I take in his pale face and breathe out a long sigh of relief.
“Tuck,” I say softly. “What were you thinking?”
Being quiet, I pull a chair over to the side of his bed and take his hand. I trace the scars on his knuckles, the ones on his wrist. I press my lips to them.
“Hi there,” he murmurs, and I look up at him.
His voice is groggy. “I hit my head.”
I let out a small laugh and squeeze his hand. “Jasper went rogue.”
“Jay Bird. He worries about me.”
Tears pool in my eyes. “I was too.”
“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs.
He inches over as I lie on the edge of his bed, my arms around his waist.
He reaches for the remote and raises up the bed. “Help me get out of this gown.”
I frown. “What? You’ll be naked.”
“I have underwear on, and you need to see my chest.”
Oh. I help him slip his arms out, then tuck the covers around his abdomen.
“Go ahead,” he mumbles as he lies back on his pillow. “Look at it. Four hours of agony.”
I peek under the wrapping, and my eyes flare.Francescais written in a fancy script directly over his left pec.
“I love the font you chose, and ... wait, what is that tiny little thing underneath ...” I sigh softly at an image of Bow Bridge drawn at the end of my name. “My favorite place.”
He grasps my hand and clings. “I’m so cliché, right?” He tries to laugh and ends up wincing. “I found some random tattoo parlor. I didn’t have a picture of your face—remember your question was if I’d get your face?”
I nod.
“I have one of us on my phone, but the artist said it would take too long to do the detail anyway. He offered to sketch something, and I talked about you in a masquerade mask and a wedding dress, and he got confused.”
“Too much bourbon.”
He grimaces. “Trust me; I was sober when he started inking. I passed out twice, and Jasper slapped me awake.”
“Jesus.”
“I wanted a gesture—shit, and this one is all screwed up. It should have been your face.”
“It’s my name and the bridge. It’s perfect. I love you, Tuck.”
His eyes mist. “You asked me once where my favorite place in New York is, and I couldn’t really give you a true answer, but ...”
“Yeah?”
“It’s you, Francesca. You. Nowhere is good if you aren’t there. I canceled the yacht. I’m not going to play pro.”
“But you love the game ...”
He swallows. “I’m too old to play. And I’m good with that. No more aches and pains. No anxiety about my performance. It’s been a relief to spend the past few weeks with you and not think about football.” He shuts his eyes, then opens them, his words getting groggier. “I’m sorry I made you leave and didn’t talk to you. I needed the space, but I could have been kinder.” Then he mumbles an apology about the paternity test and lawyer.