Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Relief fills me. Maybe none of this is my fault. I happened to accidentally hit a cowboy when he was high. No, I’m probably still spending the night in jail. “You’re saying I didn’t hurt him?”
“How fast was your car going?”
“Maybe twenty miles an hour,” I offer. Jail is going to be miserable, but it’s the guilt that weighs heavy on me.
“Did he roll off the windshield or anything?”
I shudder at the thought. “No! He was standing there and then he kind of fell over. But I still hit him. Am I supposed to turn myself in? What’s the sheriff going to charge me with when we’re not even sure if he’s brain damaged?”
She thinks for a moment. “Well, his family and the sheriff are up the mountain, and cell service is spotty. He won’t go to the hospital no matter what we say, so don’t worry about that. Take your boyfriend home tonight. Watch over him. He’ll be fine by tomorrow morning.”
I nod, knowing she bought me a night’s reprieve. Babysitting the hot cowboy is a hundred times better than going to jail. Maybe tomorrow morning, he’ll even find this whole thing funny…or he’ll press criminal charges. “Right. I can do that.”
With far more confidence than I feel, I turn back to the patient’s room. When I push open the door, Zac is playing the drums on his leg with what appear to be tongue depressors. He looks up from his musical to smile broadly at me. “There’s my girl!”
“Where’s the pastor?” Zac frowns around his bedroom. OK, so maybe I got him back into my car by telling him a teeny, tiny fib.
Maybe I told him we were headed to the wedding chapel. It’s not my fault! It’s hard to maneuver a grown man into my tiny car so I bent the truth to get him to come along with me.
Now we’re back at his place, and I’ve convinced him to go into his bedroom. Martha insisted it was fine for him to sleep as long as I woke him every two hours.
“He’ll be here in the morning, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep,” I tell him. She said the painkillers should wear off sometime in the night and he’ll be good as new by the time the sun rises. Then I’ll apologize to him and hope he doesn’t think I’d look good in stripes.
He tries to fight a yawn and loses. I could tell on the drive over here he was getting sleepy. “You have to call my mom. She’ll want to be there.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’d love to meet me,” I mutter as I fluff the covers on the messy bed. It looks like he tossed and turned last night, probably from the pain of the stage fall. Taking the medication must be why he was wandering around in a field instead of on the mountain helping the rest of his family. “Now, climb in.”
He flops onto the bed, and I cringe. That’s probably going to hurt again in the morning. But at least for now, he should be able to get some good sleep. Well, as much good sleep as he can get, figuring that I’ll be waking him.
“Lie down and close your eyes for a minute,” I encourage, pushing on his very big, very broad shoulder. I shouldn’t have the strength to move him at all, but he relaxes under my touch and puts his head on the pillow. He doesn’t close his eyes.
“You can only keep them closed for a minute then you have to open them and look at me again,” I remind him. I explained all of this earlier but given how spaced out he is, I figure another reminder can’t hurt.
He nods solemnly but still doesn’t shut his eyelids.
“OK, try really hard to squeeze them shut.” I tug the blankets up and over his large frame, wondering what it would feel like to crawl into bed beside him. He’s big all over, and I imagine him wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close.
“But then you’ll disappear.” He pouts, sticking his lip out like a kid. Martha said to expect odd behavior or statements since he’s on the medication.
Even though I shouldn’t, I reach forward and smooth the lines of his forehead. “No, I’ll still be here when you wake up, I promise.”
He sighs happily and finally closes his eyes. “Feels good,” he slurs.
I hum a soft tune under my breath as I continue touching his forehead, moving my hand back and forth across his warm skin. He’s so relaxed right now, not like the chaotic force of energy he usually is on stage.
I stay with Zac until his breathing is soft and even, then I turn out his lights.
I know I shouldn’t snoop through other people’s things, but I’m in Zac freakin’ Maple’s house. If there were ever a time to lean into my journalistic curiosity, it’s definitely now. I won’t write about anything I find, I’m not a total jerk. But I have a million questions about the hot country singer. Where does he get the ideas for all of those slow love ballads? What type of jam does he like with his toast?