Page 128 of Darcy
“If you’re looking for the flashy pretty boy cars, Dodger has you covered,” he says. “I wanted something that would survive a zombie apocalypse or a car chase with a drug lord.”
“Oddly specific,” I mutter, as he puts the brake on my chair and then bends to scoop me out of the chair before depositing me in the passenger seat. “Wow, this is… How high am I right now?”
They chuckle, but no one answers. Seriously.
“I’m here!” Emma calls, crossing the road with her hands full of takeaway cups.
For the last few months, she’s been amazing. Not only has she set up her own design boutique in the city, but she’s also sat with me on the few occasions when the guys couldn’t be there. Together, we’ve finished all nineteen seasons ofSay Yes to the Dress, and most ofThe Bachelor.
The moment she reaches me, she passes my cup through the window, and I sigh in relief at the first blisteringly hot sip.
The one cup of filter coffee the hospital provided for breakfast was nowhere near enough for me. If it wasn’t tepid, it was borderline tasteless.
Okay, I’m a coffee snob, but there are worse crimes.
“Is there pizza where we’re going?” I ask, enthusiastically.
That’s the other thing I’ve missed. Apparently, it isn’t on the hospital menu.
“As much as you can eat,” Prophet says.
I’m so busy enjoying my first real coffee in weeks that I don’t notice everyone else has clambered into Prophet’s ludicrously large car until he starts the engine and cruises out onto the streets of Houston.
“Is it far?” I ask, as he takes the main road out of the city.
“A couple of hours,” Arlo replies.
“Get some rest,” Emma encourages, and I groan.
“I’vebeenresting.”
All I seem to do nowadays is get tired way too quickly. I fall asleep at weird times, and while I know that’s just my body trying to heal, it still sucks.
“You’ll need your strength for the exercises the doctor prescribed,” Prophet reminds me.
I sigh and let my head thunk back against the rest. “I hate exercises.”
Just because they’re good for me and I do them doesn’t mean I have to like them. The gruelling routine that Doctor Ebrahim and her team of personal torturers—ahem, trainers—has created for me to regain use of my legs is just evil.
At least when I worked out before, sparring and jogging kept my brain engaged. Not like this endless repetition that I’ve been doing recently.
The only benefit is the Prophet has appointed himself my workout buddy, so at least there’s eye candy to watch while I suffer.
I don’t mean to, but I drift off again to fantasies of him doing push ups with me on his back. When I wake, we’re pulling up to a huge colonial style manor with dark green shutters and a five door garage.
It’s almost as big as the Belladonna Mansion, and I raise my brows.
“Who lives here?”
Arlo chokes out a half laugh, and I catch Emma rolling her eyes in the rear-view mirror.
Slate steps out of the double doors, closely followed by Dodger and even… Sully?
It takes an embarrassingly long time for my brain to join the dots.
“You guys bought a house?”
Prophet grunts in affirmation.
