“I’m not.” I can hear the scowl in his voice, though he doesn’t lift his head. “It’s my damned leg. I don’t think I can make it back to the house without a walking stick.”

“I’m not getting you a walking stick. Your leg is broken.”

“Well, I can crawl there. It will be undignified as fuck, but I probably deserve it.”

“You need crutches. And a cast. And X-rays. And a hospital, goddamn it.”

“The same way you had a hospital when you broke your wrist? Twice?”

“Yes,” I say, thoroughly aggravated at him. “That’s why you were able to bribe people to get the hospital records. Which I’m still mad about.”

“Thirty-six years climbing over these rocks, hauling lobsters on a boat, some truly crazy illegal stunts while high as a kite in Los Angeles, and I’ve somehow managed to never break a bone.” He glances at me. “You’re dangerous, Jane Mendoza.”

“And you’re delirious.”

“Find Paige.”

“Fine, but you had better be here when I get back or I’m going to throttle you.”

It takes me about fifteen minutes that feels like fifteen hours before I find her curled up in a pile of pine needles, the kitten tucked under her chin. The painting we did of her mother only a few feet away, and I know without asking that it’s what drew her out tonight.

I wake her gently and let her know that Mr. Rochester’s been hurt. She figures out on her own that he was hurt while looking for her, so I hold her close and dry her tears. “It wasn’t your fault that he fell, but you need to stop going out at night. If you get scared or lonely or sad, you come to me. Even if you need to go outside, I’ll come with you. Promise?”

“Promise,” she says in a wavery voice.

We hold up Mr. Rochester on either side and limp together into the house. The kitten trails behind. It’s a slow and painful journey but it feels like we’re a small family.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jane Mendoza

He didn’t just break one bone. He broke three and fractured another. The hospital sends him in for surgery while I wait at home with Paige, glued to my cell phone.

It’s enough to earn him doctor-ordered bed rest.

Even a crutch could aggravate the healing process.

He was only gone from the house for a total of twelve hours, but everything changes. If an ordinary grumpy asshole Mr. Rochester was a storm, then the new bed-ridden Mr. Rochester is an entire hurricane.

“I want that whiskey,” he growls from the bed.

I continue picking up dirty clothes that are strewn across the floor without meeting his gaze. “You can’t have whiskey with the pain medicine.”

“Fuck the pain medicine. I’m not going to take it. I want whiskey.”