Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70516 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70516 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
—Food for thought
Eddy
The stitches around my eyes had come out, and now I was staring at the smattering of raised, mutilated skin like it was on someone else’s body.
The door whispered open and I looked up, not bothering to pull my gown down.
I didn’t pull it down and cover myself mostly because I’d thought the person coming in was my nurse.
Had I known it was the object of my every affection, I would’ve covered back up.
His eyes immediately went to the black, red, and blue coloring my body and winced.
“Ouch,” he said. “That’s a lot of bruising.”
“I had an eight-hundred-pound bear using me as a trampoline,” I snorted, which only caused my ribs to protest. “It looked way worse earlier when I was getting cleaned up. With all the dried, black blood off me, it almost looks good.”
“What’s the rest look like?” he asked.
I pushed down the covers to show him my hip and part of my backside.
He whistled. “You’re gonna have some gnarly scars.” He studied me in great detail. “That one is gonna be the worst.”
The one he was talking about were the four claw marks going from the fat area just underneath my armpit to the fleshy area above my right hip, just above my butt.
“It itches,” I said. “Like mad.”
“It’s going to itch while it heals,” he admitted as he took up a seat next to the bed. “You need anything? Want to get up and walk the halls?”
I looked at the door. “I was told to, but the thought of walking sounds freakin’ awful.”
“Come on,” he said as he picked up a bag that I hadn’t noticed until now. “I got you some clothes and some shoes.”
I looked at the bag in his hands. “Does that bag have underwear?”
“It does,” he said. “I had your sister tell me the code to your place. I grabbed the softest stuff I could find that looked like it wouldn’t irritate your healing skin. I also stopped at the store and got you some slip-on shoes since you didn’t have any.”
“Oh,” I said. “What about a hair tie?”
The hopefulness in my voice had him grinning. “Got that, too.”
He helped me get dressed and didn’t once complain about the slowness of my movements.
By the time we were walking the halls of the hospital, I was moving even slower.
But I was moving.
Which was something I couldn’t say I’d thought I would ever do again when I was lying underneath a bear that was dead set on killing me.
“Tell me everything about yourself.”
He looked at me like I was crazy, but there was also a huge amount of wariness there.
As if he was remembering what I’d overheard this morning.
After he’d left, I’d done a quick deep dive into what I thought I knew about him, and didn’t come up with much of anything in the way of the internet.
But, after a while, I’d stopped even that because I would learn everything I needed to know from the source itself.
If he wanted to tell me.
And if he didn’t, that was his business, not mine. I wouldn’t push.
But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t share who he was with me.
He’d already been doing that over the last eight days that I’d been in the hospital and he’d been visiting with me, but I wanted the real stuff. The real Weaver Grant.
I smiled, though it was weak at best. “Anything to distract me.”
His eyes studied me for a long moment as he started to talk.
He told me of a life that he used to live in the South.
He told me of his once hopes and dreams.
But only when we were back in my hospital room did he tell me the real stuff.
He’d told me of his twin sister’s fiancée that was killed, and of that the subsequent falling out with her.
He told me of his child—the tattoo that he’d had on his chest that I’d wondered about a few days ago but hadn’t had the nerve to ask about—and how much he’d missed her.
And since I was assuming that there was way more to the story, I didn’t push. But I wanted to know the real reason his eyes always looked so haunted.
“What’s her name?” I asked, even though I knew.
“Boston.” He smiled, pretending like this was the first time he was telling me about her. “Boston Leigh. I had her young. When I was barely eighteen.”
My brows rose. “How old is she now?”
“Almost sixteen,” he answered. “Driving.”
My heart literally ached for him.
“Bossy is going to do great.” He laughed. “She’s been driving around on four-wheelers and side-by-sides since she was a little girl.”
“She sounds like she had a great life,” I said, practically begging to know more.
Weaver’s face turned solemn, and he looked like he was about to say something to expound on what I’d just said, but his phone rang.