Rosalyn looked up in time to see Cade launch himself over the back end of the Porsche.
And slam his fist straight into Blaine’s jaw.
* * *
Where was Simon LeMoine when you needed him?
Cade shifted on the edge of the uncomfortable ER bed, the smell of antiseptic and sweat permeating the small space. His nose throbbed, along with his shoulder from where he and Blaine had ended up tousling on the ground as the cops arrived.
But he had a feeling he’d be riding the adrenaline wave of seeing Rosalyn taken against her will for hours to come.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes against the harsh fluorescent lights not helping the pounding in his head. Was Rosalyn still in the waiting room? Sheriff Rubart was taking her statement there, or at least, had been when Cade was ushered through the swinging ER doors a half hour ago, blood dripping all over his favorite shirt and the hospital floor.
Blaine had a surprisingly solid head-butt.
The pale blue curtain surrounding his bed whooshed open and a middle-aged, dark-haired nurse in navy scrubs entered. “Here’s your meds and your cold pack, honey. We’re waiting on the X-ray results.”
He eagerly took the ice pack she handed over, pressed it against his sore face. “Thank you.”
She handed him a cup of water and some pain medicine, which he eagerly threw back.
Groaning sounded from the other side of the curtain, along with the clinking of handcuffs against a bedrail. Cade sat up a little straighter.
Maybe he didn’t need Simon after all.
The nurse raised her eyebrow at him, pursed her lips knowingly as if hiding a smile. “Let me know if you need anything else. The doctor will come back with the results.” She pulled the curtain shut as she left.
Cade swung his dangling feet against the side of the bed. He didn’t want to be stuck here. He wanted to find Rosalyn, finish his apology. Maybe she wouldn’t trust him again, after he’d treated her so poorly the other night—and she definitely had no reason to stay in Magnolia Bay—but he had to at least make sure she knew how he felt before she left.
The curtain whooshed back open.
He looked up. “That was fast—” Inhaled. Not the doctor.
Rosalyn.
“Hey.” He cleared his throat, his carefully practiced, profound apology fleeing his memory. “I—I wanted?—”
She came straight at him, a blur of citrus and hair spray and desperate warmth, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
Ow.
The best kind of pain.
He dropped the ice pack and cradled her head with the back of his hand—his knuckles hurt too, but man, he’d do it all again for her—and kissed her back, all salty tears and gratitude and longing. They were nearly the same height, him sitting on the high bed and her standing wedged between his legs, and she snuggled in closer, breaking the kiss to briefly rest her forehead against his.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
He pulled back to look at her, his fingers trailing down the soft arms of the hoodie she’d thrown on sometime over the past half hour. Her elaborate performance hairstyle was mussed, blonde hairs fraying free from her tousled, glittered braids. Dark makeup was smeared under her eyes, slightly bloodshot.
She’d never looked more beautiful.
Had she forgiven him? “A thank-you note would’ve been acceptable, but I’m not complaining.” He grinned, and she finally did too, her shoulders sagging as if a burden had lifted.
“Seriously.” Her smile faded. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
“I have no doubt you’d have handled it. But I’m glad you didn’t have to.” He reached out, tucked back a stiff piece of hair-sprayed hair behind her ear. “What did Sheriff Rubart say?”
“That his wife was going to monogram Blaine a pillow for his extended stay in jail.” She snorted. “He had some other choice words, but those are the most repeatable.”
