Page 36 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

“Torture training,” he said.

My mouth fell open. “Wait, was that a joke? Did the big bad Navy SEAL make a joke?” I made a show of turning on the bed and cupping my mouth to call, “Guys! Get in here! Navy made a joke!” Of course, it wasn’t loud enough for people to come running, but it was more than adequate to cause the corner of August’s mouth to twitch. One day, I’d get him to smile.

I bet he had a gorgeous smile.

Oh god, what if he had dimples? I had this thing for dimples.

And pretty dark gray eyes.

And unruly, flicky brown hair.

And the body of an athlete covered in scars from when he’d been brave or stupid, or both.

As the game continued, August’s shoulders lowered, and he actually got into the game, despite the shakiness of his hands. When he laid down a four of a kind, which beat my flush, he left out a soft whoop of victory, winced, cursed, and when he was done with that, raised an eyebrow.

“Well, lookee there,” he drawled in his best approximation of a southern accent, which wasn’t much better than mine. “Seems like Navy beat Army. Again.”

It was a small victory, but I was happy to let him have it.

“Best of three?” I asked, and he glanced at the bathroom door. “Or you wanna try and get in the shower now?”

He wouldn’t meet my steady gaze, but he gave a short, sharp, nod. “You can help me to the door,” he said as if he was bestowing a great gift.

I scooted off the bed, my leg itching like mad where the plastic I’d already covered it with was making me sweat. There was no way he was getting into that shower alone, and I was about ready for anything he’d throw at me.

“Sure thing, lieutenant.”

“What are you?” he asked, curious, and I blinked at him, not sure what he was asking. “Your rank I mean.”

“Specialist,” I said. “Comm.”

“Okay,” he said, as if that was somehow important. He outranked me, but that didn’t mean I’d stop reading to him if he ordered me to.

Reading kept me sane, and it beat sitting there in silence.

I pushed the table out of his way—at least he wasn’t on an IV, which would have added issues—then with a gentle touch, I helped him swing his legs over the edge of the bed, making sure he was steady, and his breathing wasn’t labored before we attempted to get off the bed, let alone make the journey to the shower. Each movement was cautious, his muscles still healing from the surgery, and when his feet touched the floor, he leaned into me. The soft shuffle of his footsteps and the clunkiness of my limp echoed in the room, and his hospital gown hung loose on him, not tied at the back in any way. I gripped the material together as best I could, but he was in a world of his own, determined to battle to the bathroom, which was maybe ten steps from his bed. August’s breaths were measured, his muscles tensing with each step, but I could feel his determination.

As we reached the bathroom, I took his entire weight as I opened the door, revealing the small, tiled shower room, and he gasped. I stopped, but I realized all that had happened was that he’d caught his reflection in the mirror, and he hesitated for a moment, raising a shaking hand to the beard that had stolen his face.

“Shit,” he muttered, and I glanced at the reflection, not seeing anything past the fact that he’d made it this far, and he was alive.

“You want a shave?”

“I want…” His breathing hitched, and I checked his expression for signs of distress. Doc Jen had warned me that this was going to be shit, but she couldn’t know how I felt having this man leaning on me, in my arms, relying on me to help. With utmost care, I helped him under the shower, thankful it was all in one room, and not behind a glass door, with no steps to get over. “You can go now,” he said, gripping a handrail, hunching over it, cursing again.

“Not going anywhere.”

“Get out.”

“Jesus, Navy, you’re an idiot.”

He tilted his chin, stubborn ass, and I closed the door behind us, then locked it, and his expression turned mutinous.

“Sit down,” I said, and eased him onto a chair in the corner, rummaging for the electric shaver.

“I can shave myself,” he snapped, but when I handed the shaver to him, the thing fell into his lap. I picked it up, then tilted his face with a finger under his chin. Then, with care, I ran the shaver over August’s face, trying to keep my hand steady. “You know, it’s been a while since you’ve had a shave,” I said.

He grunted in agreement, which was better than him cursing me.

---