Three Little Words: Love by the Numbers, #3

Copyright (c) 2017 by J.A. Coffey

Cover by J.A. Coffey

Editing by Jody Wallace of Meankitty Editing

This e-book is sold on condition that it shall not be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the copyright owner's consent, and without a similar condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

About this Book:

I'm not letting go of what's important. Especially now that I've beaten the dreaded C-word. In fact, the only thing I haven't conquered is the way my best friend's ex makes me feel.

And what's worse? I'm not sure I want to get over that.

Zane Ryder used to be on top of the world. He had everything most people want—fame, fortune, and a face that sent albums flying off the shelves. Until disaster struck, in the form of a disease that almost took his life. Now he's recovering from surgery and questioning every decision he's made thus far—including falling for his best friend's fiancée.

Trish Masters has always had a thing for fixing what's broken—whether it's people, the planet, or even a litter of unwanted stray puppies. But when she's branded as the woman who almost destroyed America's favorite rock band, she's determined to close herself off from the world—and her feelings for the completely wrong guy. She's a fixer—not a destroyer. And she just can't get caught up in the rock star lifestyle again.

When a relapse causes Zane to rely on Trish for help, both recognize they're trapped by their own desperate hearts. Will they succumb to fear or be brave enough to admit the truth and finally whisper those THREE LITTLE WORDS?

Table of Contents

Copyright Information

Blurb

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Sweet Readers,

I hope you love this brand new series as much as I’ve enjoyed creating a new world for you. Love by the Numbers New Adult Romances feature younger heroes and heroines who struggle with life and love without the benefit of years of experience. I’m enthralled by the raw intensity of this new novel and I hope it becomes one of your favorites, too.

This book was a tough one. At times, I didn’t think I’d get through. Special thanks to all the fans who gave support to keep going... my editor and friend Jody Wallace, who refuses to let me give up and to Caroline Lee who always knows the right thing to say to make me believe I can do anything. And to my darling Rob, who leaves me wine and chocolate near the cave entrance when necessary. Love you both so much!

Also thanks to Maureen Moore Osuna and Kevin Wolfe for allowing me to constantly pester you with questions. You guys rock!!

Happy Reading!

J.A. Coffey

Chapter One

Zane

Well, Zane. Dr. Rodgers said your prognosis looks very encouraging and I have to agree. Trish enters my private hospital room with a smile that sends my pulse into orbit. She picks up the clipboard with my chart. All ready to check out?

Surprise lights me up like a candle on a birthday cake, because I hadn’t expected to see her today—just my usual oncologist, Dr. Carole Rodgers. I hop off the edge of the bed like I’ve got a firecracker under my ass, immediately regretting the quick movement as a stabbing pain sears my midsection near the spot where I had a section of my kidney removed a week ago. I inhale and gasp, trying to cover the pain. Hey, Trish. What brings you by?

It’s been seven days since they hacked out the part of my body that was trying to kill me. I’d tried to hide it from the band, but my declining condition almost tanked my career. Now I’ve endured the surgery, medications, a week of healing, of lying sideways in this hospital bed, trying not to use my core muscles, and of secretly hoping for a glimpse of Trish’s platinum hair through the small window in the door of my private hospital room.

Looking over your chart, obviously. Though most of her face is hidden by the clipboard, her eyes crinkle, so I guess she’s treating me to one of her brief smiles. The kind that makes me feel warm all over. Your CBC levels are all in the normal range.

My kidneys have been through hell. Life as a rock star will do that to a guy. Still, I’d been unprepared for the news I’d gotten earlier this year. I had cancer. A month ago, I’d asked Trish to cover for me, because I thought I could handle it without my agent or my bandmates finding out and freaking out about it. I was wrong.

So, you’re here to deliver the good news? Where’s Dr. Rodgers? I edge towards the door, hoping someone else will come in and I can stop feeling like I’m scuba diving in Puget Sound without an oxygen tank. We’ve known for a few days that things looked promising, but waiting on the official word from the lab has been the final stamp of approval I needed to be officially released.

Her eyes are still riveted on my chart. Appointment with her obstetrician. I’m filling in. Trish is my oncologist’s resident intern as well as a friend, so it’s not unusual for her to check on patients, but somehow she’d managed to avoid me since my surgery.

Oh. Um, cool. Cool. Yep, that’s me. Mr. Freaking Cool.

You’d never believe that I’m considered one of America’s heartthrobs, not with the stupid conversation I’m dishing out. She’s close to her due date? Duh. Of course she is. Dr. Rodgers has been ready to pop for the last two weeks.

Mhmm. Very. She’s scanning my charts like they’re one of her precious checklists. I could be standing here naked doing the hula and she wouldn’t notice. Pretty sure she doesn’t see me the way I see her, as the living, breathing embodiment of everything beautiful in this world.

So, she begins, giving me a disconcertingly level look. The good news is, we caught it early. The tumor measured six centimeters, but based on what we discovered during your surgery, there’s no spread to lymph nodes or distant organs.

