Page 51 of Seale the Deal

I groan. Please stop laughing. You’re going to shoot blood like a geyser.

I hand her the paper towel, and she presses it to her face.

We should probably take you to the health centre. Make sure nothing’s broken.

Wrenley stiffens. Absolutely not.

What if your nose is fractured?

Then I’ll have a quirky nose and start a side hustle as an actress. Barbra Streisand did alright.

I’m serious.

So am I. She points a very bloody paper towel at me. Unless you plan to toss me over the Canadian border and let me crawl into a walk-in clinic like a wounded raccoon, I don’t want to see a pair of scrubs.

I blink. You’d rather smuggle yourself into your own country like a feral animal than get your nose looked at?

Do not tempt me, Ruger, she says, eyes wide. I have my passport in my sock drawer and no shame about my love of the Canadian healthcare system. Of course, if this turns into a brain bleed, you might have to drive me to Whitehorse.

If it’s a brain bleed, you’ll die on the way there.

She shrugs. If I’m lucky, I’ll die on my side of the border.

I realize there is likely no arguing with a drunk Wrenley, so I opt to grab the tissue box to replace the paper towel.

I hold it out to her and watch as she pulls out two tissues and proceeds to shove them up her nose. I seriously don’t understand how one person can be so chaotic and charming at the same time.

Wrenley’s face shifts.

Are you okay? I ask.

I’m fine.

She is not fine. She’s swaying and blinking slowly.

Okay, I say decisively. Time to lie down.

No, she says, raising a finger like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk. What I need is another—

Her knees buckle.

Shit.

I catch her just in time, wrapping my arms around her as she slumps forward. She’s all soft limbs, wine breath, and bloody tissue.

I’ve got you, I murmur, adjusting her weight. She’s heavier than she looks but still fits perfectly in my arms.

I shift her into a bridal carry, and her head tips against my shoulder. She moans a little as her hand curls into the front of my shirt.

You still smell like sawdust and sweat, she whispers.

Thank you?

Compliments, she slurs, blinking up at me. It’s my love language.

Jesus.

I carry her up the stairs, nudging her bedroom door open with my foot. The room is barely unpacked. It makes my chest ache a little to think that she hasn’t turned this into something more homey for herself. Like this house is just that—a house, not a place that she can call home for a little while.