Page 73 of A Million To Fall

Boston lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, his head dipping briefly like he’s trying to get himself together.

I try to lift my head, assess the damage, but the movement makes my skull throb. “Ow.”

“Easy,” Boston says, his fingers flexing lightly against my face. “Don’t sit up yet.”

He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the faint sheen of sweat along the strong column of his throat. His gray shirt stretches across his chest as he bends over me, the fabric damp in places from running around with the kids all afternoon. But even with all that physical exertion and the heat inside this place, he smells only of summer rain.

His eyes search mine carefully.

“Look at me, Stormy,” he says quietly. “You with me?”

The way he says my nickname should be illegal.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I’m with Archer.” I feel my bottom lip jut out and immediately chalk that up to my obvious head trauma.

He raises one dark eyebrow, and despite the pounding in my skull, warmth curls low in my stomach.

This is so not the time for that.

“Okay, smart-ass,” he says, his lips twitching like he’s not yet ready to allow himself to smile. “How many fingers?”

He holds up two.

“Four.”

Behind him, Valentina groans. “Concussion. Definitely a concussion.”

Boston snorts softly. “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me, so let’s try this again,” he says and holds up his hand once more. “How many?”

I’m tempted to give him another wrong answer, but the worry peeking out from behind his eyes makes me reconsider. “Three.”

He nods, obviously relieved.

“Good job,” he says, his voice so soft. So warm.

“Learned that in pre-school.” I smile weakly.

Big mistake.

Pain pulses through my head again and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Boston’s hand returns to my face. “We should call an ambulance.”

“No.” I sit up slowly, forcing my face to stay neutral even though I have a headache from hell. “I’m totally good.”

“You don’t look good,” Bronx opines.

I give him a dismayed look. “That’s not very nice to say to a girl, you know?”

“He’s right,” Valentina chimes in. “I think an ambulance is the—”

“No ambulance,” I repeat. “Really, I’m okay. Just had my bell rung. I’m not even bleeding or anything.”

“You blacked out,” Boston snaps, but looks like he immediately regrets his tone. He studies me, his eyes flitting between mine like he’s assessing the size of my pupils. “You nauseated?” he asks, softer again.

“No,” I say, purposely refraining from shaking my head. I have a feeling that wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Where are you right now?”