It’s confirmation of what Dr. Rodgers and I had discussed, but I still give a relieved exhale at the news.

Well, that’s great, I say, and roll my shoulders. So, I’m all clear?

I want to sink my head into my hands but settle for edging past Trish to grab my jean jacket off the coat rack by the door and retrieving my cell phone from the nightstand.

We’ll still want to keep close watch on you for the next three to six months. Just to be sure. Then follow up annually after that.

Will they officially assign me to you now? Man, I hope not. I don’t know how to act when I’m around her. At least not in a way that won’t make me look more an idiot than I already am.

Amazingly, things hadn’t completely fallen apart with the band while I’d decided not to die, so I’m not letting go of what’s important. Now that I'm back on my feet, nothing’s gonna stop me from resuming my old life and keeping Wylde Ryder together.

Possible. It’s between me and Dr. Miller. As her intern, I’m the natural choice. Her answer makes my chest grow tight. The more time I spend with Trish, the more I find myself thinking about her in ways that I shouldn’t.

I see. My hand drifts to the incision along the left side of my abdomen. Her eyes immediately hawk my movements, and a line forms between her brows.

Depends if Dr. Rodgers feels I’m ready. And when she goes into labor. If you agree to it, of course. She tilts her head and stares at me. Are you feeling okay? Any pain or tenderness in your incision?

Me? Nah. I’m a liar. I want to whimper and crank up the IV drip of pain meds that got me through the week, but I’m sucking it up in front of her. Plus, I’m off the good stuff now. Oral meds just aren’t the same.

Speaking as your friend, you have a habit of overdoing it, Zane. She crosses her arms. And as your doctor, it’s not wise to downplay if you’re experiencing symptoms. It only makes your aftercare more difficult.

I’m great. I toss her a weak smile, forcing my hand to my side. Really.

Still. She puts the chart down. With your permission, I’d like to check your vitals before you go.

Uh, sure. I guess. I shuffle backward, trying to avoid being too near her in a hospital room the size of a closet. I’m ridiculous, half-tripping over my own feet, when I know damn well she has to touch me to check my wound. I hate that she sees me like this. Like I’m just another problem, another patient for her to fix.

She asks me to pull up my shirt and moves in front of me to inspect the neat row of stitches, pressing ever-so-lightly around the area. Her scent, like vanilla and sweet summer lemonade, washes over me, clearing the faint smell of antiseptic soap from my senses.

Any tenderness? she murmurs.

Nope. I force my voice to be normal. She’s fresh and clean, like home-baked cookies and juice boxes on a summer day. I want to bury my face in her hair and kiss her lips to see if she tastes as great as she smells.

Well, there’s no swelling or redness. That’s good.

Ooof. I cover my pain with a cough. She hits a sensitive spot just above the cut and I suck in air through my teeth.

Your last Oramorph dose was an hour ago. You shouldn’t be experiencing discomfort.

I’m not. Just getting used to being upright. The nursing staff had insisted on propping me up in a wheelchair every few hours during the past week, but the pain was almost unbearable, so I’m not completely fibbing when I say I’m still adjusting.

Having trouble sleeping?

I’m not about to admit that it took me, my oncology nurse Felicia, and one of the orderlies to help roll me over in my bed last night. Not that I’m aware.

According to your chart, your urine output is within the normal ranges, she remarks.

Urine. We’re talking about urine. Yeah, girl of my dreams and we’re talking about how much I pee. I’m dead sexy.

Should be, the amount of fluids Felicia hooked up in my IV, I quip. Well, if you’re finished...

Before I know it, she’s running her hands on my arm and grasping my wrist with gentle fingertips. Her lips twitch as she counts off my pulse. Heart rate is good. Blood pressure might be a little high.

It should be, with her fingers tracking heartbeats through my veins. As if there’s nothing between my soul and hers except the thin skin that connects us.

I tug my arm free and step back. I’m just anxious about getting back to the studio, I joke. Yeah, humor. That’s safe.

Zane, you’re going to have to take it easy for a while. It might be a good month before you feel up to—

No. I’m ready now. Wylde Ryder has been on hold long enough.

But Zane... Her lips purse like she’s trying not to smile or scold me. I notice the way her eyes turn up at the corners. Her eyes are green. Really green—like emeralds, or recycled glass, or freshly cut grass, not the muddied up hazel that some people try to pass off as green.

I said no. Because guys don’t notice those kinds of things—especially not guys like me. Rock stars should be too busy to register that yesterday when Trish shadowed Dr. Rodgers, she wore her hair up in one of those twisty-things, or that she smiles less now that she and Finn broke up—except when she’s trying to subtly push me into backing off my commitments. Then she smiles a lot.

Nope, I don’t notice that shit at all. Certainly not about Trish Masters, the woman who was supposed to marry my best friend Finn.

Well. The smile fades from her pretty face. I’m sure you’ll be happy to get back to your old routine. Still, I must caution you that overexertion can lead to complications. We don’t want to tax your body when it’s trying to heal.

