by RC Boldt
I do my best to have dinner prepared by the time he returns from his home visits and whatever errands he runs. The result at the end of each day has become an expectation of sorts—albeit a disappointing one. He’ll thank me for the plated meal, but on the heels of that, he delivers the excuse of needing to catch up on patient files. Then he retreats to his office with his dinner, not to emerge the remainder of the night.
It’s not every evening, but it happens often enough that I silently remind myself not to get my hopes up.
That doesn’t mean it works and a shred of disappointment doesn’t arise. Last night was one of those times. Because, although I prepared myself for it, the amalgamation of disappointment and longing battered away at me much like the waves along the nearby shoreline.
“I’ll have everything cleaned up before I head to bed.” I’m not sure what compels me to mention that to his retreating back. “Have a good night, Dr. King.”
He pauses this time, and when he turns those assessing eyes on me, every inch of my body goes on high alert.
“Liam.” Those two syllables are spoken in a deep voice that sounds as though it’s been raked over thick gravel.
Throat suddenly bone dry, my voice emerges as a hoarse whisper. “Liam.” Instead of foreign and new, his name feels like an old friend as it passes my lips.
Those eyes change to burnished gold before he turns and retreats down the hall to his office.
It isn’t until the door closes with a soft click that I release a heaving breath.
Whatever it was that transpired at that moment, I both craved more of it and wished for none of it. The latter because I’d much rather have him join me for dinner.
The former because his eyes had nearly singed me with heat when I’d spoken his name. It was as if he’d experienced a visceral reaction to it before promptly stifling it.
Which is wise. As much as I’d like to entertain the idea that this man might be attracted to me, it’s more likely the result of having a woman continuously in his house and personal space.
Regardless, I can’t deny the strange impulse to be closer to him or the way my fingertips tingle in yearning, begging for the barest, most innocent touch.
Proximity—that’s likely the cause of these feelings. I need to remind myself of this, because entertaining any other ideas is far too dangerous.
Still…I can’t help but wonder what that look in his eyes meant last night. If, maybe, he’s drawn to me, too.
Even after last night, I can’t quite bring myself to call him Liam. Perhaps it’s the logical part of me that’s prevailing, knowing that if I routinely call him by his first name, it’ll change things irreversibly.
So ensnared in my own thoughts, I’m not careful enough with the peeler and the sharp blade nicks my fingertip holding the mango on the cutting board.
I wince, immediately dropping the fruit and peeler, and put pressure on my finger in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Strong hands reach for my wrists and I raise my eyes, meeting his concerned gaze.
“I’m okay. It’s just a nick.” Lowering my eyes, I mutter, “I should’ve been paying better attention.”
“Accidents happen.” He steers my hands toward him for a better look. “These kinds of cuts can be painful, but you should be okay.” His gaze lifts to mine. “You did the right thing, acting fast.”
I lift one shoulder in a half shrug, attempting some levity. “I figure it wouldn’t be wise to lose a finger to accompany my lost memory.”
One edge of his mouth quirks ever so briefly, but it’s gone in a flash. It still serves to draw my attention to the scruff framing his mouth and sweeping along his jawline.
Deep and husky, his voice dances over me in its own little caress. “We can’t have that.” His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there.
I watch, transfixed, as his face appears to lean closer. It’s enough to have me noticing the hint of a scar at the bottom of his lip, mostly covered by his thick scruff.
For a split second, I think he might actually close the distance and kiss me. My breath hitches in anticipation because as wrong as it might be, I want it. I want his kiss. His touch. His attention.
I just want him.
When I part my lips and whisper his name, he blinks as if he’s just emerged from a trance. His attention veers to my finger before he abruptly releases his hold on me and steps back.
“I’ll get a bandage for you.” His words are short, concise, and devoid of any heat I witnessed a moment ago. He’s already turned and heading in the direction of one of the exam rooms, and his rigid spine tells me all I need to know.
He regrets getting caught up in the moment.
“Thank you.” My voice sounds small and timid, and I hate it. But right now, I have to save face and somehow figure out how to overcome this idiotic crush I have on him.
Even though he’s tended to my wounds and lent me safe space to recuperate, all I am to him is a patient.
It’s perhaps all I’ll ever be.
Chapter 23
DR. LIAM KING
It’s been over six weeks since I pulled her body from the surf.
Over six weeks of having her constantly in my space. Of watching her heal and flourish right before my eyes.
Witnessing her regain her strength by the barefoot walks on the beach and planks before eventually graduating to push-ups.
Watching her as every goddamn movement of her toned body taunts me like a motherfucker.
All of it’s inspired weeks of jerking off in the shower to the image of her bare tits and imagining sinking inside her pussy. Christ, I haven’t masturbated this much since I was a damn teen.
She’s a complication I don’t need or want.
Fuck. Part of that’s a lie because I find myself eager to see her face each morning. And it’s not only out of curiosity as to whether she’ll remember something.
The other day in the kitchen when I almost kissed her… It’d taken all my damn willpower to stop myself. There was no mistaking the want in her eyes and how she’d leaned into me. It would’ve been easy to let myself go and give in to the urge.
