Strike Zone by Kate Angell Page B

drained, Taylor straightened. “I’m fine. Just fine.” Her knee, swollen and sore, suddenly popped. Her leg buckled and she pitched forward.
    It was Stryke who reached for her.
    Stryke who caught her.
    Stryke whose hands curved about her hips and kept her upright.
    Stryke who lifted and swung her over the remaining shards of glass before she could cut herself further.
    Stryke who then stepped back and let her limp toward the powder room. Alone.
    Taylor set her shoulders and straightened her spine, a physical warning to those gathered not to follow her.
    “Should I help her?”
    Hilary’s question had Taylor limping a little faster. No matter her good intentions, the very last thing Taylor needed was Brek’s fiancée playing nurse.
    She made it to the powder room below the staircase and closed the door. The scents of lemon potpourri and lavender bath soaps soothed her, fragrances that would always remind Taylor of Addie.
    Suddenly tired, she leaned against the jamb and closed her eyes. Brek’s arrival at Addie’s party with Hilary was a real killer. Did he hate her so much he wanted to publicly humiliate her, as she’d once humiliated him on their wedding day?
    Placing her hand over her heart, Taylor wished she could push back the pain. She’d never have believed her chest could hurt so much. She felt vulnerable. Totally lost. Completely crushed.
    And very much alone.
    A knock on the door brought her heart to her throat. “Taylor, it’s Hilary Talbott. I’m coming in.”
    A push on the door nudged Taylor forward. Hilary peered in. “Let’s clean your foot.”
    Don’t be nice to me. Taylor opened her eyes, her gaze unfocused. “I can manage on my own.” Her voice sounded out-of-body.
    Hilary glanced down at Taylor’s toes. “There’s a lot of blood.”
    “Superficial cuts,” Taylor assured her. “They look worse than they are.”
    “Let me be the judge.” Hilary stepped fully into the powder room and motioned toward a stool covered in yellow satin. “Sit down, please.”
    Hilary had come to care for Taylor. Only outright rudeness would send her away.
    Taylor sank down on the stool.
    Hilary then proceeded to study the contents of the medicine cabinet. She set out a bottle of peroxide, a magnifying glass, a pair of tweezers, several cotton balls, and a tube of Neosporin, along with three large Band-Aids.
    “What can I hand you first?” Hilary asked.
    Taylor slowly slid off her toe rings, crossed her right foot over her left knee, and examined the cuts. They were worse than she’d originally thought. Deeply embedded glass poked from the ball of her foot. Fine splinters stabbed her toes. It would take some time to doctor her foot. toes. It would take some time to doctor “Tweezers,” she finally managed.
    Hilary quietly handed them to her.
    The silence held as Hilary watched Taylor work on her foot. Every time Taylor blew out a breath and looked up, she met Hilary’s stare.
    A rather intense stare, for a woman known to be shy. Taylor sensed that Hilary was sizing her up.
    The tick of the powder room clock registered less than a minute before the brunette bit down her bottom lip and said, “I like Brek a lot. He’s a good man.”
    Like him? Hilary’s choice of words surprised Taylor. Like was appropriate for friends, dogs, flavors of ice cream, and a good book. Not for the man Hilary was about to marry.
    Taylor had no desire to discuss Brek.
    Hilary, on the other hand, did. “I, um, know this is awkward, but I need your advice,” she softly continued. “Even though Brek never talks about you, I know you were once engaged. Tell me how to make him happy. I don’t want to make the mistakes you did.”
    Taylor’s mistakes. Don’t leave him at the altar and you’ll be fine. That didn’t sound quite right. But it was all Taylor had to offer.
    Her time with Brek had been sacred. She’d screwed up royally. Admitting this to Hilary would open wounds and leave more scars.
    “Peroxide, please,”