Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

Only today, I’m not. I try to focus on the words, but my thoughts keep straying. My head keeps throbbing too.

That’s why I don’t startle at the commotion outside my door. At first, I think it’s the sound of my pulse inside my ears. Then I think it’s thunder. Only when I hear a familiar voice growl, “Where is she?” do I sit up.

Pulse thumping, I lean forward. Did I imagine that?

It has to be the morphine messing with my head. No way is Rhett—

“Nurses. God, y’all, I love you. Sincerely. You do God’s work, even though you sure as hell aren’t paid like it. I’mma try to remedy that. But first, you gotta tell me which room Amelia Fox is in. Where the fuck is she?”

A murmured voice, female. Followed by the man saying, quieter this time, thank you, and I apologize for cussing, but the girl I love is hurt, and I don’t know what happened, and I know she’s scared, and I gotta get to her. Please tell me where she is.

A beat later, the doorknob turns, and my heart explodes, and Rhett bursts into the room, sweaty and red-faced.

I can’t speak. I just look at him, throat welling.

He takes in the machines gathered around my head like a beeping, mechanized halo. His eyes rove over the IV drip, the sad little cup of Jell-O.

His eyes lock on my face, and that’s when they soften.

Relief.

Guilt.

Love.

My heart, its million pieces scattered across my torso, beats.

It beats again. And again and again and again, infusing my blood with oxygen, my bones with light.

His shoulders collapse, and his chest caves on an enormous exhale.

He is so handsome—set jaw, disheveled hair, searing eyes. He came.

I start to cry.

“Aw, honey.” He crosses the room in one and a half-giant strides, and then he’s beside me, taking my hand—the one without the IV—gently in the paw of his own. “How are you feeling? What happened? I’m just—” His voice cracks. He sniffles. “How the hell are you?”

I nod. Bite my lip. It tastes salty.

“Apparently, I had a bad reaction to the antibiotics they gave me,” I manage. “I got this really intense stomach pain—hit me out of nowhere. At first, I thought it was part of the infection, or maybe, I don’t know, a side effect of having my heart crushed or whatever.”

Rhett’s brows curve upward. He swipes his thumb across the back of my hand. He clears his throat. “What kind of douche canoe would do that? Crush your good, perfect, enormous heart?”

My voice wobbles. “An enormous douche, naturally.”

“What’s the prognosis?”

“Good. It may take a few days to feel better. Or, hell, years . . .” Rhett winces. I continue, “but the morphine drip will tide me over until then.”

“Giving you the good stuff, huh?”

I manage a tight smile. “Guess so.”

“I came as soon as I heard. What can I do?”

“I’m all right. Rose is here somewhere. She’s taking good care of me.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “What if I wanna take care of you too? Would you let me?”

Ugh, more tears. I wipe them away with my free hand. “Depends.”

He shifts his weight on his feet, eyes never leaving mine. And then—slowly, silently—he gets down on one knee.

“What are you doing?” I ask, beginning to panic.

“Showing you I mean business.” He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Let me put you first from today until forever.”

I stare at him. “But that makes no sense.”

“I turned down the extension this morning.”

I keep staring. My mouth opens and closes several times.

“Y-you did?” I stammer.

“I also fired Miguel.” His thumb is on my wrist now, pressing down gently. “He thought he could change my mind. Believed I was the same man I was two, three years ago. Nine years ago. That guy would’ve ponied up for the extension real fast.”

“Wow,” I say.

“I called you a quitter, and I’m really, really sorry about that. I was confused and scared as hell, and I took it out on you, which was wrong and really shitty of me.”

I nod, tears falling left and right. “Yup.”

“But then I started to think about it, and I realized that being a quitter isn’t necessarily a bad thing. When you quit shit that hurts, it can be awesome.”

“Yeah,” I manage, nodding. “I like that idea.”

“I quit the wrong thing, Amelia. I quit you when I should’ve quit football. I want to be the right kind of quitter this time around. One you’re proud of.” He searches my eyes. “Liam called for me last night. I don’t know how to really explain it, but as I was rocking him back to sleep, I realized that he trusts me. You only trust someone if they show up when you need them. I’ve shown up for my son in a way I didn’t believe I could a week ago. It showed me—well, it showed me two things. First, that I can trust myself to do the right thing because I’m not a reckless idiot anymore.”