Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,31

the door she’d eventually exit from, he crossed his arms and drummed his fingers against his biceps, discontented.

He’d wanted to be with her as the doctor removed her cast. Wanted to offer support at the end of her injury as he had at its beginning. The potential symmetry had pleased him.

Nothing in actual human life, rather than literature, was that neat, of course. Today wasn’t truly the end of her recovery. She’d require time and effort to regain full movement and strength in her limb. But her healing was well on its way.

As was his.

He supposed that was enough of a metaphor for him.

Minutes ticked by. A quarter hour. A half hour. Forty-five minutes.

Then, finally, the nerve-racking wait ended. She burst into the waiting room in full flight, eyes on her phone as she tapped rapidly at the screen.

Immediately, he spied at least one reason for her lengthy time in the back. She’d rolled the left sleeve of her blouse above her elbow, but even so, the edges of the fabric were wet.

Her new skin appeared a bit pink and damp, but not flaky or peeling. With her typical efficiency, she’d already scrubbed off whatever unfortunateness lurked beneath her cast. Probably for the best, because they both knew teenagers would like nothing more than to tell tales of fearsome Ms. Albright’s crusty, possibly smelly arm.

That forearm was a bit withered, true. Straight as a soldier at attention, though, and still as capable as any limb he’d ever seen. Although perhaps that was indulging in a bit of synecdoche.

With one final, decisive tap, she looked up from her phone and spotted him.

In that same moment, his own cell dinged with a new message.

“What the—” She stumbled to a halt, her brow puckered. “Griff, what—”

He stood. Strove for archness. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Shaking her head, she tried again. “I just texted to tell you I was on my way. What are you doing here? And what happened to your—” Sudden panic widened her eyes. “Oh, God. If you’re here, who’s setting up for the poetry slam? Dammit, Griff—”

He raised a soothing hand. “It’s being taken care of. Rose and Martin are coordinating the preparations until we arrive.”

Utterly unappeased, she glared at him. “You said you were doing the setup.”

“I said I would take care of the setup,” he corrected. “Which I did, through judicious use of delegation.”

The unintentional ambiguity of that verb choice had suited his purposes nicely.

“But how do they even know what we intended?” Her mouth pinched tight, she started for the exit. “I’d planned to stop home and change, but now I guess I shouldn’t.”

Shoving open the glass door, she stomped onto the sidewalk outside.

He fell into step beside her. “Candy, please stop and listen for a moment. Please.”

At that second please, she slowed and swung to face him.

“If this is about why you’re here and why you look so…” Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip, her gaze tracing him from crown to toe. “Anyway. That can wait. We have responsibilities.”

He smiled at her. “Do you really think I’d let them handle setup without a detailed explanation of what we wanted? Do you really think Rose or Martin would skimp in their efforts to make the poetry slam successful?”

Her gaze flicked away even as the set of her chin turned truculent. Which meant, as always, she knew he was right but was loath to admit it.

“Fine,” she eventually allowed. “I suppose you make a salient point.”

It was a begrudging admission, but he didn’t care. He’d already wasted too much time, and he was seizing this opportunity. Right here. Right now.

Gather ye mulish, delicious English teachers while ye may.

Her face had regained some of its color since yesterday, although she still appeared a bit pale, her hair a tad rumpled. Those wide headbands usually held everything precisely in place, but she’d skipped using one again today. Her students had probably marveled at the sight.

Tenderly, he smoothed a stray strand back behind her ear. “We can spare five minutes, Candy. Ten. As many as we need.”

“Why…” Her swallow worked her throat, and he wanted to trace the shifting shadows with his tongue. “Why do we need ten minutes?”

Screw your courage to the sticking-place, he instructed himself, and you’ll not fail.

“I have some updates to discuss with you.” Ones not related to the poetry initiative, but she’d realize that soon enough. “But first, I want to hear what your doctor said.”

With a light touch to her arm, he ushered