Harvard Hottie by Annabelle Costa Read Free Book Online

this.”
    “Gee, thanks.”
    “Well, you have to admit,” I say, “you were pretty spoiled.”
    “Fair enough,” Luke says as we head in the direction of the North End. He’s amazingly doing a pretty good job maneuvering through the disarray of the streets of Boston. And by “good,” I mean he’s aggressive as hell. Let me tell you something about Boston drivers: They’re insane. I grew up in Jersey and I thought they were insane over there, but Boston is a million times worse. The streets of Boston make absolutely no sense: streets change names, zig-zag, and do all kind of things, and it makes the people who drive here lose their freaking minds. “Actually, you’re kind of right,” he says. “When I first got injured, I didn’t handle it very well at all. I got it in my head that disability was something for the lower class and that I had enough money to walk again.”
    That kind of sounds like the Luke I used to know. “So what happened?” I ask, too curious to be tactful.
    “I did my best,” he says. “I got involved in every experimental study under the sun. I let myself get braced up to my armpits but I still couldn’t take even one step unassisted. I hired some phony psychic who swore she saw a vision of me walking again. I was really out of my mind. I wouldn’t even sit in a wheelchair because I thought that was like giving up. In fact, I threw a fit if someone even mentioned a wheelchair to me and my dad encouraged my behavior because he didn’t want me to be crippled any more than I did. He even paid some nurses to carry me everywhere and basically do everything for me. I couldn’t even shower by myself.”
    “For how long?” I ask, wide-eyed.
    “I’m embarrassed to tell you,” he says. Then he adds, “Two years.”
    “Two years ?”
    “Just about,” he says. “I still remember: I was about a month away from the two-year anniversary of my injury. I was lying in bed at home and I was hungry. It was such a basic thing but there was nothing I could do about it. I tried to hit the call button but I knocked it onto the floor. So I just lay there, screaming for help for like thirty minutes. I felt so… I don’t know… I guess ‘ridiculous’ is probably the best word. A week later, I had a wheelchair and got into an inpatient rehab program.”
    “Wow,” I say.
    “Yeah,” he agrees. “Rehab was kind of rough, especially for a spoiled brat like me. But they made me do everything myself, which was just what I needed. To be honest, after getting carried around for two years, you pretty much don’t want anybody’s help with anything again. Ever.”
    Luke pulls into the small parking lot of an expensive-looking Italian restaurant. I’m about to point out to him that the lot is full, which was always an issue when I went to the North End in the past, but then I realize that, of course, he can park in the handicapped spot. “Okay,” he says as he kills the engine. “You can pry your fingers off the dashboard now.”
    “Shut up,” I say, although I notice I’m a bit shaky as I climb out of the car. I guess you have to be an aggressive driver if you live in Boston, but there were a few times when I saw my life flashing before my eyes.
    As soon as I see the Italian restaurant, I get this awful sinking feeling. This isn’t the kind of place you have a business lunch. You don’t have a business lunch in a place with dim lighting and candles on every table. We’re the only people in this place who aren’t holding hands. “Um,” I say. “Have you been here before?”
    “Nope,” Luke says. “But I heard it was wicked good food and that they had parking.” He squints. “Kind of dark, isn’t it?”
    Luke’s made reservations and the hostess leads us to our table, which has got to be the most secluded table in the whole damn restaurant. I keep telling myself that he didn’t know the restaurant was so dark and romantic and that he didn’t pick the table, but then again, what