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“Yeah, she landed two hours ago. Her first stop was Kermit the Frog’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.”

“She really does live and breathe puppets, doesn’t she?”

“Yup.” Riley rolled up the tortilla while Ben filled glasses with tap water.

“What about Erika? Still off the radar?”

“Seems so. I texted again, but I guess out of sight, out of mind. What’s that phrase? Fair-weather friend? We were great as teenagers when everything was gossip and crushes on boys, but things got real two years ago with Mom and that’s not her scene. The Josh stuff didn’t help either…” Riley sighed. “It’s still sad, losing a friend.”

Ben rubbed her back and left a kiss in her hair.

She changed the subject. “How’s Hunter? I bet he’s happy you’re back.”

In more ways than one. “Yep. I’m a dream roomie compared to the bloke who stayed while I was at your mom’s. Get this—the dude was a naked sleepwalker! Freaked Hunter right out, which is ironic considering…”

Riley laughed. “Is he okay holding your job a little longer?” She sliced through the homemade wrap and placed half on Ben’s plate.

Shit. I knew she wouldn’t forget what the doctor said Monday: start back slowly, no heavy lifting, try riding a bike in the gym first.

“Yep.” Ben picked up a bottle of malt vinegar and doused the opening of his wrap. “But starting tomorrow, he’s paying me to organize his paperwork, answer the phone for a bit.” He slipped her a quick smile. “So, don’t worry, I won’t lift anything heavy.”

Fifty-Eight

Jeez, this is tougher than I thought. I’m exhausted. Thighs burning and gasping for breath, Ben pumped the pedals on his bike, just making it across the intersection of West 54th Street and Seventh Avenue before the traffic light switched to red. He stuck to the relative safety of the bike lane, avoiding cars parked by the curb on his left and the mid-Friday gridlock of honking taxis on his right, heading east toward Sixth Avenue.

Three deliveries down, two to go, then lunch!

Passing a car rental place, an SUV pulled out behind him a little too close for comfort, almost clipping his back wheel. Ben kept pedaling, increasing speed and creating distance, but his body was no longer used to that type of exertion. His butt ached and his back cracked. A side stitch had been pinching for the past fifteen blocks, reminding him that it had only been a short six weeks since his surgery.

Get to Sixth then take a rest at the fountains. Just a few minutes with some water should do it.

He stood up on his pedals and dug in, puffs of his warm breath hitting the cool October air as he pushed himself, but the strain he felt in his core, back, and hips forced him back in the saddle.

Then it came out of nowhere.

Ben didn’t see it.

A passenger-side car door flew open from the curb into the bike lane.

He didn’t stand a chance.

Smashing into the car, Ben was thrown into his handlebars and over the vehicle’s door, his momentum sending his messenger bag soaring from his shoulder. It landed under the wheels of a passing truck. Ben followed, tumbling into a crumpled heap on the asphalt, the air in his lungs knocked free. His bike didn’t fare much better, bending into a crude right angle.

A screechy “OH MY GOD!” from the car’s open door echoed across the street.

“FUCK!” Ben’s abs and hands felt like they were on fire. “You fucking twat!” He glanced down. Blood and dirt streaked his hands and patches of skin had been shorn off his palms, but worst of all, his right wrist was bent funny. Oh Jesus, I’m gonna be sick.

“Oh, I’m soooo sorry!” A nasal accent sailed over the still-open passenger door, but the man and his wife, departing guests from the hotel overlooking the scene, kept their distance.

“You all right?” A doorman crouched by Ben’s side. His hotel co-worker was on his phone, calling 911. Several pedestrians lingered, cars slowed to rubberneck, and two cyclists swerved to pass the bicycle lane roadkill.

“Yeah, I…” Ben shifted to sit up. His back ached and the burn in his stomach flared, stealing his breath.

“Don’t move, buddy.” The doorman raised his hand, afraid to touch him but also wanting Ben to stay put. “You might have a concussion or something. Can you feel everything? Your legs, hands?”

That’s just the problem—I’m feeling everything way too much. He lifted his throbbing right arm, slowly. “Yeah, but something’s wrong with—”

“Your wrist looks broken,” said the doorman with a distasteful gulp. “Stay right there. Ambulance will be here soon.”