Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(105)
There’s no argument from me this time—looping my arms around his neck and letting him hoist me into the air.
“You good?” he asks, adjusting his grip on me before attempting to take a step.
“Been better.” I hold up an unconvincing thumbs-up. “But I’ll live.”
As we awkwardly stumble down the driveway, each jostling movement has me clenching my jaw to keep from crying out in agony. Holding my breath, I press my forehead against the crook of his neck, and a loud sigh of relief escapes my lungs at the sight of his pickup.
Setting me gently in the passenger seat with a kiss on the forehead, he says, “I’m gonna go grab my keys and wallet, and tell somebody to put the horses away. Stay here.”
I raise my eyebrow and point at my leg. “I can’t exactly run away.”
“Knowing you, you’d hop away on one foot to go get in your car and drive yourself to the hospital simply to avoid accepting my help.”
I scoff. “Calling me out like that is rude. I promise I’ll wait here for you.”
“Good.” He reaches to buckle me in, despite the look of absolute horror I’m giving him. “Let me love you, Blair.”
How can I argue with that request?
He jogs over to the bunkhouse, stepping back outside less than a minute later to slide onto the truck bench seat with a natural smile.
“Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re enjoying yourself way too much for somebody who’s taking their girlfriend to the—” I catch myself, but not fast enough.
“Girlfriend?” He turns in his seat, tucking his tongue to his cheek while he beams at me. “Do I need to be worried that you might’ve hit your head?”
“It accidentally slipped out. Shush.” I shift awkwardly in my seat, pretending to be stabilizing my throbbing limb. “Please just drive.”
“Well now, hold on a second.” His hands leave the steering wheel, and I toss my head back against the seat with a groan. “If it accidentally slipped out, that tells me you’ve thought about it. So much for taking it day by day, eh?”
“Says the guy who’s mentioned marrying me how many times since we started hanging out?”
He winks, finally deciding to start driving. “The difference is I’ve been straight up with you about what I want since the ambulance ride months ago. I cut things off with Peyton because you showed up. From day one I was fully committed to winning you over, until you threw me for a real loop when you wore an engagement ring, and I backed off for a bit.”
I bite back a laugh knowing the fake-as-hell ring I paid ten dollars for tricked him into thinking I was taken.
“Well, it’s a good thing you did. Mark might be a plastic surgeon, but he’s not afraid to fuck up his money-making, insured hands to defend my honor.”
That’s the exact second his brain malfunctions. Face pinched, he blinks rapidly, clearly struggling to process the information.
“Mark is fake,” I clarify before he spontaneously combusts from the mental gymnastics going on in his head. “I mean, he’s real in my heart. But he’s fictional.”
“So it was a fake ring.” A statement rather than a question, putting two and two together. “I’ll kick the absolute shit out of Mark, for the record. Those bitch-boy surgeon hands ain’t got nothin’ on me. I’d love nothing more than to steal you away from him.”
I can’t help but smile, an increasingly common occurrence whenever he’s around. “For some reason, I like you better anyway.”
* * *
—
“I promise, I’m fine,” I insist, getting comfortable on the couch while Denver slides a pillow under my foot.
Turns out, I was right about the broken ankle. Denver drove to the hospital in Sheridan, sat with me for hours, and slept in the waiting room while they performed surgery to align the bones. He kept my parents updated, fed me, and softly stroked my hair when the drugs made me nauseous.
And now he’s in my house, propping my ankle up and completely ignoring my requests to let me do anything myself.
“You broke your ankle and had surgery last night.” He shakes his head, dragging the coffee table closer so I can reach the million drink and snack options he has laid out for me. “Take full advantage of the royal treatment, princess.”
Mom looks up from her recliner with a smile. “Hopefully your ankle is healed up in time for your wedding, Blair.”
Her confusion about the relationship between Denver and me is the one thing she’s consistent about. To be fair, I’m also unsure about our relationship. Are we officially together? We are, aren’t we?
“That’s why I gotta take good care of my girl, isn’t that right, Mrs. Hart?” He gestures at me to sit up straight so he can plop down on the couch, then I fall back into his lap. “She needs to be able to walk down the aisle.”
Mom laughs. “She’s a klutz—I bet she trips walking down the aisle, anyway. At least it’s harder to fall if she’s already in a wheelchair.”
“Oh, good point.” Denver smiles over at her. “Although, if anyone can have a wheelchair accident during a wedding, it’s Blair Bear.”
“Um, you two know I can hear you, right?” I toss my hands up in annoyance. But a big part of me is also relieved Mom seems to be having a good day. I don’t think I could handle the pain in my ankle while also managing Mom’s symptoms, and the emotional pain that comes with it.