CHAPTER 20
“Zane, please take it slow.”
“I'm fine.” His two words, gritted out between clenched teeth, told another story.
“You're not fine. You were shot in the stomach, for God's sake.” Frustration radiated from Missy's words as Zane's determination to do himself further harm tried her patience.
“No. I was shot in the side. Big difference. And besides, my duffle bag slowed the bullet. It was barely a graze.”
She didn't care how fast or slow the bullet had been moving. It had been inside him. Put there by a lunatic for some reason they might never know since the shooter was dead and the authorities hadn’t found anything enlightening on his cell phone or computer.
She let Zane’s ridiculous argument about his wound go and moved on. “Just let me help you.”
“You've helped enough, thank you.” Zane scowled.
Missy didn't take offense. Zane was a notoriously bad patient. So bad she'd began naming the incidents, few though they were, like weathermen named snowstorms or hurricanes.
She'd learned how much he hated being debilitated and worse, having to be taken care of, during the Influenza Outbreak of Winter 2015. And also during the Great Carpel Tunnel Scare of 2016.
But it seemed nothing was going to compare to the Gun Shot Wound of 2018. Nothing.
Perhaps the worst part was, he was healing fast and able to get around. But just because he could didn't mean he should.
The doctor had made that quite clear. Along with the fact that he needed to rest.
He shouldn't be exerting himself. He really shouldn't be climbing the flight of stairs to their apartment on the day he’d been released from the hospital.
Her parents had offered him the guest room on the first floor of their home. No stairs. Private bathroom. Housekeeping staff to attend to his every need. He'd said no, thank you. He'd rather be home.
His parents had offered him a room on their first floor as well. That offer had gotten a big old no from him. No surprise there.
It seemed Missy was destined to play nursemaid to the cranky patient—if she managed to get him up the stairs without him tearing his stitches and bleeding out.
She didn’t dare call anyone to come over to help him up the stairs either. The reason for Zane’s you've done enough already comment—what he was most cranky about right now—was that Missy had called Jon to let him know what had happened.
That action had seemed innocuous enough. His business partner and best friend should know that he'd been shot. But that one call had caused a domino effect and resulted in an onslaught of calls, texts, visits, cards and flower arrangements from what seemed like every SEAL Zane knew and every man he'd ever worked with. And that number was large.
Missy sighed. Whatever she did right now would rub him the wrong way so she wasn't going to beat herself up about doing what she thought was right.
Still scowling, but too out of breath to bitch at her more, Zane finally reached the top of the stairs. She stood right behind him, ready to catch him if he fell backwards.
Not that she'd be able to support a six foot tall muscle bound man if he fell on her, but she'd do her best. She had to since he'd refused to even tell anyone else, including their mutual parents, that he'd been released.
She stood close enough she heard Zane's mumbled curse and his increased breathing as he stood leaning against the doorframe with one hand and pressing the other against his side.
Yes, she was concerned. Yes, she wanted him inside and horizontal, resting as he was supposed to be ASAP. But she also couldn't help feeling a little bit of satisfaction that the climb had winded him enough he had to realize he'd overexerted himself.
Missy restrained herself from commenting and sidled around him to unlock the door. A glance at his face told her he realized he'd pushed himself but would rather die than admit it.
She gave him his delusion that she didn't notice and let him maintain his pride.
After one quick glance to make sure there was no blood soaking through the bandages beneath his shirt, she pushed the door open wide and went in to disable the alarm.
He moved across the apartment and toward the sofa in the living room.
She followed, flipping on the lights as she walked. As he lowered himself slowly onto the sofa she said, “Wouldn't you rather lay down in the bedroom?”
“No.” His tone left no room for negotiation.
She pressed her lips tight and held in further comment on that matter.
At least he was sitting and resting. That was better than nothing and probably the best she could expect.
“I'm going to the kitchen to see about dinner. Can I get you something to drink or eat?” She'd chosen the words very carefully to make it sound like it was just a polite offer and not her trying to care for him.
When he nodded she realized her ploy had worked. She'd have to remember that in future.
“Water, please?”
“Sure.” On her way through the doorway, she saw the place settings still out on the dining table from a week ago.
Memories of that night, that phone call, assaulted her.
Swallowing hard, she pushed the horror away and reminded herself that he was okay. Well enough to be a crabby brat sitting up on the sofa.
She delivered a cold bottle of water to him. “Want me to get you a pain pill?”
He lifted the bottle. “Thanks for the water. And no on the pain pill.”
Silly, stubborn man. She compressed her lips and didn't say what she was thinking. Instead, she changed the subject. “Oh, by the way. There's chocolate lava cake for dessert.”
Maybe she'd grind up a pill and hide it in his dessert. If he was going to act like a child, she'd have to start treating him as one.
His eyebrows rose. “Like the ones we got at that restaurant in Alexandria?”
“Yes.”
“How did you manage that?” He frowned. “Did you buy them frozen or something?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “No, I did not. I made them. From scratch. They were going to be a surprise for you after dinner Saturday but instead you went and got shot so . . .”
“Sorry. If I'd known about the chocolate cake I would have tried harder to not get shot.” His lips twitched.
What was this? Her being annoyed and bitchy amused him? Hell, since she hadn't seen him smile in days, she'd take any semblance of a good mood from Zane any way she could get it.
“What’s the occasion for the special dessert?” he asked. “Did you finally decide to marry me?”
“No.”
Jeez he was in an odd mood. Joking about marriage? That wasn’t him. It must be the painkillers. She was going to have to Google and see the side effects.
But in the meantime, since her new bold honesty seemed to be working to knock him out of his self-pitying funk, she decided to continue. No more coddling. The cold hard truth from now on.
“Actually, when I made them I was trying to butter you up. Put you in a chocolate haze to soften the blow before I told you that Amelia not only asked me to be in the wedding party as one of her attendants, but that she expects you to be in it too, as a groomsman. And you're going to hate it but since she's family I really can't see any way out of it. You're just going to have to suck it up and do it. Okay?” Hands on her hips, she challenged him to argue.
His expression changed from wide eyed surprise, to a frown, to cool calm acceptance. “Okay.”
Her own eyes popped wide. “Okay?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yup. I agree. She's family. There's no way to get out of it so I'll just do it.” He lifted his one shoulder—the one on the good side without the bullet holes in it.
“Okay then.” Missy pivoted on her heel and went to hide in the kitchen and regroup.
She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The relief over having told him about the wedding and his accepting it so easily was overwhelming. As was the fact Zane was being so compliant.
It was odd. Disconcerting to say the least. As if the shooting—or at least the recovery—had broken his spirit. He would have never agreed to be in a wedding party so easily before the shooting.
His total one-eighty when it came to his hatred of all things wedding was more proof of what she'd first suspected in the hospital. He was suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress.
She wasn't sure how she felt about the new Zane.
It was probably temporary and she should be grateful for the reprieve at the perfect time—when she really needed him to be compliant when it came to Amelia's wedding functions.
If it proved permanent, then she was going to have get used to this new him.
Either way, she still had to see about dinner.