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I scoffed, gripping my chair’s armrests until my knuckles went white. “What, like I’m just supposed to accept that this is my life now? What makes you say I’m lucky? Maybe lucky would’ve been never waking up in the first place.”

He rounded on me, his eyes full of blue fire. “That’s a really selfish way of looking at the gift you’ve been given.” Before I could argue that point, he continued, storming across the kitchen dripping suds on the floor as his hands balled into fists. “Look, I won’t guarantee that you’ll be able to go back to where you were before the assault, that you’ll never feel any pain again, because that’s just not realistic, and I refuse to make promises I can’t keep. So yes, you might have some lingering symptoms once you’re done therapy, but youarelucky. Life is beautiful… and it is tragic and thrilling and so damn fragile. But you are lucky to get out of bed every morning and feel the floor beneath your feet. Not everybody gets that. Some people might not ever get to walk again after their injuries. They might not feel pain, because they might not feel anything at all. So, acceptthat.”

Casey’s chest was heaving, eyes flashing, skin flushed. This was the first time I’d seen him angry, and it made him so damn beautiful it hurt.

8

Casey

Mybloodwaspounding,rushing in my ears as my blood pressure spiked unexpectedly, catching me off guard. It took me a moment to get myself under control, stowing the sensitive emotions back under lock and key where they belonged when dealing with my clients.

I cleared my throat awkwardly. Peter was obviously curious about my impassioned outburst, but before he could ask any questions I didn’t want to answer, I forced my fists open and brushed my wet hands off on my jeans. “Now… how about that dinner,” I suggested, all smiles again as I turned back to the kitchen, headed for the fridge.

His gaze followed me, but I shoved my face into the fridge, letting the air cool my heated cheeks. “How do you feel about omelets?” I asked over my shoulder.

Under normal circumstances, I was an open book—except when it came to this, because my parents were those unlucky ones I mentioned. A perfect storm of small decisions had led to that car accident, taking my father’s life, and while my mom might’ve survived the crash, she would never walk again. Even then, through all her pain and grief, she had managed to pull herself back up. I knew Peter had it in him; I just had to gethimto see that.

“I told you, I don’t need your help. I don’t want you to cook for me,” he grumbled, as if I hadn’t just found him passed out under a dangerous mix of pills and booze.

I straightened up and turned to narrow my eyes at him in a playful threat. “Well, I’m hungry, so it’s happening. You can either tell me what you like or eat what I give you.” I grinned manically. “So… how do you feel about omelets?” I repeated.

He shook his head, but I swore I saw his lips twitch. “Gods, you’re so damn stubborn.”

“Thanks! Although I prefer the wordpersistent.” I leaned into my usual bubbly persona as I pulled out a carton of eggs, a block of cheese, and whatever vegetables I thought would work in an omelet. Thankfully, someone had stocked the fridge with groceries, though I had a suspicion it wasn’t Peter.

I kept waiting for him to ask, to pry into the most tender parts of my past, but the longer he let me babble about my day, the more I was able to relax.

Although maybe he simply wasn’t asking because he wasn’t listening. I’d seen the way his eyes kept darting over to where the pill container sat on the counter. He wouldn’t be the first to look for relief in the bottom of a bottle, and he wouldn’t be the last, though I’d never known for it to do anyone a lick of good. Even on a good day, it was like playing hide-and-seek with reality, but he would have to emerge from the fog eventually, and when he did, reality would be right there waiting for him, ready to bite him in the ass. On a bad day, though… there was a chance he wouldn’t wake up at all.

“How about some music,” I suggested, pulling out my phone and setting up my music app. I didn’t expect an answer, which was just as well, because I wasn’t going to get one. Peter didn’t make the best company right now, but I didn’t mind. I was good enough company for us both.

I bopped around the kitchen as I chopped up the onion and shriveled mushrooms. I sang, too loud and wildly off-key, as I cracked eggs into a bowl. Not once did Peter tell me to be quiet, and he didn’t tell me to leave again, either. I even caught him tapping his finger to the beat.

“Come on, Peter. Sing with me!” I held the spatula up like a microphone, belting out lyrics that I knew were completely wrong. “‘Saving his wife from this warm sausage tea!’”

It certainly got the intended reaction, and Peter was appalled. “Those arenotthe words,” he said indignantly. “That doesn’t even make sense! Come on, everyone knows the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody. You’re butchering a classic.”

“Feel free to show me how it’s done,” I teased, offering him the spatula microphone, and he clammed up quick, crossing his arms over his chest as though angry with himself for taking the bait in the first place. “Suit yourself.”

I couldn’t help smiling to myself. TherealPeter, pre-injury Peter, was still in there somewhere. I’d seen glimpses of him when he let his guard down. He would be forever changed by what he’d been through, but this version of him—hurt, angry, betrayed, and lonely—was not who he was meant to be. I couldn’t wait to meet thenewPeter.

For now, he’d been wallowing for so long, he couldn’t find his way out. He was sinking deeper into his injury, giving in to the pain and the painkillers to avoid all the big, scary feels. What I needed to do was throw him a lifeline.

Whistling, I dished up two omelets and carried the plates to the small dining room around the corner. This room was obviously rarely used, probably not since before his injury. There was a thick layer of dust over the table, so I went back to the kitchen for a cloth. Peter, meanwhile, sat in the wheelchair and watched me walking back and forth.

I sat down in my chair at the table with a contented sigh and dug in. It was a simple meal, but I groaned as if it were the best thing I’d ever eaten. “So good,” I moaned, unashamed of how erotic it sounded. If that was what it took to get Peter’s attention, so be it.

There was a squeak of the leather seat as Peter tried to peek around the corner, then I heard him sulkily say, “Aren’t you going to come get me?”

“Why would I do that?” I asked, not looking back at him.

He was a stubborn one, but I hadn’t been doing this job for as long as I had without learning how to out-stubborn the best of them.

I heard his long huff as he wrestled with his pride. “Pleasecan you come get me?” he tried, thinking his lack of manners was the issue.

“There is a difference between being hurt and being injured, Peter, and while I am sorry for the pain you’re experiencing, you can’t start healing until you learn the difference.”

Tough love was the hardest approach to take, but I knew it was often the only thing some people would respond to. He expected to be coddled, but he would very quickly find out that I didn’t play that game. Recovery was hard, but he needed to be an active participant in his own health.

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