Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, carved with angel-soft beauty, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection. But Renna knows perfection is nothing but a golden prison, coated in pretty lies that k...
"Every word I say to you is just another feeble attempt to tell you I love you in a different way.
Are you hungry? I love you. Look at the moon right now. I love you."
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The ceiling tiles in the short stay unit looked like it hated me. Which was fair, because I hated them right back. I hated the fluorescent lights. I hated the antiseptic stench that crawled into my throat and refused to leave. I hated the florist who’d wrapped the bouquet too tight, the bike that had betrayed me mid-turn, the wet pavement that apparently woke up that morning and chose violence, and most of all the bloody sling being manhandled onto my right arm by two nurses who absolutely refused to accept that I had bones and nerves and actual pain receptors.
They had me propped up at an angle that felt vaguely insulting, not flat enough to sleep, not upright enough to feel human. Apparently I’d rattled my brain hard enough that lying down was now a bad idea.
Love that for me.
“Keep still, sweetheart,” the older nurse whose badge declared EILEEN said, the sweetheart sounding more like idiot who shouldn’t be allowed outdoors unsupervised. “You’re lucky this isn’t worse.”
Cameron barked a laugh from somewhere next to the heart monitor. “Lucky? Nah, nurse, this is him on a good day. You should’ve seen last week when he got his head wedged in the bunk bed like a toddler.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, wincing as the plaster set tight around my wrist. Eileen flicked my hand lightly with a gloved finger in warning.
A chorus of snickers rose from the pack of traitors who called themselves my friends, all looking like they’d won the lottery of schadenfreude.
The younger nurse leaned in then, too close, brushing hair from her eyes as she inspected my bandaged shoulder, and her voice came out way too chipper.
“So… you work out, yeah? These abs aren’t exactly accidental.”
I blinked at her. She looked about late twenties, pretty in that aggressively put-together way, eyes too enthusiastic, and apparently blind to human suffering.
Her badge said ISABELLE. Her vibe said pure threat.
Before I could respond, Eileen clicked her tongue. “For Christ’s sake, lass. You’ve got a partner and a toddler. Control yourself.”
“I wasn't gawking,” Belle lied boldly, not even remotely sorry. “I’m just saying he’s got definition. Besides, this is Dr. Callahan’s son, isn’t he? She talks about him all the time. I’ve been curious for ages.”
Cameron cackled. “Well? Is he living up to the hype?”
Belle actually blushed. “Honestly? He’s better than what she described.”
