Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 140767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, babe.”
Babe. He called me babe.
And more than that, Remington Winslow wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than with me, on our way to the ER?
Sheesh. If I weren’t in so much pain, those words just might show my teenage heart what it feels like to be in love. Which is crazy. I mean, this is Remington Winslow. A junior who could get any girl at our school. Surely he wouldn’t waste his time with a freshman.
Says the girl who just got rescued by him.
The thought makes me open my eyes again and turn my head slightly to take in the way his blue eyes are fixated on the road. His dark hair is damp with sweat, and the T-shirt that covers his body shows off every rigid muscle.
Goodness, he’s hot.
“You hanging in there?” he asks, looking at me briefly before putting his gaze back to the road. “We’re only about ten minutes away.”
Probably the hottest guy…ever. Brad Pitt has nothing on him.
I kind of want to kick myself for not agreeing to go with him and his little sister for ice cream when I first met him. I wanted to, of course, but I was too nervous and made up some lame excuse about having to get Isabella home.
My sister definitely gave me an earful for that as we walked back to our apartment that day.
“That was so dumb, Maria. You should’ve said yes. He was so cute!” she’d said.
Which, she was right. It was dumb.
Ever since then, I haven’t had a single conversation with him. Frankly, I only ever see him when I’m at cheerleading practice and he’s busy playing football at the other end of the field.
The music switches to another Van Morrison song, most likely because the CD is a greatest hits, and the opening beats of “Someone Like You” start to fill the inside of Remy’s car.
Someone like you? More like, someone like Remy. That’s the kind of guy I’d like to call my boyfriend.
“Maria? You okay? You still with me?” he questions, and I realize I never answered him the first time he asked.
But I don’t really care about that question. I’m too busy wondering about a different one.
“Is the some-other-time offer still on the table?” I blurt out, and he furrows his brow, his eyes shifting back and forth between me and the road.
“What?”
Blush heats my cheeks, but it doesn’t stop me like it normally would. Call it pain, hysteria, or adrenaline, but I am, in fact, trying to ask Remington Winslow out. “A few weeks ago, when you asked me to get ice cream with you and I couldn’t.” I remind him of the first and last time we had a conversation. “I’m just wondering if that some-other-time offer is still on the table.”
“Are you asking me out, Maria?” His smile is almost too big for the inside of his car. “Right now? While I’m driving you to the ER?”
Instantly, mortification starts to set in, and I feel like the world’s biggest moron. I mean, how could I confuse him helping me get medical attention with him being interested in me?
Idiot. You’re such an idiot.
“Uh—” I start to find a way backtrack, but he cuts me off.
“Because if that’s the case, the answer is yes. A hell yes.” He winks and reaches out to gently pat the skin of my knee. “Though, I only have one stipulation.”
“And what’s that?”
“Let’s get that arm of yours seen by a doctor first.”
“Good idea.” I laugh. I can’t help it. But the movement jostles my left arm in a way that makes me whimper.
“We’re almost there.” Remy squeezes my knee once more and then focuses his full attention back on the road.
Me, though? I float off into a place of euphoric disbelief, far too giddy for a girl who is on the way to the hospital with a broken arm.
Remington Winslow just said yes to going out with me.
Late night, Friday, August 23rd
Remy
Night has consumed the sky, and the blistering heat that caused another damn blackout today has dissipated to a tolerable seventy-five degrees.
I can’t believe that, just five hours ago, I arrived at this very hospital, in the back of an ambulance, with Maria and her baby. Hell, her baby whom I delivered. Inside a fucking elevator.
I have Maria’s car seat and hospital bag clutched in my hands, and the hospital doors open automatically as I enter. The night shift security guard flashes a wide smile in my direction.
“Congratulations, Dad,” he greets, the items I’m carrying putting off what he assumes is an obvious signal.
In fact, in his tenure here, I’m sure he’s encountered lots of new dads arriving at the hospital in a bluster of panic and excitement and stupidity. No matter how prepared, how ready they are to be fathers, the transition is both sudden and rude. There’s no going back from being responsible for another human being. No redos, no second chances, no pushing the pause button.