“Honey, I know. You’re giving me a place to rest it.”
I didn’t know what to do with the fact that I didn’t hate the way his arm felt around me. Warm and solid. Protective. As a rule, I didn’t cuddle or snuggle or any other verbs that applied to platonic canoodling. That kind of touching was unnecessary. Worse, it gave men ideas about the future.
Yet here I was, cozied up in the danger zone with my head on the chest of a man who wanted a wife and kids. Clearly I had learned nothing.
Come on, Lina “I Make Bad Choices” Solavita. Sit up and get the hell out, I warned myself.
But I didn’t move a muscle.
“That’s better,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “Now talk.”
“The abbreviated version is I went into cardiac arrest at fifteen on the soccer field and had to be revived.”
He was silent for a beat and then said, “Yeah, Angel. I’m gonna need the extended director’s cut with commentary version.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Angelina,” he said with just a hint of grumpy cop in his tone.
“Ugh, fine. It was district finals on a cold, fall night during my sophomore year. The stadium was packed. It was the first time the team had made it that far in the tournament. Two minutes left in the game, and we were all tied up at 2–2. I’d just intercepted a pass and was sprinting with teenage confidence and energy toward the goal.”
I could practically reach out and touch that moment. Feel the sharp edge of the cold air as it hit my lungs, the warm looseness of my muscles. Hear the distant roar of the crowd.
Nash’s thumb brushed my arm, back and forth, and for once touch felt comforting.
“And then there was…nothing. It was like I blinked and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my back in a hospital room surrounded by strangers. I asked if I scored, because that was the most important thing to me. I didn’t know my parents were in the waiting room wondering if I’d ever wake up again. I didn’t know that an entire stadium of people—including my teammates—watched me go into cardiac arrest.”
“Jesus, baby,” Nash murmured, his chin brushing the top of my head.
“Yeah. My coach started CPR until the paramedics got on the field. My parents were in the stands. Dad jumped the fence. The other moms just made a circle around my mom and held on to her.”
Tears pricked my eyes at the memory and I cleared my throat to dislodge the annoying lump of emotion.
“They revived me in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. But information didn’t travel quite as quickly as it does today,” I said lightly.
“So everyone left behind thought you hadn’t made it,” Nash filled in the blank I’d left.
“Yeah. It was a big game. There were cameras and press there. I watched the footage…after. No matter how long I live, I’ll never forget the noise my mom made when Coach dropped to his knees and started CPR. It was…primal.”
I carried an echo of that scream with me wherever I went. Along with it was the image of my dad kneeling next to my lifeless body as paramedics tried to bring me back.
Nash brushed his mouth over my hair and murmured, “It’s official. You win our near-death contest.”
“I appreciate you conceding.”
“What caused it?” he asked.
I blew out a restless breath. “That’s a separate long story.”
“Honey, you picked my sweaty, pathetic ass up off the floor. We’re nowhere near even yet.”
There was nothing pathetic about his ass, but now was not the time to discuss that. His thumb was gliding along my arm again. The heat from his chest warmed the side of my face and the steady thump of his heartbeat soothed me. Piper, finished with her chew toy, hopped up on the couch next to me and curled up against my feet.
“Fine. But just like your escapades tonight, we’re never speaking of this again. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Myxomatous mitral valve disease with prolapse and regurgitation.”
“You gonna dumb that down for me or am I gonna have to go find my dictionary?”
I smiled against his chest. “I had a defect in one of the valves of my heart. They’re not sure what caused it, but it might have been from strep throat infections I had when I was a kid. Basically, the valve didn’t close right, so blood was allowed to flow backward. Something in the electrical system shorted out, blood went the wrong way, and I essentially died in front of a few hundred people.”
“Is it still a problem? Is that why you monitor your heart rate?”
“It’s not still a problem. I had surgery—valve replacement—when I was sixteen. I still see a cardiologist, still monitor things. But it’s mostly to remind myself to be careful how I handle stress. I still get these flutters. Premature ventricular contractions. PVCs.”
I brought my hand to my chest and rubbed absently over the small scars.
“They feel like your heart is tripping or limping. Like it’s out of sync and can’t get back in the rhythm. They’re harmless. More just annoying, really. But…”
“But they remind you of what happened.”
“Yeah. I’d been stressing out over school and boys and normal hormonal things leading up to that game. Pushing myself too hard, not sleeping enough, living off Mountain Dew and pizza rolls. I hadn’t mentioned the flutters or the fatigue to my parents. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have keeled over in front of my entire school.”
“How long were you in the hospital?” Nash asked.
The man had an uncanny knack for digging up what I wanted to keep buried.
“Off and on for about eighteen months.” I suppressed a shudder.
That was when touch had stopped equaling comfort. My body wasn’t my own anymore. It had become a science experiment.
“A lot of tests. A lot of needles. A lot of machines.” I gave Nash’s thigh a cheerful pat. “And that’s how I became an expert on panic attacks. I started having my own. The nice thing about having them around medical staff is they can give you some pretty decent advice.”
Nash didn’t respond to my attempt at playfulness. Instead he continued to stroke my arm.
“Your parents call you every day,” he noted.
“You don’t miss much, do you?” I complained.
“Not when it counts.”
My heart gave a flutter and not the PVC kind. No. It was the much more dangerous kind caused by handsome, wounded men with broody eyes.
“I should go. You should get some sleep,” I said.
“That’s a lot of shoulds. Tell me about your parents.”
“There’s not much to tell. They’re great. Good people. Kind, generous, smart, supportive.” Smothering, I added silently.
“The kind of people who call their daughter every day,” he prompted.
“I moved on, but my parents didn’t. I guess there’s something about seeing your only child nearly die in front of your eyes that changes a parent. So they worry. Still. Chalk that one up in the Things We Never Got Over column.”
They’d never gotten over seeing me die in front of them. And I’d never gotten over the suffocating prison sentence the rest of my teenage years had been.