What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(82)

“I have a bullet in my brain. I’m not supposed to strain myself. Remember? No bumping the headboard?”

“I’ll make sure you stay very, very still...using merely my hands.”

She was tired: from hiking, from falling, from having an MRI, from hearing a dire verdict of pain and little hope. They had time; right now, the blows to her head had caused swelling around the site where the bullet rested. If she took care and didn’t reinjure herself, a few months would allow the bruising to subside and the surgery would proceed with the optimum chance for success.

Yet somehow, Max Di Luca managed to make her feel alive as she had never felt before. And that was worth risking death, anytime. “As long as you’re doing all the work... I suppose I could rest in your bed and take it easy.”

He chuckled. “Yes, let’s rest together.”

Max’s phone whimpered.

Max rolled over on the bed and reached toward the nightstand. “It’s my mother.”

“Your phone whimpers when your mother texts?”

“I always know who it is. Saves time.” He read the words. “Dinner’s almost ready. She advises us to clean up.”

“I can almost see the indignation curling off the phone.”

“It’s Mom’s specialty.”

Kellen rolled off the bed. “I’m going to go shower and change out of these resort clothes and into something real. I’m tired of looking like a tennis player.”

He watched her dress. “Have I mentioned how pretty you are?”

“Not often enough. Have I mentioned how pretty you are?”

He fluttered his lashes. “I have a mirror.”

She laughed. “Hurry up. I am not going down there alone.”

Max and Kellen met in the hallway, clean, dressed and guilty and giggly as only having sex in forbidden circumstances could make them. They descended the stairs and walked into the kitchen, a large old-fashioned room with colorful tiles, modern appliances, a round table in the middle and one very irritated cook preparing bubbling brown stew with root vegetables and cheese biscuits.

The smells of garlic, tomatoes and browned beef permeated the air, and Kellen thought that the promise of good food would cushion the blow of Verona’s disapproval.

Verona banged the lid on a pot. “Maximilian, I do not think that the two of you sharing a bedroom while in the same house as your mother and your daughter is appropriate behavior.” The steamy heat made her brown hair hang in ringlets across her forehead, but her words were icy and clear.

“Wait a minute, Mom. We’ve got something to tell you.” Max went into the adjacent parlor and bellowed up the stairs. “Rae, come down here please!”

Rae bellowed back, “Coming, Daddy!” Her shoes clattered on the stairs and she appeared in the doorway, a vision in pink, glitter and glue, which she had smeared on her cheek.

The Di Lucas were the loudest people Kellen had ever heard. Her parents, what she remembered of them, had been busy, boisterous people, but when they had died and Kellen went to live with her aunt and uncle, the household had been ruled by her aunt’s migraines and the most commonly used phrase was, Use your indoor voice, please.

Come to think of it, Kellen didn’t mind the Di Luca noise.

“Wash your hands for dinner,” Verona said.

“I did!” Rae rubbed her palms on her shirt.

Max put out his hands. “Let me see.”

Rae sighed dramatically and headed into the bathroom by the back porch. She didn’t shut the door, so they heard the scrape of the stool across the Spanish tile, the splashing and the humming, and when Rae walked out, her hands, her hair and the front of her shirt were dripping wet. Proudly, she proclaimed, “I washed my face, too!”

Kellen waited for Verona to fuss.

Instead, she said, “Good thinking, Rae.”

The family was so casual and encouraging about the little stuff and kept their drama for the big life-changing events. Kellen liked that, too, except—oh man, there was about to be drama.

Max got a kitchen towel out of the drawer and used it to wipe Rae down. “Why don’t you and Grandma sit down? Mommy and I have something to tell you.”

Verona looked from Max to Kellen and sank down in her chair as if her legs were too weak to hold her.

Rae pulled her chair out from the table—another long scrape across the tile—and perched on her heels, leaned over the table and fastened her gaze on her father.

Max took Kellen’s hand. They faced Verona and Rae, and with the flare of an accomplished showman, Max announced, “Kellen has agreed to be my bride.”

The reactions were exactly the opposite of what Kellen expected.

Verona shot to her feet. “A bride? You’re going to get married?” She clasped her hands and shook them at the heavens. “My prayers have been answered!”

Rae said nothing, but her eyes were big and wary.

“I wonder if we can manage it by Christmas?” Verona walked to the calendar that hung on the wall. “To get the dress done and the family here—”

“Two weeks,” Max declared.

Verona swung around. “You’re kidding.”

“Two weeks,” Max repeated. “We’re getting married in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Verona squawked like the chicken who had swallowed the rubber band, and faced Kellen. “Wait. Are you pregnant again?”