Page 23 of Tangled with the Tight End

“When is the last time you took the oxycodone?” I ask.

“Four or five hours ago,” he says, glancing at his phone and adding. “Five hours.”

I go through each of the meds, asking the same question.

“Okay. Well, good news. You’re an hour away from some relief.”

“Good news would be that I’m due for my next dose.”

“True. I can rearrange you if another position would be more comfortable,” I offer.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to rearrange me.”

“We’re going to get past you telling me you’re fine.” I wave my hand toward his ankle. “One of us is fine. That would be me, if you’re wondering. You are not fine. You will be. But you aren’t. So let’s delete that word from the list.”

“The list?”

“The list of words you use when you tell me what’s going on with you.”

“What if I am fine?”

“You aren’t. If you are fine …” I pause, wondering where all this boldness is coming from, and then I just lean into it. “... inform your face.”

He actually chuckles. Then he winces.

“I think that pillow isn’t low enough to support your lumbar region. Here.” I walk over to him, pushing at his shoulders so he’ll bend forward.

“Wow,” I say before my mouth consults my brain.

His muscles aren’t even flexed and the feel of him under my hand is like pushing on the tire of a Mack truck. He smells good too—which he shouldn’t. I’m sure they gave him the customary shower before discharging him from the hospital, but he smells like leather and soap—a woodsy soap with spicy undertones, and … I clear my throat.

Declan blows out a light puff of amused laughter.

“It’s like trying to move a wall,” I say, envying my friends who actually have filters between their thoughts and their vocal cords.

He laughs again, bending forward for me.

“I’m sorry,” I say while I pull the pillow out from behind him, fluff it, and push it down lower.

Then I say, “Lean back.”

He does.

“I’m just used to working with normal people,” I say, by way of explanation.

“I’m normal,” he says, a note of amusement in his voice.

“You aren’t. Have you seen yourself?”

“I’m an athlete.”

“Right. Well …” Words escape me. “Is that better?” I step back, putting intentional space between us.

“Actually, yes.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

He nods.