Whispers of Destiny: His Belated Love novel Chapter 190

Hogan seemed adamant about avoiding the hospital, frowning at the suggestion, "It's just a scratch. Slap some ointment on it and give it a few days. No need for the ER drama."

As they reached the elevator, Queena strutted out with Maxwell, supported by a friend. It was one of those classic awkward run-ins, and Queena couldn't resist a haughty snort before turning her head away.

Hooking up with another guy right after the divorce? Talk about shameless. She was definitely doing it on purpose to make Mr. Templeton jealous.

Rosemary was left wondering about Queena's snobbish attitude. She had survived a dive into the river without drowning, but did she get waterlogged upstairs?

Both groups piled into the elevator, and Rosemary hit the button for the lobby.

Queena actually wanted to snag a room upstairs, but her father had warned that guys don't dig girls who come off as too easy. Even if nothing happened, just the vibe of being in a hotel room wasn't good.

Rosemary was just a thorn in her side. Queena really wanted to boot them out, but Rosemary's new companion looked like trouble, with his buzz cut and icy, fierce features—all carefree swagger. He had 'street thug' written all over him, probably fresh out of a labor camp.

Once they hit the lobby, Queena, propping up Maxwell, was the first out of the elevator, but they didn't get far before Archer's bodyguard played blocker.

Maxwell was totally zonked, dead weight through and through. Queena had hauled him all the way down, and even with help, it was no cakewalk. Now stopped in her tracks, her inner diva surfaced, and she snapped at the bodyguard, "What's your deal, buddy? Blocking our way for what?"

Stone-faced, the bodyguard stuck to his guns, "Archer's orders. No one takes Mr. Templeton out the door except Ms. Chambers."

Rosemary: "..."

Was she getting saddled with this mess?

Hogan, grabbing Rosemary, made a beeline for the exit, "Let's bounce before we get roped into something."

Hogan had driven here, but with booze in him, he couldn't drive, so he tossed the keys to Rosemary. They'd just settled into the car when the back door got yanked open.

The bodyguard shuffled Maxwell into the backseat and buckled him in, "Ms. Chambers, Mr. Templeton's in your hands now."

Then he slammed the door shut and strutted off—didn't exactly break into a run, but those bodyguard legs are something else; he was in another car in the blink of an eye.

Dude was faster than a rabbit on the run!

Hogan started to roll up his sleeves, angling to pop the door open, "I'm gonna dump this guy."

Rosemary, quick on the draw, locked the door, "Just sit tight, will ya?"

If Maxwell got left behind and someone found his body, no biggie, but if the dude froze or choked to death, she'd be in deep with Harvey, like jail deep.

She steered the car onto the main road.

Hogan, with not a patch of unscathed skin, couldn't lean back. The alcohol hit, making him feel lighter than air, but he had to sit bolt upright, in enough pain to cuss up a storm.

Gotta keep up appearances in front of Rosemary, though.

After a bit, Hogan peered through his blurry gaze, scanning the streets outside, and asked with a frown, "Not headed to your place?"

The guy was plastered and banged up; surely she wasn't gonna dump him back at his place, right?

Rosemary, half-heartedly playing along, "We'll hit a hotel after we patch you up."

Twenty minutes later, Hogan lay on the hospital bed, speechless, staring at the floor. With an injured back, he could only lie on his stomach or side, not bothering to look at Rosemary on the attendant's bed, and asked in utter dejection, "This is the 'hotel' you mentioned?"

"It's got a bed and a bathroom, doesn't that count as a room for you?"

"If it were just you and me, even a hospital bed would be a blast, but why the heck is Maxwell here too?"

Before Rosemary could answer, Maxwell on the next bed started groaning in discomfort. He was supposed to be lying flat, but now he was almost curled up, clutching his stomach, eyebrows knotted tightly.

Rosemary kicked Hogan's bed, "You got him drunk; go check on him."

Hogan couldn't care less if the guy keeled over, plus Maxwell was a sly fox; who knew if this was an act or for real: "He's probably faking it. Evil clings on for a thousand years. With his tricks, he might outlive those turtles in the sea."

Rosemary glared at him, "Get moving, or we'll have to fork out cash if he pukes on the bed."

Reluctantly, Hogan got up and looked down at him, "He's fine, probably just dreaming of his mommy. See? He's all curled up like he's back in the womb."

Maxwell's lips twitched, and it was anyone's guess whether he was gearing up to speak or about to toss his cookies. Rosemary stood up and strutted over, first hitting the nurse call button by the bed before leaning in to check him out. The doc had mentioned earlier that he had been hitting the bottle pretty hard and needed to be kept under a watchful eye.

But the moment she got up close and personal, Maxwell's eyes snapped open, his gaze locking onto her like a heat-seeking missile.

Rosemary was totally spooked, instinctively jerking her head back, but Maxwell was having none of it. He grabbed her by the nape of her neck and planted a kiss on her with all the subtlety of a freight train...