Except it wouldn’t have stopped at a kiss. Not with her. There’s no goddamn way I could kiss her and not want more.
Never have I encountered a woman so intriguing and mysterious. And dangerous…in more ways than one.
But she’s a complication all the same. Creating more of a fucked-up mess as additional time passes.
A small voice in the back of my mind taunts me. By keeping her around, you’re putting everything at risk, you dumb fuck.
Clenching my jaw tight, I shake that off. If I’m being a dumb fuck, it’s because somehow, unlike anyone else, she’s managed to eke past my iron-clad defenses.
I glance at my watch, my brows furrowing in concern and apprehension because she’s normally an early riser. Our routine is to have coffee together on the deck each morning before we eat breakfast. She enjoys listening to the waves and the scarlet macaws that fly overhead.
When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I barely resist the urge to hurl the fucking thing into the ocean. Because I know who’s calling without even hearing his voice.
Another glance at her bedroom door confirms she’s sleeping later today than usual, so I slip out onto the deck overlooking the Pacific.
Though my voice is hushed to ensure she doesn’t overhear me, unadulterated anger saturates my tone.
“What. The. Fuck?”
His flat, jagged laugh has me wishing I could reach through the phone and choke him out. “Sometimes, these men are overeager. It's out of my hands.”
“If it was under your watch, it was in your hands.”
His tone turns arctic. “You talk like you're still number one. You should watch your tone, or someone might decide to cut out that tongue of yours.”
“You and I both know that's not likely to happen.”
“What? You watching your tone? Or someone cutting out your tongue?”
I greet his question with silence, and it pisses him off. That much is evident by his next words.
“Your insolence will get you nowhere.”
“I’ll be the one to decide that.”
There's a pause before he adds, "Just remember, you still owe me. I'll be waiting for the confirmation soon."
The motherfucker ends the call before I can respond. I toss my phone onto the table with so much force that it skitters before finally settling into place.
Still on high alert, my muscles remain tense when I hear her finally emerge from her room.
I wonder if this will be it. If this is the day she remembers.
I’m a goddamn bastard for not wanting her to. For wanting her to stay here with me, just like this.
She calms me. The realization hits me out of nowhere, and my black heart stutters in my chest.
She comes into view a moment later, dressed in hand-me-downs that should look frumpy on her. They don’t. Instead, she looks… Fuck.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I release a weary breath. Because this woman could make a paper bag look beautiful.
The hand-me-down sundress is loose-fitting and flows around her body. She wears a snug-fitting tank top beneath it, and though it might offer some support for her perfect breasts, there’s no way in hell it disguises them from me.
Yeah, I’m a fucking perv for that, but I can’t muster remorse over it.
It’s not just a physical pull that I feel, though. I’m drawn by more than those legs that seem to go on forever or how she sometimes parts her hair in two long braids on either side, the ends dangling past her breasts.
She just…looks like she belongs here. Like she could belong here.
She looks like she could be mine.
I swallow hard, shoving aside the wave of possessiveness I have no right to claim. Tearing my gaze from her legs, I search her expression. When the edges of her eyes crinkle slightly, lips curving in an almost bashful smile as she holds two cups of coffee for us, I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I clear my throat, suddenly nervous. And I’m never fucking nervous. “Buenos días.”
Carefully, I accept the mugs from her and place hers in her usual spot, across from me at the small wooden table.
She takes a seat. “Gracias.”
She’s picked up Spanish fairly quickly, and the words roll off her tongue as if she’s been speaking it for years.
Cradling her cup with both hands, she takes a tentative sip before setting it down. When she draws in a deep breath, eyes alight with a hint of tempered excitement, my hand tightens around my own cup.
“I think I remember my name.”
It’s a wonder the ceramic doesn’t shatter beneath my grip and splatter hot coffee everywhere.
“It’s Alexandra.”
Chapter 24
HER
It finally happened.
It came to me in a nightmare. I was a child, clinging to my mother’s hand, and she kept pleading with me as we dodged the bodies and bullets.
“Run, Alexandra!” Her voice had been nearly drowned out by the surrounding gunshots. “Run faster! Run, Alex, run!”
It clicked into place like a missing puzzle piece. It felt right. It actually sounded familiar.
“Alexandra.” As I put toothpaste on my toothbrush, I’d whispered the name to my reflection in the mirror. “Alex.”
I don’t remember my last name, but this in and of itself feels like a victory. I’m hopeful this is an indication that my memory will continue filtering in, little by little.
When I emerge from my room, I don’t immediately see Dr. King but find the coffee pot filled and two mugs beside it. After filling them, I venture to the deck and find him standing beside the small table.
My breath catches in my chest at the way his eyes canvass me. Perhaps I’m simply entertaining delusions, but I swear I detect a flicker of longing in his gaze. It disappears in a blink, however, slapping me with the reality that his look was one of concern with how I’m progressing in my recovery.
I wonder if this is the end of the road. If now that I recall my name, he’ll send me on my way.
A part of me protests the idea of telling him I remember so I have more time to spend with him. But I can’t withhold this from him after all he’s done for me. It would be dishonest.
