The Fastest Way to Fall

“What happened?” Fuzzy memories of arriving at the hospital came back to me through the sleepy haze.

“You had a bad fall yesterday. A doctor will be in later this morning to talk with you. You hit your head, so they kept you for observation. You were also quite dehydrated when you arrived.” She continued to speak in her gentle voice while checking my vitals. She indicated the bag of fluid connected to my arm through an IV.

“Did I come in alone? I remember someone . . .”

She gave a slight smile. “Your brother was with you, I believe.”

“My brother lives in Wisconsin.”

She adjusted my pillow and checked my IV site. “He had a tall, dark, and handsome thing going on. Does that sound like your brother?”

“No,” I murmured, slowly remembering what had happened, the memories fuzzy, then fading to black. “Is my phone here?”

The nurse searched near my bed and held up a plastic bag. Even in the dimly lit room and through the plastic, the cracked screen was obvious.

“I don’t think it survived the fall,” she said, but held it out to me to inspect. “Is there someone you’d like us to call?”

I shook my head, pain ricocheting with that small movement. “Did he say if he was coming back?”

“I’m sure your . . . brother will be back when visiting hours begin at nine, if you want to see him. Try to rest.”

I thanked her as she closed the door, leaving me to stare at the ceiling. The concentration must have exhausted me, because I woke again with sunlight filling the space. This time, a sweeter smell greeted me, and the table next to me held a large vase filled with yellow tulips and pink peonies. “My favorites,” I croaked, my throat dry.

“I know.” A rich baritone voice drew my attention to the other side of the bed, where the best-looking man I’d ever seen sat in the uncomfortable hospital chair. His long legs tapered down to well-defined calves that I noticed as he stood. His dark hair was cut short on the sides, and the plain gray T-shirt he wore showed his defined but not bulging biceps. “You told me roses were no good.”

“It’s you? I mean, it was you.” I croaked again, meeting his hazel eyes.

“It’s me.” He gave a half smile, crooked and genuine, and held a cup of water with a straw to my lips.

“How . . . ?” With my throat coated, my voice was clearer, but my thoughts were still jumbled. “Thank you,” I murmured, taking the cup for myself.

“I made our head of IT get your name and address when I got your message. I’m hoping you won’t sue us for breaching privacy rules.”

I kept staring at him. I couldn’t believe this was real. “You know my real name?” Under the blanket, my fingernails sunk into my palm, and I waited for something to happen, for him to connect me to Best Life.

“Yeah. It’s a pretty name. It suits you.” He scratched the back of his neck after a long moment of my silence but didn’t otherwise react. “I, uh, had to convince your neighbors I wasn’t a serial killer. How are you feeling?”

“Looks like everything is still attached,” I joked. “I can’t believe you found me. I can’t believe you’re here.”

He dipped his chin, voice gone softer. “You were in trouble.”

My face heated, and I pulled the thin blanket up with a twinge of pain. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m sorry to put you out like that.”

He shook his head, dismissing my words. “Did the doctors talk to you?”

“Not yet.”

“I shouldn’t have, but I told them I was your brother, so they’d let me know how you were doing. You were really dehydrated, and I told them you’d been exercising a lot. What’s going on?” The concern etched on his face ratcheted up my level of shame, and I looked away. “That’s not like you, to overdo it.”

I chewed on my lower lip and noticed the rough red skin on the side of my hand where I must have scraped it when I fell.

“I just got—er—” I smoothed the blanket down over my chest and stomach, looking for something to do with my hands.

“Britta.” My name on his lips felt so oddly intimate. It was quiet, a little gravelly, like he was thinking. “It takes time to reach your goals, but you’ve been doing great, and this . . . If you’re not eating enough or pushing too hard, it’s dangerous, even in short bursts like this.”

“I know,” I mumbled. My current surroundings made that clear.

He reached for my hand, paused, and then his warm palm was covering mine. “Promise me you won’t do that again.” His expression made me believe he was genuinely worried. “Or promise me you’ll get some help.”

“It was stupid, I just . . .” What? I didn’t want to admit I’d kissed someone who, funny thing, didn’t think I was pretty enough to be seen with in public.

Before he could respond, the doctor entered after a quick rap on the door. “Ms. Colby, I’m Dr. Flynn. Glad to see you’re awake.” He was a young guy, early thirties with dark skin and an easy, high-wattage smile. “And you are . . . ?”

“My brother,” I answered quickly, flashing Wes a tiny shrug.

“Ah, good to meet you.”

“I’ll let you talk to the doctor alone.” Wes stood, and I worried he’d leave. “I’ll be back, okay?” He searched my face, but he withdrew his hand, its impression lingering in my brain.





24





“WHAT HAPPENED WITH your client?” Cord and I sat at our regular table at the bar. “You said it was handled, but do we need to bring in legal?”

“I asked Pearl to give them a heads-up, but I think we’re fine.”

I’d spent the rest of the morning at the hospital with Britta. She never explained why she’d made such a sudden turn, and I hadn’t pressed her on it. It was strange to be physically near her. Strange but comfortable. Strange but wonderful. Around noon, she told me her friends were coming to visit, and I bowed out, promising to message her later. I oscillated between shaking her hand and leaning down to kiss her cheek, but that crossed a major line as her coach—not that I hadn’t already crumpled the line and thrown it across the room. I just gave a short wave.

Cord waited for me to say more, adopting the casual posture that he always used to wait me out.

“She’d been pushing too hard and ended up falling. Bruised, but otherwise seems to be okay and is getting some help.”

“Lucky she had the wherewithal to get on the FitMi app to message you.” Cord’s pull on his beer was deceptively casual.

“She texted me.” I mimicked his casual tone, glancing down at my phone, the screen blank. “We should see about building instant messaging into the FitMi system.”

“We’re beta testing it in the fall. But you gave her your personal number?” His eyebrows rose, the Cord Matthews equivalent to a dropped jaw.

“We chat a lot. It’s easier.” I leaned forward, my forearms on the marred and dull surface of the wooden table. “Don’t give me shit. I know it’s against policy.”

“It’s just that you were so insistent on the policies for coaches when you wrote them. What’s different about this girl?”

“Why do you assume something is different about her?”

“I’ve known you for ten years, and you like rules. When you bend them, it’s always for a woman.” Cord leaned in, his voice lowered, not that anyone in the bar would care. “Listen, I’m just asking what’s up. Are you . . . You’re not fucking her, are you? I know you know that’s a terrible idea.”

“No, I’m not fucking her.” I narrowed my eyes. “I just gave her my phone number. I’d never met her in person until I found her unconscious in a stairwell.”

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