Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
“That’s not gonna work,” Vince assured his husband with a soft chuckle.
“I have no control of my arm, you know that.”
Vince scoffed. Loudly. “What I know is that you’ve still got it.”
“Yeah,” Carson agreed, rotating his shoulder. “But it hurt.”
“You could have broken his arm!” Kurt called over.
Vince groaned like that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. I was right there with him.
Did it hurt, getting hit in the arm? Yes, I was sure it did. Had it been absolutely jolting and probably scary? Most likely. Would he have a bruise? Undoubtedly. But broken? Absolutely not.
“Seriously, Carson, have you completely lost your mind?” Kurt sounded really mad.
Carson pointed to his ear. “Still can’t hear you. You need to come inside.”
Vince took that moment to charge over to the gate.
“Don’t let the dogs out,” Kurt bellowed.
“What?” Vince returned, immediately doing just that. The dogs were down the stairs in seconds, and we all watched as the two enormous Dobermans streaked across the lawn toward the man they loved.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Carson told Vince. “You’re gonna get in trouble, and I’m already throwing you under the bus.”
“I figured as much,” Vince said with a sigh as he reached Carson’s side.
“It’s not my fault I don’t like Baylor. The guy’s a tool.”
“Yes, but you used to play on the same team in college.”
“So what? Doesn’t mean he’s not a douchebag.”
It struck me then, and I was surprised I hadn’t made the connection. “You played ball in college at the same place Kurt went? At Emerson?”
“I went there too,” Vince announced, leaning against his husband, who put his left arm around his shoulders and tucked him into his side.
“Yeah,” Carson said. “Me and Vince met there right before I got banged up.”
A couple of beats of time passed before Vince took a step away and looked up into Carson’s face.
“Steady now,” Carson cautioned him.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Vince asked him pointedly.
“Love—”
“Did the words ‘right before I got banged up’ just come out of your mouth?”
His words, banged up, were the understatement of the century. How he could even be so cavalier about it was truly a testament to the healing power of time. Because the injury Carson Cress sustained that night in Phoenix twenty years ago under the bright lights of the Fiesta Bowl was nothing less than devastating.
I could vividly recall the hit that ended his football career in one gruesome moment of perfectly timed, bone-crushing, muscle-and-tendon-snapping disaster. Many experts had debated if his right arm would ever be even remotely functional. Lifting a cup, writing his name, had seemed ridiculously optimistic. Since it was a catastrophic injury, of course the footage had been played over and over on practically every channel. I, along with most people, had been sincerely happy he’d been knocked unconscious by the hit. It was for the best. An arm was not meant to bend like that. It had been horrible to witness. So now, watching him use the arm again was mind-blowing.
“That throw was amazing,” I told him, checking on Kurt, who now had a hand raised to keep the dogs away from Baylor. The guy was finally sitting up but still cradling his left bicep. “But what made you think you had to?”
“I dunno,” Carson admitted, and when I met his gaze, I noted again, as I had on our first meeting, that his indigo eyes were really something. An amazing color I’d never seen on anyone else. “Whatever they were talking about went on too long.”
“You’re the conversation police, are you?”
He shrugged. “You know what I mean. From here it looked uncomfortable.”
It had looked that way from where I was standing as well.
“Kurt kept trying to come back to the house, and Baylor kept getting in his way.”
I nodded, feeling concern, irritation, and anger start to rise in the pit of my stomach.
“Kurt put the dogs in with you,” Vince informed me, “so they could talk out here uninterrupted, which made no sense. Why did Baylor need the dogs locked in the house when they talked privately?”
“I dunno,” I answered, my eyes back on Kurt, who was trying to help Baylor stand. The problem was, whenever he bent over to try and assist his acquaintance—I didn’t want to say friend because they weren’t that; they’d just known each other forever—the dogs went to move in close to guard Kurt. Once he straightened up, they stepped back. It looked like a dance. He kept pointing toward the house, but the dogs weren’t budging, clearly not about to leave him. What was funny was that they always listened to him, always followed his direction except for right this second. To me, it was quite telling. They were not fans of Baylor Donovan, and no way, no how, were they leaving Kurt alone with the man.