I came here to get away from the chaos of city—from all the people I couldn’t save as an EMT. I’ll be damned if I let her die in my lake.
Chapter 3
Stacia
Iwakeuptothe smell of coffee, and I’m wrapped in something soft that definitely isn't the scratchy sheets that I fell asleep in last night at the rental cabin.
There's a dull, throbbing pain behind my right temple, like someone's taken up residence with a tiny hammer in my brain. My head feels heavy, disconnected from the rest of me, and my limbs float somewhere between sleep and awareness.
I blink. Once. Twice. Light filters through a window—soft, golden afternoon sun that slants across rough-hewn floorboards.
I'm not dead.
That's good.
But I also have no idea where I am.
That’snotgood.
The ceiling above me is timbered with thick beams that look hand-hewn, darkened with age and smoke. There's a rafter strung with what looks like vintage fishing line, and a wall-mounted largemouth bass is leering at me from across the room like it knows something I don't.
“What the hell?” I sit up too fast and instantly regret it. The world tilts sideways, and I flop back onto what I now realize is a leather couch, groaning as my stomach does a slow roll.
"Easy," a low voice says from somewhere to my left.
I whip around—or try to—but my head spins and I have to close my eyes against the sudden vertigo.
"You hit your head," the voice says again. Calm and gentle, but firm enough to cut through the fog in my brain.
The man attached to it steps into view, holding a steaming mug in one hand. He's tall, maybe six-two, with impossibly broad shoulders that block out half the window behind him. His gray T-shirt clings to damp muscles, and his sandy hair is still wet from the lake.
Oh, right.The lake. The board. The near-drowning.
"You're the guy," I croak, my voice rough as sandpaper. "The swimmer who saved me?"
One side of his mouth tips up in what might generously be called a smile. "I’m Boone."
"Stacia," I say automatically.
"Pleasure to meet you," he says, setting the mug on a small wooden table beside me. The coffee smells like heaven, dark and rich with a hint of something that might be cinnamon. "I patched up your head. The cut is shallow, so it didn’t need stitches.”
I groan, reaching up to touch my bandaged head. “Thank you.”
“Do you know what month it is?”
I give him a quizzical look. “Of course.”
His mouth quirks into another tiny smile. “I’m trying to assess whether you have a concussion.”
“Oh. It’s July… and today is the 9th.”
He nods. “Do you feel nauseas or dizzy?”
“No. Just sore and embarrassed.” I dab gingerly at my temple and immediately cringe. I'm no longer wearing my swim shorts and shirt. I’m clad in a flannel shirt that doesn't belong to me. It's too big, soft with age and washing, and smells like clean soap.
“Did you change my clothes?”
Heat creeps into his cheeks and he shuffles uncomfortably. “Yes, but I was a gentleman. I didn’t look, I promise.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Your clothes were wet and covered in blood. So, I put you in a clean shirt.”
