I plaster a smile on my face and reply, “Sure, I can do that.” Then, glancing down at my watch again, I continue, “Is seven o’clock okay?” That should give me a couple of hours to gather my defenses.
Drew pulls himself to standing beside me, and again, I can’t believe I missed earlier how stiffly and cautiously he moves. I take a step back out of the danger zone that is Drew’s personal space.
“Um, text me your dinner order. You have my number.” I don’t even try to mask the edge to my voice. Drew still has a lot more explaining to do. I continue to back away from him, wanting to leave quickly and escape any awkward goodbyes. “I’ll see you at seven. I can see myself out.”
Luckily, he doesn’t say more other than a brief “see you later.”
Back in my car, I grip the steering wheel with both hands and rest my head on them. I’m feeling overwhelmed by everything Drew just shared. Never in a million years could I have imagined that a serious accident was the reason he didn’t contact me. Not that I even knew he had my name.
There is a lot to unpack, but right now, I have to get checked into my room. The thought of a long, hot shower washing away the travel grime has me turning on my car and pulling away from the cottage.
Chapter seven
Drew
ThatwentbetterthanI thought it would, I tell myself as I drop back into the deck chair and gently stretch out my legs. Sharp pain shoots up my right leg, radiating throughout my body. My eyes squeeze shut, and I grit my teeth until the muscle spasm eases. I’m suffering for choosing to fake it in front of Katie earlier.
It was stupid pride that had me attempting to walk without limping. I’ve put too much weight on my more severely injured right leg and will have to suffer the consequences now. I didn’t want to display any weakness in front of her when the truth is I can barely walk without crutches.
I dig my fingers into my right thigh, hoping to ease the muscles that are tightly knotted. I’ll take some of the stronger pain medication the doctor gave me just before Katie returns with our takeout so I can make it through dinner. And then tomorrow morning, I’ll need to book an appointment for my physio, Sean, who lives in the neighboring village, to make a special trip out to work on me. Physical therapy is a new form of torture that I don’t think I’ll ever get accustomed to. No matter how much better it feels an hour after he finishes. I swear Sean has knives in his fingertips when he manipulates the muscles in my lower back, thighs, and calves. Almost as bad will be the rant he’ll launch into throughout the treatment. He’s bound to have plenty to say about me pushing too hard with my recovery.
I’ve come a long way since I finally woke up in the hospital days after the accident, but still, my recovery is not fast enough for me. It’s frustratingly slow building back my strength after having to spend seven weeks in a wheelchair. Knowing it could have been a lifetime gives me pause.
The bone in my left leg was broken in one place and only needed a cast. What the doctors referred to as a closed fracture. It was the right leg that was crushed and mangled in the wreckage. Once some of the swelling had gone down, the doctors operated to realign the bone fragments properly. They implanted plates, rods, and screws to hold the bones in the proper position. During those initial weeks, a metal frame was attached to the outside of my leg with pins anchoring it to my bone. The worst part was not being able to move from the bed. I don’t like sitting still, and it nearly drove me insane. At least it worked, and when the Frankenstein-like device was removed seven weeks later, I could walk. Maybe more of a shuffle with a frame and not strictly the act of walking, but I was upright, and the long rehabilitation process could truly begin.
Stupidly, I thought rehab would only be a couple of weeks. I was wrong.
Exactly at seven, a soft knock on the door announces Katie’s return. I shout out to come in as I continue my pathetically slow efforts of pulling plates, cutlery, and glasses from the cupboards in the kitchen. Tonight, there’s no point in trying to hide my injuries because, even with the pain medication, I can barely move.
I turn around, and she’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen. A drop-dead gorgeous woman who appears completely at odds with the simple surroundings of the cabin. Luckily, I’m already holding on to the countertop, or my weak legs may have crumpled pathetically under me.
I’ve seen party-girl Katie at the awards night, then corporate boss lady Katie earlier today, but this version of Katie is, I think, my new favorite. She’s dressed casually in tight-fitting black jeans with a light cream woolen top that has slipped teasingly off one finely boned shoulder. I remember kissing her on that shoulder months ago, and I wish we were at a point where I could do that tonight. But I suspect that if I tried it, I’d earn myself a well-deserved slap or punch.
I recover my equilibrium enough to say, “Hey, you don’t need to knock when you visit. You can come straight in. I don’t lock my door, and it can take me a while to get to it, like earlier today.”
She nods. “Where would you like me to put the food?” The smell of hot fish and chips fills the tiny kitchen and has my mouth watering.
“Take it directly out to the deck if you like. I thought we could eat out there if that’s okay with you.”
With a murmured “Perfect,” she turns and walks toward the open double doors. I briefly watch the sway of her hips before reclaiming my crutches, which are leaning against the wall beside me. Then, picking up the handles of the bag I packed the plates and things into, I begin the tediously slow hobble across the room.
I’ve only made it halfway when Katie comes back through the doors and rushes over to me. “Let me get that for you.” Before I can say anything, she takes the bag from my fingers and heads back outside.
She may have thought she hid the look of surprise from me, but she didn’t. I grit my teeth over the expletives that are fighting up my throat and wanting to be expelled. It’s not her fault that my body has become useless. I need to get over my shit.
Maybe I should have waited until I could walk properly before manipulating events to get her to drive all the way to Cornwall to see me. Not one of my best ideas.
It was a selfish dick move tricking Katie by not telling her who I was. I briefly considered calling or emailing her, but I suspect I wouldn’t have gotten past her PA. This is personal, and the last thing I wanted was to risk someone on her staff reading something they shouldn’t. I needed to explain the situation in person, and given my limited mobility, I couldn’t just walk into her office. Currently, I can’t fucking walk the few steps to the doorway unaided. My crutch hits the leg of the desk chair, and I step down hard on my right leg. Fuck, that hurt.
I take a deep breath, sucking up the pain. Then, on the exhale, I push forward on my crutches to join Katie on the deck. By the time I’ve clumsily maneuvered into the deck chair, she has already laid out the plates and is putting a serving of battered fish and crispy golden chips on each of them.
“Hmm, this does smell good,” she exclaims while she dishes up the meal, and I wish I could muster up the same enthusiasm. My mood is soured, partly by the pain still shooting up my right leg and partly because of this feeling of pathetic helplessness.
“What would you like to drink?” she asks. “I do have a bottle of wine.”
“No, that’s the last thing I need with the medication I took earlier,” I grumble.
She straightens in her chair, her eyes wide. “I’ll grab us some water, then.” And she jumps up, rushing back inside. It’s like she’s looking for any excuse to not be in my company. Who could blame her?