Hence the steroid shots. I rub my sore backside where the needle had gone in. She’s back to her Doctor Do-Good routine. At least that’s safe. Duly noted.

Good, good. She nods. So, how are you really doing, Zane? Her green eyes probe me, sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel. I...uh...haven’t really had a chance to chat with you outside of the hospital. Things are going well for you? She means we haven’t talked since she and Finn split up.

I’m great, I reply.

You do look better, but I wouldn’t say great. She bites the rosy curve of a lip I’ve forced myself to not imagine kissing for the past six months. I look away before the heat rushes where it shouldn’t. You’re going to have to take it easy for a while. Maybe you should talk to your agent about that.

As if I talk to Marco DeSilva about anything that doesn’t make him money.

Thanks for the compliment. Normally she’s got a great, soothing bedside manner, but her presence always does a number on my heart. The band will be just fine.

It’s not my job to compliment you. Her tone is chiding. Is everything okay with Wylde Ryder? The way she chokes out the words, for the first time I find myself wondering how much pain my illness caused her. How much she still talks to Finn. If she even still talks to him at all.

I appreciate the concern, Trish, but I’m great. Really. I shrug her off again. All the doctors and nurses have been riding me hard about taking my medications, getting enough rest, almost as if they can force me to heal through sheer will. The few times I got to see Trish, she was no different, just like she was before the surgery, when she and I were the only two people outside the hospital who knew what was going on. Whatever I feel about her, I need to stuff it away, deep inside, where no one will see. Just being in the same room with her is making my heart do somersaults behind my ribcage.

She takes the hint, crossing her arms and turning away from me. Prove it.

I will just as soon as they give me the chance. I force a laugh. A few more days and I’ll be ready to hit the stage. I pull my arms into the sleeves of my battered jean jacket, careful not to tug at the surgical tape around the bandaged spot where my IV was hooked up.

I pocket my cell phone, wallet and keychain, though the dosage of Oramorph means I’m not allowed to drive yet. Awkward silence stretches between us while I try not to shuffle my feet under the weight of her stare. Seriously. You don’t need to concern yourself. I’m covered. You don’t have to stay. But, oh man, part of me wants her to.

We both know why I’m here, Zane. I hate the tense lines forming between her pale brows.

Yeah, we do. I’m her job. Much as I wish it was for other reasons.

I know. At least I assume I do.

Because if it wasn’t for me, she and Finn would be man and wife by now. There’s a sick twist in my gut, one that has nothing to do with the fact that I’m operating on one and a half kidneys. The part they carved out of me last week was just the latest casualty in the wreck that was supposed to be the buildup to a killer summer tour with my rock band Wylde Ryder. I’d thought I was doing the right thing, keeping quiet about my diagnosis. Taking care of things on my own.

Instead, I’d almost killed all our careers.

We don’t need to reopen old wounds. It’s enough that you’re healing. The rest will work itself out. She gives me a falsely bright smile. The pain flickering behind her eyes reminds me that when I’d wrecked her chances with Finn, I almost lost his friendship in the process.

He and I still haven’t recovered, despite the fact that he’s dating someone he met down in Mexico. Finn and I used to be as close as brothers, and now we dance around each other like a pair of jackals, circling and scrabbling over the scraps of our careers. But right now the pain I’ve caused Trish is so much worse, because she was the innocent one in all of this. Trish, I...

Hey, hey, hey! My recording agent, Marco DeSilva, calls in his best party people voice. He bursts in with a stuffed bear in one arm and a small bouquet of brightly colored flowers in the other. How’s my favorite survivor?

Trish edges away from me. He’s great. I’ll leave you to it, Zane.

DeSilva claps me on the back, hard enough to make me wince, and I laugh like I’m trying to cough up wet cement. At least take my boy here to coffee, Trish, while I line up a driver. Gordon and Trev are tied up at the studio.

Aren’t you here to pick me up, Marco? I ask, scratching my shaved head. DeSilva’s kept pretty close tabs on my progress, even sending our roadies Trev and Gordon to hang out with me at the hospital during my recovery. I’m pretty sure we arranged for him to pick me up today, but my brain is still a little fuzzy from the surgery, the anesthesia, and the follow-up medications.

No can do. DeSilva smiles broadly at our puzzled expressions. Unexpectedly busy schedule for me. Unless Dr. Masters here is willing to spot you, I need to arrange some backup.

The thought of being alone with her...in a car...or at my place...is almost too much. I’m not sure... I begin.

But Trish nods in her brisk way. Sure, I can take you home. Just let me finish clocking out.

I don’t want to bother you.

It’s no bother, I’ll just—

I’ll get a cab. My voice is firmer than I’d meant to be, because the thought of her driving me home and watching me hobble inside is almost too much.

A cab? She frowns. Fine. Then let’s go to the cafeteria until your car arrives since I believe you’re due for your midafternoon snack. My regimen of solid food intake has been pretty strict. Apparently you have to