Page 5 of Axe-ing for Trouble
Wordlessly, I went to my room and collected a T-shirt and a pair of sweats.
When I returned, she was assessing the injuries, gently talking through what she was seeing. The woman was awe-inspiring.
Mila sat on the ottoman, her face totally serene.
She looked like she’d fought a bear, but she was composed and calm.
Still beautiful. Regal, almost.
Tall and slender, with sharp cheekbones, plump lips, and steely gray eyes.
Every detail of the night we’d spent together had been burned into my brain. She’d burrowed its way into my soul in a way no other woman had.
That night, I’d seen her in the crowd, dancing with abandon as I played. I’d met her a few times at the dojo in Heartsborough. She’d come to a few self-defense classes I’d helped teach, and we’d chatted a bit. I thought she was gorgeous then.
But the night she showed up at the Moose, she was luminous. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Every single note I played was for her and her alone.
As a musician, I was used to being ogled by women. I was used to being approached after a set and flirted with while I played.
But I’d never experienced a connection like I had that night.
We had an entire conversation without speaking.
Her smile was electric. I could close my eyes and pull up the memory of it even now, every detail still crystal clear.
A spark had ignited, a tether linking us. So the moment the set ended, I strolled up to her and took the beer bottle from her hand and took a swig. The move was completely out of character for me. I was typically the quiet and let women come to me type.
But with her? I couldn’t hold back. As if, subconsciously, I knew we had limited time, so I was determined to make the most of it.
An hour later, we were here, tearing each other’s clothes off. Once we’d quelled the need consuming us, we laughed, talked, raided the kitchen, took Ripley out for a late-night walk. Then we fell asleep tangled in one another.
But when I woke, I was alone.
She’d left without a trace.
Without leaving a phone number.
While I still believed her name was Amy.
Cole nudged me, breaking me out of my thought spiral.
“You okay?”
Arms crossed, I nodded, unable to look away as Willa shined a flashlight in Mila’s eyes.
“You have a concussion,” Willa concluded, clicking the light off. “Likely mild, but we need to be careful.”
Mila put her head in one hand, that shoulder slumping, while she kept the injured arm cradled to her chest. “That explains the headache.”
“What happened?” my sister-in-law asked. “Can you explain? I’d like to take you to the hospital—”
“No hospitals,” Mila snapped. Her body tensed like a coiled snake ready to strike. She held her injured arm with the good hand, her eyes flashing with panic. “Hospitals ask questions and make records. Can’t risk it.”
Willa turned to me, her expression full of all kinds of questions.
My heart constricted painfully. “Can you help her?”
My sister-in-law was a wonderful doctor and an even better person. She made house calls regularly and had braved a snowstorm not all that long ago to help a pregnant woman in distress. And on top of that, she took care of the citizens of Lovewell every day.
