Pace hadn’t said one word to her when he’d gotten off the phone with Gage or when his agent and attorney had left. In fact, he’d called a cab, but she’d sent the cab off and had put him into his car, which she was enjoying the hell out of.
He sat in the passenger seat, head back, eyes covered in his mirrored Oakleys, giving nothing away. She even revved the engine to try to get a rise out of him. Nothing. He was silent and pale, and after a few minutes, also a little green, so she slowed down. “The doctor said nausea was normal after anesthesia.”
He didn’t respond.
“He also said you’d feel like crap for a few days, but that you’d be fine in a month.”
“Two weeks.”
“Ah, I forgot. You’re Superman.”
He didn’t respond, but it didn’t take a psychic to sense the irritation level, which was rising, possibly due to the fact that his phone kept beeping from some mysterious depth in one of his pockets. “You want me to play secretary for you?”
“No.”
He wasn’t just hurting, he was angry. Vibrating with it. “Are you mad at the doctor, or the lab, or—”
“Pretty much everyone, thank you,” he said with silky ire.
“Including your driver, I’m guessing.”
“You snooped and read my chart.”
“Out of concern.”
“The test results are wrong,” he said flatly. “So I’d better not be reading about this in your next article.”
“Ah, so we’re back to the mistrust.” She sighed. “I’m going to cut you some slack since you’re hurting.”
“I’m not hurting. High as a kite, but not hurting.”
Okay, then. Good to know where she stood with him.
Or didn’t.
His phone rang again and he swore roughly, making her realize it was in his right pants pocket. With his arm freshly cut open and sewn shut and completely protected, he had no way of getting to it. She pulled over to the side of the highway and put her hand on his thigh.
“Fine,” he said, unhooking his seat belt and taking off his sunglasses. “Angry sex works for me. But you’re going to have to do all the work.”
“Shut up, Pace.” She frisked him for the phone, indeed finding it in his right pants pocket.“A little to the left.”
A little to the left and she’d be wrapping her fingers around something else entirely. She slid him a look.
“Hey, I’m drugged up nice and good,” he said. “Go ahead, take advantage of me. I’ll suffer through it.” His voice was low and hoarse, not with passion but pain. The ass. She wanted to hug him.
Or smack him. “I prefer my men willing and able.”
“Move your hand over a little and you’ll see I’m both.”
She pulled out the phone, and then because she couldn’t help herself, glanced to the left of his zipper. He was hard. Her eyes met his glazed but amused ones. “Seriously?”
“Apparently you have the touch.”
His phone rang again and she eyed the ID. “It’s Wade.”
“Tell him I can’t talk right now, I’m in your hands.” He laughed at his own joke.
Rolling her eyes, she opened the phone and assured Pace’s best friend that he was okay. Or as okay as he could be under the circumstances of having just tested positive for stimulants. Then she handed the phone to Pace, and listened to him proceed to tell Wade that he hadn’t had a rotator cuff tear after all, that he’d be good to go in a few weeks. He shut the phone and acknowledged her soft gasp of surprise. “Guess you didn’t read far enough.”
“Oh, Pace,” she breathed. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy and relieved for you.”
He looked at her, clearly saw the emotion in her eyes, and closed his. “Thanks.”
When she got them back on the road and pulled up to Pace’s house, there were flowers on his doorstep. “From Tia,” she said, reading the card. “Yours, forever.”
“Good to know some things don’t change. I’m good,” he added when she followed him in.
Meaning don’t follow him in.
She didn’t listen. His house was huge and sparsely but decently furnished with big, soft, comfy-looking furniture, a plasma TV the size of an entire wall, a bunch of sports equipment everywhere, and the sense that this place was a real home, not just an MTV Cribs showcase. “Let me help you into bed, make sure you have food—”
He turned to face her, revealing that he was pale, and also now sweating. There was pain in his dark gaze, and plenty of other things to go with it. “I’m good,” he repeated, so tough and strong, so utterly alone and vulnerable that he broke her heart.
“Pace.” She shook her head and took a stand. “I’m not leaving you.”
The doorbell rang, and then Tucker poked his head in. “Hey. Dad wanted me to check on you.” He dropped a duffel bag to the foyer floor near a heap of other duffel bags, the only distinction between his and the others being that his had a tear in the bottom corner. “Looks like maybe you’re already being well taken care of.” Tucker smiled at Holly before turning back to Pace, who’d sunk to the bench right there in the foyer. “You need anything? Anything at all?”
“Better drugs.”
“I can do that.”
“Jesus.” Pace let out a mirthless laugh and leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed. “Don’t say another word in front of the reporter who doesn’t know that you’re kidding. I’m fine, really. I just want to be alone.” He opened his eyes and shot Holly a long look.