I thumbs up his message, grateful. Ten agonizing minutes later, I have the icepack resting on my giant jellyfish-sized bruise and the heating pad against my sore shoulders.

I stare at Ashe’s words, again disappointed that he’s let me down.

Still, I answer him.

She doesn’t know I’m home yet. I want to recover here with the cats. I’ll call her in the morning. I’m tired, too.

The ellipsis bubbles.

I’ll explain to Mom. Get some rest.

“Well, that’s something.”

Like my words are an invitation, Triscuit jumps into the space beside me, and the other cats follow, taking their usual spots—an orange, black, and Calico bundle.

My phone pings again.

Pills kicking in yet?

Yes. Relax, Grady.

Good night, Marina.

I fall asleep during Antiques Roadshow UK and dream about pine trees, concrete, and Grady’s solid chest, his heartbeat rumbling under my ear.

12. Grady

CHAPTER TWELVE

Grady

Marina looks genuinely surprised to see me at her door at 7:30 the next morning. It is early, but I wanted to check in before the clinic opens at 8:00.

“Tripp Grady Tripp,” she says, her voice weak and her eyes squinting. “Aren’t you an early bird?”

“What’s wrong?”

Her delicate fingers wave me off as she leans against the doorjamb. “Headache. That’s all. Didn’t sleep much.”

“Pain level?”

She sighs, rubbing her temples. “With the headache, I’d say eight. I’ve taken my pills.”

“Did you eat?”

She shakes her head, but the action pains her. “Too nauseous to eat.”

“When did the headache start?”

“I don’t know. Around midnight. It’s been worse than the rest, if you can believe it.”

“This is an example of you being too nice. You should’ve called me.”

She blanches at my tone. “Why? What would you have done? It’s a headache.”

I edge by her, bringing us both inside. I rest my palm against her forehead, but my hands are too cold to tell if she has a fever.

“I checked. It’s normal,” she says.

Of course, she’s checked, Grady. She’s an adult with common sense. Try not to be condescending.

I take her wrist between my fingers and eye my watch. Her heart rate is elevated but not racing.

“Any unusual swelling or heat around your wound sites?”

“I think it looks normal.”

“Want me to look? I’m a doctor.”

She hesitates in a mental debate that ends with a simple nod. She lifts her pajama top, but unable to see her wounds clearly, I drop to my knees and slowly tug her loose-fitting pants down to her hip line just over her panties. Goosebumps appear under my fingers as I touch her.

“Cold hands. Sorry.”

She smirks, her eyes squinted. “It’s okay.”

Her pale, freckled skin is patched by internal stitches, pinching her skin together. Scabs reveal typical healing—no redness or inflammation.