Free Moore To Love by Faith Andrews Page A

my God! Are you okay?”
    I can’t make out the person or the voice because my eyes are busy scrambling around in my head. I try to look up, but something wet is dripping down my face and over one of my already clouded eyes. “Shit! Is that blood?”
    “Yes, you’re bleeding. We need to get you to the hospital. Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”
    No! I can’t even tell who the hell I’m talking to! “Um,” I squint and try to make his fingers out, but no dice. “No,” I wince, suddenly feeling queasy. Before I can control it, I’m yacking all over this helpful strangers running shoes. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry.” I don’t even know if he can make it out through all the puking, but guess what I do make out. His shoes. As in his. Yup! My valiant knight in shining Under Armor is none other than the Mr. Fancy Pants.
    “Holy shit!” I slap my hand against my forehead and with that little bit of pressure against my already bruised head, I feel myself falling, falling, falling . . .

    “Where am I?” I ask, looking around the room. It’s a hospital room, and I’m wearing a green cotton gown—with my bare ass exposed—laid up in a hospital bed. The harsh reality startles me and I jerk upright to take in my surroundings.
    “Whoa! Relax. You might pass out again.” I didn’t know I had company until he spoke and now that he has, I wish I would collapse unconscious again.
    “Oh, hi,” I whisper, wishing I could disappear into thin air. “What are you—why did you—” I don’t even know where to begin. My words are a muttered mess and my brain literally hurts.
    Mr. Fancy Pants approaches me with a gleaming smile. And dimples. The dude has not one, but two insanely adorable indents in his scruff peppered cheeks. “I’m Lane. It’s nice to actually meet you.” His voice is soft and gravely. Exactly as I imagined it would be. You know, like when I daydreamed about him whispering sweet nothings in my ear. And Lane. Isn’t that something. Leni and Lane sounds so cute in comparison to Leni and Mr. Fancy Pants.
    “Hi, Lane.” I finally drag my thoughts out of La La Land and back to the gorgeous specimen who saved me from the evil tree and who allowed me to— oh my God, I puked on his shoes. “Crap! I am so, so sorry I hurled on you.” I bring my hand up to my eyes to hide my embarrassment.
    Lane laughs—a deep, throaty chuckle that sends tingles to my garden—and shakes his head. “No worries. I had to get a new pair soon anyway.”
    “Yeah, you probably wore them out with all that running you do, eh?” Eh? What, am I Canadian? And way to point out the obvious. Stalker much?
    “No more than you.” He smiles again, staring a bit too long at the spot above my left brow that won’t stop throbbing.
    I should ask him what he’s looking at, but my mind can’t detach itself from what he just said. “You’ve seen me running?” I ask, squeaking like a shy little mouse.
    His face lights up with recognition and a glint of humor in his green eyes. “Of course I see you. In fact, you’ve got quite a reputation, you know?”
    “Huh? I do?” Now I really know I did a number on my head because I must be confusing his words.
    He pulls the chair beside my bed closer to me, sitting and making himself comfortable. “Yeah, the other runners call you Karaoke Girl.”
    Other runners? Is there some secret club? And Karaoke Girl? What in the ever loving—?
    Sensing my confusion, he answers, “You sing out loud to your music. It’s cute.”
    “ What? ” Okay, I’m dreaming, right? Or I’m dead. That’s it! When I hit that tree I died and went to heaven and now God is allowing me to live out every single one of my fantasies because he cursed me with the chubby gene and I deserve everlasting happiness in the afterlife.
    He leans back in the chair, flashing another bright, warm smile. “Why do you look so shocked? We find it rather entertaining.”
    “ We ?” I was once starved for