Page 5 of Regret Me Not
“We were fighting when the truck hit us,” Pierce remembered. “When I woke up, Cynthia was hovering over my hospital bed. She said ‘Pierce, I forgive you.’”
Hal grunted, eyebrows knitting as he worked on a particularly tough knot.
“That sounds… well, sort of bitchy. What did you say back?”
“I said ‘Cynthia, I want a divorce.’”
Hal cackled—and his hands moved up to Pierce’s thigh, one hand holding the inner thigh and the other working on the outer.
A charge of heat zinged from Hal’s knowing, awesome hands straight to Pierce’s groin, and he wondered how embarrassed he’d be if he didn’t call a halt to this divine exercise in physical therapy.
Pierce tilted his head back and shuddered and then grabbed Hal’s hand—but not hard. “A little personal, a little fast,” he said quietly.
Hal grinned, seemingly not put off at all.
“My crowd tends to be a little fast,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. Then he winked. “That’s okay—taking your time has its advantages too.”
Pierce groaned comically and relaxed when Hal went back to his calf. “You don’t even know if I’m open for business,” he said, trying not to be an asshole. He’d barely gotten out of bed that morning.
“You didn’t sock me in the nose. I’m calling it a win!”
Pierce felt sort of a reluctant admiration. “An optimist,” he murmured. “Rare species, highly endangered. Usually found in small family groups of quiet suburb dwellers.” Pierce remembered Sasha and what an asshole he’d been. Gently he pulled his leg out of Hal’s grip.
“What’s the matter?” Hal asked as Pierce gathered his noodle-y muscles and rose to pull himself out of the hot tub. “I thought we were getting along so well!”
“We were,” Pierce said, hating himself. “But I’m sort of toxic to nice people, and kid, you’re just… just really nice. I’m giving you a chance to save yourself some prick burns.”
“Huh.”
Oh God, the concrete was hard on his feet and joints. He started a slow, determined limp to his chaise, but he couldn’t resist. That word was just sitting out there, begging for banter.
“Huh what?”
“No one has ever tried to save me from their inner prick before. Harold Justice Lombard the Fifth is intrigued.”
Pierce stopped by a table, catching his balance on the back of one of the chairs. “Is that really your name? And you’re an optimist? Holy God, kid, run far away from me—you’re like a unicorn or something!”
Before he could even think about moving on, Hal had hopped out of the hot tub and was sprinting for Pierce’s stuff. He came trotting back holding Pierce’s towel, phone, and oh sweet baby jebus, his padded flip-flops.
“Here.” Hal set the flip-flops down so Pierce could step into them and then handed over his cane. While Pierce was getting into his shoes—and finding his balance—Hal wrapped the towel around his shoulders.
“Thank you,” Pierce said reluctantly. “That’s kind.”
Hal came around in front of him and pulled the ends of the towel together, making sure he was wrapped tight.
“Now, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And don’t worry about bringing music, because I’m going to fix you right up. I’ll bring Backstreet Boys—that’s your generation, right?”
“I’m only thirty-two!” Pierce complained, not sure when he’d agreed to a second workout.
Hal’s cheerfully salacious grin told him all he needed to about what he had just inadvertently done. “Excellent. That’s truly the best news I’ve heard all day. I’ll bring something good—trust me.”
This close, Pierce could see the wickedly sparkling brown eyes behind the sunglasses—and the sudden swallow and slightly parted lips that indicated Hal wasn’t quite as bold and brave as he was pretending to be.
It was the vulnerability that did it.
“Sure,” Pierce said softly. “I’ll be here tomorrow at ten.”
And that was enough, apparently, because Hal gave him a toothy grin, then moved to the side and bowed with an elegant gesture. “Then carry on, good sir. We shall see each other in the yon.”
