Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            The room seemed to shrink in half as she inched forward. She realized that someone had at least attempted to dress him in a hospital gown, the kind that tied in the front. But at some point in the night, the ties had come undone, and the two sides had fallen open. He was essentially naked under that blanket.

            Elena cautiously approached the side of the bed, where the arm had been raised presumably to keep him from falling out in his sleep. His chest rose and fell in a deep rhythm, accentuating the valley between his pecs. It was voyeuristic, the way she stared at him, but this was the first time she’d seen her own husband shirtless in years.

            Elena shut her eyes and pressed her hands against her closed lids until spots danced in her vision. This was wrong and inappropriate. Vlad was hurt and had no idea she was even there. And they were getting a divorce. The least she could do was give him the dignity of not ogling over his naked body while he slept.

            Elena peeled her hands from her face and gingerly picked up the edge of the blanket so she could tug it higher. When she gently draped it across his chest, he stirred and turned his head in the other direction on the pillow. Elena froze, hands hovering atop his body. She stayed that way until his breathing resumed its heavy rhythm.

            Easing out a breath of her own, she backed away from the bed, turned around, and tiptoed back to where she’d left her things. She toed off her shoes, picked up her suitcase and backpack, and carried them to the seating area. The cushion creaked when she sat down, and once again she froze, breath locked in her lungs. She watched him as he stirred again, this time letting out a small moan as he rolled his head back and forth twice on the pillow.

            Elena leaped up and quickly walked back to the bed. Was he in pain? Was he having a nightmare? His head rolled again in her direction, and his breathing picked up. Beneath his closed eyelids, his eyes moved rapidly. Elena reached out her hand and, after a moment of hesitation and second-guessing, lowered it to his forehead. She smoothed his thick hair back.

            “It’s okay, Vlad,” she whispered in Russian.

            He relaxed beneath her touch, so she repeated the gesture and the words. But instead of falling back to sleep the second time, his eyes opened. They were glassy and red, but he appeared neither confused nor surprised by her presence. He held her gaze, blinking slowly, before saying, “My leg is broken.”

            Elena ran her fingers through his hair again. “I know. But everything is going to be okay.”

            “I can’t lose hockey. I can’t lose that too.”

            The pain on his face combined with that one word—too—broke her heart in half. This beautiful man deserved so much better than her. “You’re not going to. You are going to heal stronger than ever. Just go back to sleep for now.”

            “Don’t want to,” he said, but it was a losing battle. His eyelids were dropping again. “Don’t want you to go.”

            “I’ll still be here when you wake up,” she said, but she had no idea if he’d heard her.

            He’d already fallen back asleep.



* * *



            * * *

            “Vlad.”

            He didn’t want to wake up. The dream had been too good this time, too vivid. He could almost feel her hands on him and hear her voice reassuring him that everything would be okay. This time, she’d promised to stay, and he wanted to stay too, stay in that place where she was touching him.

            “Vlad, can you hear me?”

            Light and sound broke through the weightless haze, and with a groan, he opened his eyes. Morning sunshine cast a long, bright streak onto the floor. He squinted at the silhouette of a woman next to his bed. A moment of hope surged that maybe he’d manifested Elena into existence, but when the woman stepped out of the glare, he saw that she wore blue scrubs and a nurse’s badge. His hope went as numb as his broken leg. Whatever they’d given him last night after carting him off the ice had yet to wear off.

            “Good morning,” she said. “Can you tell me how your pain is?”

            “Fine,” he rasped. His mouth was fuzzy and sour, and his throat felt like he’d swallowed sand.

            “How about some water?” the nurse offered, handing him a disposable cup with a lid and a straw.

            Vlad lifted his head from the pillow to accept a long, much-needed drink. “Thank you.”