Page 75 of A Million To Fall

I don’t look at him when I answer. “He’s at Seven Pines playing golf with Jake.”

Boston exhales through his nose before he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and dials a number.

“Hey man,” Boston says to whoever is on the other end. “Sorry to interrupt your golf game, but Skye got hit pretty hard in the head.”

A beat, then: “She got knocked out and I really don’t think she should be driving or be alone.”

It hits me.

He’s talking to Jake.

After I just hung up with Archer.

Heat creeps up my neck. Part embarrassment. Part something else I don’t have the bandwidth to examine right now.

Boston shakes his head. “Yeah. Well, I figured it’s either you or me telling him to pick her up, and I don’t think either of us want it to be me,” he says plainly, though his jaw remains rigid. “Right. Just FYI, my shift is over in thirty. If Archer’s not here by then, I’m taking Skye home myself.”

My heart trips.

Boston ends the call with a clipped, “Thanks, Jake,” before sliding his phone back into his pocket. Then he crouches down next to me.

“Stormy, will you do me a huge favor and just stay put until Archer gets here? Please?” Gone is the irritation from his voice and jaw, replaced by the worry he carried before my phone call with Archer.

I nod. Boston does too, his eyes locked on mine.

“I don’t want you to get hurt again,” he adds, quieter now. “So, please, just stay here. I’m going to get back to the kids, alright?”

I nod again, the quiet intensity in his gaze making resistance feel impossible.

His face softens before his lips tug into a smirk. “Good girl.”

Before I can respond, Boston’s already walking away.

Less than half an hour later, Archer strides in, gaze sweeping over the bustling space, lingering on the worn wall pads, then the patchwork ceiling tiles with poorly concealed skepticism.

This is definitely not his usual scene, a fact that’s only underscored by his outfit which, even though it’s casual, still looks expensive. Crisp white polo with a matching cap. His golf glove still half hanging out of the back pocket of his navy shorts.

Several heads turn automatically. Including Boston’s, just twenty feet to my right.

His attention shifts from the kids he’s organizing into a neat pick-up line and across the gym to Archer, who doesn’t immediately notice me on my chair tucked back near the wall, ice pack pressed to the side of my head while Cassie and Bronx sit on the floor next to me like tiny sentries, coloring on scrap paper.

Archer heads straight for Valentina. She points in my direction, and the second Archer catches sight of me, concern flashes across his face. He starts toward me, oblivious to the chaos around him. Meanwhile, Boston seems focused on Archer. I try not to notice, but I do. The way his eyes lift, track Archer across the gym, then drop away again.

Archer arrives at my side quickly. “Jesus, baby,” he says, crouching down in front of the chair. His hands slide carefully over my arms, then up to my face.

“How hard did this thing hit you?”

“I’m okay,” I say for the twenty-seventh time this past hour.

His eyes narrow. “You don’t look okay.”

Cassie pauses, marker hovering above her coloring page, studying Archer as he brushes my hair away from my temple.

“That’s what Bronx said,” I mutter.

“Because it’s true,” Bronx says from the floor without looking up.

Archer exhales through his nose, clearly trying to assess the damage himself. “Did you throw up? Dizzy? Blurry vision?”