Sweat beaded her forehead as she forced her trembling fingers into the correct position. They refused to stay there, releasing before she was ready. Tingles radiated up and down her arm, like a fallen electrical wire lashing back and forth in some bad action movie.
“Breathe. Inhale for four and focus, just grip the ball and squeeze. One solid squeeze. Use all your fingers at once.”
Did he think she wasn’t doing it? Frustration swelled in her chest and pushed the oxygen from her lungs. She stared at her hand, willing it to cooperate. The ring finger locked down on the ball, but her pinky hovered, hesitating. The trembling shivering her skin spread up her wrist. Her hand spasmed.
The ball fell to the floor and rolled away.
“Fuck.” She spit the word out. “Give it back to me.”
Reade retrieved the ball, but rather than hand it back, he held onto it. “That’s enough for one day. We’re making great progress.”
“No we aren’t. I’m making shitty profits—” She grimaced and tried the word again. “Projects. Shit. Fuck. Damn a pussy cat.”
Damn a pussy cat.
To the nurse’s credit, Reade didn’t smile. “Gunny, it takes time. You’ve had a total of seven surgeries, two of which were just to alleviate pressure on the brain. The doctors have ordered another CT scan tomorrow. But you are making progress.”
Coddling didn’t make her feel better. She flexed her fingers, but the pinky still refused to tuck into formation. Her left hand opened and closed. Her fingers wiggled responsively. Her right hand didn’t. She needed her hand.
“Projects—prof—fuck—it’s not enough.” Some words were harder than others. At least she didn’t speak in tongues. That led to another surgery and words like brain bleed being tossed around. Sweat slid down her neck. Her sheets would have to be changed again. It would help if they turned the air conditioning down, but her internal thermometer seemed to be broken. Squeezing a ball wasn’t exertion, not like running uphill with fifty-pound pack on her back.
Reade covered her right hand with this, tucking the recalcitrant pinky where it belonged. “Gunny, you’re making progress. You’ve had good recall the last two days. You can move your arms and legs. Gross motor control is responsive, fine motor control will return. You have to be patient.”
Fuck patience. She scowled at him. “Give me the ball.”
He sighed and pressed the ball into her hand. Sucking in a noisy breath, she latched her fingers around it. The quivers zinging up and down her arm intensified. Her forearm flexed. A brutal cramped seized her makeshift fist and her fingers locked in agony. She didn’t whimper. She barely breathed, riding the wave of pain, until Reade plucked the ball away and began massaging her arm.
She wanted to prostate—prosaic—fuck—protest it. What the hell was wrong with pr-words? She didn’t argue. She endured the strong thumb pressing into the cramp where the muscles bunched. The bruising pressure—at least that word was correct—radiated down into her hand until one by one, her fingers loosened. Her shoulders sagged with relief, and she drew in a shaky breath.
“Enough for today. You’ve got a visitor waiting, and I think you could use the break.” He rubbed her arm, spreading the heat until only vague tremors remained of the episode.
A visitor. The spasm in her arm moved to her heart. It had to be Logan or Zach. They’d barely left her side, rotating in and out of her hospital room like the sexiest sentries on health patrol. Zach fussed, teasing her out of her black moods, while Logan gave her space and talked the business end of recovery. They were the perfect pair, coaxing and challenging her with absolute patience.
They repeated information to her tirelessly, but where Zach always seemed on the knife edge of worry, Logan maintained an easy stance. She loved them.
Both of them.
The pressure in her chest intensified. She always knew the day would come when she had to choose between them, but as impossible as it seemed, she needed both now. It wasn’t fair or right. Who fell in love with two men? It would never work.
“Same time tomorrow, Gunny?” Reade gave her a pat and stood.
“Not going anywhere.” The doctors refused to speculate on her recovery. A recovery measured in achievement, not minutes, hours, or even days. A swath of bandages still wrapped her head. She probably looked like Frankenstein’s bride beneath the linen. At least she’d win the next bet on who had the worst scars.
The nurse opened the door and Logan filled the entranceway.
“Hey, Logan.”
Masculine energy swarmed the room. Her body hummed appreciatively. Sweaty hospital gown and hairless condition aside, Logan never failed to make her feel like a woman. A woman who wanted very much to crawl out of the bed or—better yet—have him crawl into it.