’d said it. And she’d said it back.
I love you, too.
Her voice had been soft, almost breaking, and her hand had tightened around his like she was afraid to let go.
But did she truly mean it? Or was it just the emotion of the moment?
The relief that he had survived, the adrenaline crash after hours of waiting, the instinct to comfort someone vulnerable, drugged, and not entirely coherent.
He had replayed that moment dozens of times, analyzing the tone of her voice, the exact words she used, and the way she looked at him. But memory was a tricky thing, especially when a brain swimming in anesthesia had recorded only part of it.
And even if she had meant it in that moment, what about now? Now that he was clearheaded and she’d had two days to think it over? Would she dismiss it as just stress from the situation? Would she pretend it never happened?
Would it be awkward when he saw her again?
The worst part was that he couldn’t even pretend his confession was just meaningless drug-induced rambling. Because somewhere between recovery and being moved to this private room, during the quiet hours of the past two days, he’d been forced to face the truth.
He did love her.
Not the way he’d loved Vivian. Not in a desperate, consuming way that had been equal parts desire and dysfunction. This was something else entirely. Something that felt like coming home after a long absence. Like finally finding solid ground after years of walking on ice.
He loved the way she moved through the world with quiet competence, never seeking recognition or praise.
The way she prioritized Beckett’s needs over her own comfort without making a scene.
The way she stayed even when Robert had taken her home away, even when he himself had given her every reason to leave.
He loved that she challenged him. That she didn’t let him hide behind walls or deflections. That she looked him in the eye and demanded honesty when all he wanted to do was to bury the truth.
And he loved all the little things about her, too. The way she hummed softly under her breath while grooming Sundancer. The crease that appeared between her eyebrows when she was focused on something. The rare, genuine smile that lit up her entire face.
He loved her. All of her.
And that terrified him.
Because what if she didn’t feel the same? What if those words in the recovery bay were just comfort for a patient coming out of surgery? What if she still saw him as her employer, or worse, as a murder suspect she was investigating?
The sound of wheels in the hallway snapped him out of his swirling thoughts. Moments later, Conrad appeared in the doorway, pushing a wheelchair with an expression of barely contained joy.
“Your chariot awaits, little brother.”
He scowled. “Forget it. I can walk. The surgeon said I could walk.”
Conrad’s grin widened. “The surgeon said you should walk; however, hospital policy says you will be wheeled out like the helpless invalid you currently are. And I intend to enjoy every second of it.”
“You’re liking this way too much.”
“Darn right I am. Do you have any idea how many times you’ve annoyed me over the years? Consider this payback.” Conrad carefully parked the wheelchair next to the bed, then crossed his arms and waited.
With a groan of resignation, he slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, gritting his teeth against the pull of the incisions.
The pain medication helped, but movement still required careful thought.
He had already gotten dressed in the clothes Conrad brought yesterday—loose sweatpants and a button-up that didn’t have to be pulled over his head—and Conrad was holding the signed discharge papers.
All that remained now was the humiliating wheelchair ride to the car.
“Need help?” This time, Conrad’s voice had lost its teasing edge, replaced by genuine concern.
“I’ve got it.” He pushed himself to a standing position, waited for the room to steady, then lowered himself into the wheelchair with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn’t much.
Conrad immediately grabbed the handles and started pushing him toward the door at an unnecessarily brisk pace.
He gripped the armrests. “Easy! This isn’t a NASCAR race.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to go faster?” Conrad accelerated slightly, taking the corner out of the room with enough speed that he had to brace himself.
“Conrad—”
“What’s that? You want me to do tricks? I’m not sure hospital wheelchairs are rated for wheelies, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”
Despite himself, he felt laughter building in his chest. It hurt, everything that engaged his core muscles hurt, but he couldn’t stop it. “You’re such a jerk.”
“I prefer ‘devoted older brother who’s been patiently waiting for this opportunity for thirty-seven years.” But as they approached the elevator bank, Conrad slowed down, his expression softening. “How are you really doing?”
“Sore, ready to get home, and worried about Mom.”
Conrad pressed the elevator button. “She’s doing great. In fact, let’s check on her before we leave. What about everything else?”
He knew what his brother was asking. Or rather, who he was asking about.
“It’s fine.”
“Uh-huh. Is that why you’ve had that same constipated look on your face for two days?”
“It’s not a constipated look. It’s called pain.”
The elevator doors opened, and Conrad wheeled him inside. “Right. Pain. So it has nothing to do with Jewel?”
His hands tightened on the armrests. “What about her?”
“I don’t know, you tell me. You two have been strangely dancing around each other since we arrived. Sylvie said that when she came back from the hospital after your surgery, she looked like someone whose world had just been turned upside down. But in a good way.”
Heat crawled up his neck. “Sylvie’s reading into things.”
“Sylvie’s got great instincts. And I’ve got eyes. I saw how you looked when she walked into your room yesterday to check on you. Like you were drowning and she was air.”
The elevator began its descent, and he focused on the illuminated numbers above the door rather than his brother’s knowing gaze. “We were both stressed. The surgery. Everything with Mom. It didn’t mean anything.”
“Bull crap.”
His head snapped toward Conrad. “Excuse me?”
The elevator doors opened onto the third floor, and Conrad wheeled him out.
“You heard me. Bull crap. I’ve seen the way you look at her.
And I’ve seen the way she looks at you. That’s not ‘stress relief’ or whatever you want to call it.
That’s two people who are gone for each other and trying real hard to pretend they’re not. ”
They approached Susan’s room, and Conrad halted the wheelchair just outside the door.
“I’m not gone for her.”
“Right. And I’m the King of England.” Conrad moved to the front of the wheelchair, crouching so they were eye level. “Look, I get it. After what happened with Vivian, you’re gun-shy. But she’s not Vivian. Not even close.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because from what I see, you’re doing everything you can to sabotage something good because you’re too scared to get hurt again.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but Conrad held up a hand.
“I’m not saying you need to handle it right now. You’ve just had surgery, you’re on pain meds, and you have enough to deal with. But don’t dismiss it as nothing. Don’t make the same mistake I did with Sylvie and waste years being too stubborn to admit how you feel.”
Before he could respond, Conrad straightened and pushed the wheelchair toward Susan’s room.
“Come on. Mom’s been asking about you all morning.”