Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

9

Dylan’s heart felt tight as he picked up the drinks and brought them to the table. Emma hadn’t unpacked the food. She sat straddling one of the benches, her gaze unfocused.

He put the drinks on the table, then sat opposite her, straddling the bench the same way.

She’d been crying beyond the tears he’d seen a few minutes ago. The traces were barely there now, but after his accident, when she’d cried all the time, he’d learned to read the signs. The inner rims of her eyes were still tinged red, and for some reason he’d never been able to understand, her eyes always looked big and green after a jag. Intensely green.

Knowing he’d brought her more pain was a double-edged sword. It meant she still cared, but it also meant he was doing the opposite of what he’d come to do.

He let his gaze wander. Her hair was down and straight, tucked behind one ear and shimmering in the sun. Her lashes were long, casting spiky shadows over the pale freckles on her cheeks. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d traced her face with his fingers.

She was wearing those old jeans with rips showing him flashes of skin on her upper thighs, and another humorous T-shirt clung to her tight torso. The front read Trauma Queen. If you want my attention, try bleeding. Dylan would have commented on it, but she didn’t look like she was in the mood.

When minutes passed and she still hadn’t spoken, he took her hands in his.

Her gaze ran over his arms. “Can I touch them? Or will it hurt?”

“Yes, you can touch them, and no, it won’t hurt.”

She took one of his hands and turned it over. With her other hand, she traced the path of puckered skin and scars. Her touch started a low buzz in his body.

“You must have neuropathy,” she said.

“Some, yeah.”

“How bad?”

“It varies. Depends on what I’m doing, how long I’m doing it, how I recover.”

“Limited range of movement?”

“Not too bad. I did PT for years.”

She released one hand and picked up the other, stretching out his arm. “Are you on pain management?”

“Just gabapentin,” he told her. “I rejected the opioids.”

“Smart.”

“With my mom’s history…” He shrugged.

“You’re staying in shape.” Her fingers traversed the puckering skin across his biceps that always reminded Dylan of a map of a river and all its tributaries.

“Helps my skeleton stay in alignment—”

“And reduces pain and fatigue.” Her fingers slid away. “You must be a metal detector nightmare with all the plates and pins in your bones.”

“I am.”

“And I suppose you’re not going to mention the deep aches and pains that plague you.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

She thought a moment. “Vanderbilt has done extensive burn research. They’ve had really good results with laser treatments. They’ve discovered it drastically reduced pain in patients with burns like yours.”

“That’s interesting. What does it cost? How long does it take?”

“It’s pretty expensive, but I may be able to get you into one of their research studies. Then you’d get it free.”