He deserves more. He deserves the truth. Even if I crave more time with him. Even if I get a thrill from how he’s let the locals assume I’m his girlfriend now.
I know that it’s far easier to let them think that than to dare explain how I turned up, but it has me wishing it were true.
It has me wondering what it would be like to be with Dr. King. To know him intimately. To get to know the man beneath the thick layers of the façade.
As we take our seats at the table, I muster my courage to come clean after a sip of the delicious coffee.
“I think I remember my name. It’s Alexandra.” I pause, but when he doesn’t respond, I quickly add, “Or Alex.”
With bated breath, I wait for his reaction. He takes a slow sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of his cup.
“Did anything else come back to you?” He surveys me carefully. “Your last name or your birth date?”
I wince, all exuberance at the revelation deflating within me. “No.” Without a birth date and my full name, I can’t gain the proper documentation to get a passport or any other identification.
Dammit. One step forward, yet it’s as if I’ve circled back to square one.
As I stare into my dark coffee, my shoulders slump. He reaches over and settles a hand on my forearm. When I drag my eyes up to meet his, surprise churns in the depths. It’s as though he hadn’t intended to reach out to me.
“It’s okay if you can’t remember more.” Beneath the typical gruffness I’m now accustomed to, Dr. King’s words act as a soothing balm to my frustration. “At least now I know what to call you.”
My smile is weak, but a fraction of my worry dissipates at his understanding. “It’s something, at least.”
When he withdraws his hand, the absence is tangible. I take another sip of coffee before forging on. “You’ve gone above and beyond for me, Dr. King, so I understand if you want me out of your hair.”
He leans back in his chair, his gaze assessing, and it makes me wonder what it is about me he’s trying to decipher. “I’ve told you to call me Liam.” After the tiniest pause, he adds, “Alex.”
The way my name rolls off his tongue has my breath lodging in my throat. I find myself speaking in a near whisper. “Okay, Liam.”
His eyes take on a deeper golden hue in response to me simply uttering his name. When he drags a hand down his face and over his thick scruff, I can’t help but wonder if it’s soft or slightly rough.
“I have to make some house calls this afternoon, but I’ll be back afterward to—”
Boom, boom, boom! The sudden pounding of a fist on the front door interrupts us. Liam shoots up from his seat, darting inside toward the front of the house.
“¡Doctor King! ¡Necesitamos tu ayuda!” Doctor King! We need your help!
I follow Liam, hovering in the hallway as he opens the front door. Two men rush inside, one holding his arm to his chest, his hand wrapped in bloodied cloth, while the other worriedly looks on. Liam quickly leads them to the first room nearest to the door.
I stand poised at the doorway, listening to them.
Liam gestures toward the exam table with a tip of his chin, and with the friend’s assistance, the wounded man eases himself onto the table.
“What happened?” Liam asks in Spanish. He scrubs his hands in the nearby sink in concise movements and quickly dries them.
“Pablo’s machete slipped when he was cutting down plantains.”
Liam dons a pair of gloves, then unwraps the cloth covering the man’s hand. The instant I see the state of the man’s fingertip, I step inside the room, the words spilling from my lips without a second thoug
ht.
All in Spanish.
“It’s just the tip, so there may be slight nerve damage, but as long as the bone hasn’t been compromised, we should be able to—” My mouth snaps shut as shock ricochets through me. How do I know any of that?
Liam turns to stare at me from where he’s set aside the cloth, his hand extended, reaching for the supplies to start an IV.
I firm my lips and venture closer, my eyes silently pleading with Liam. “I can help you, so he spends less time with it in this state.”
He gives a curt nod, gesturing with a tip of his head to the box of nitrile gloves beside the sink. “Wash up and join me.”
Liam starts the IV and places a pulse oximeter on the index finger of the man’s opposite hand. He informs Pablo that he’s giving him fluids and something to offset the pain.
Together, we work quickly to clean and debride the finger and confirm the bone hasn’t been compromised. Then I help Liam apply a protective dressing over the wound and splint it.
The man’s eyes are heavy-lidded, but he doesn’t appear to be in overwhelming pain. His pulse remains steady.
Gently, I set a hand on the man’s shoulder and softly tell him he’s going to be okay.
Pablo peers up at me with dark eyes. “Eres un ángel hermosa.” You are a beautiful angel.
Liam replies back in Spanish, “Sigues siendo un hablador suave como siempre.” Still a smooth talker, like always.
Pablo’s gaze lands on Liam. “Tu novia es tan hermosa como inteligente.” Your girlfriend is as beautiful as she is intelligent.
Liam’s eyes meet mine. “Tengo que estar de acuerdo contigo.” I have to agree with you.
A hint of torment flickers in the depths of his golden-brown gaze, but it disappears in the blink of an eye.
So quickly that I wonder if I simply imagined it.
Chapter 25
LIAM
She’d jumped right in to help Pablo without any hesitation.
Pablo’s a good man—an honest man—and if he knew the kind of fucked-up shit I’ve done in my life, he’d probably use his machete on me without an ounce of remorse.