by Karen Kincy
She arches a penciled eyebrow. “Your name?”
“Sorry. Cassia Santos.”
“Relationship to the patient?”
Shit, they won’t let me see him unless we have some sort of real relationship.
“I’m his girlfriend.” It’s the easiest lie.
The receptionist clatters on her keyboard before nodding. “He’s in a medical ward. Down the hall on your right.”
That’s a relief. For some insane reason, I expected the lady to say operating room or intensive care. I haul my suitcase down hallways until I’m lost under the sickly fluorescent. Finally, I find the medical ward.
Disinfectant prickles my nose. The rumble of my suitcase wheels sounds too loud.
Bram. He’s sleeping in bed with a hell of a black eye and bloody knuckles, but otherwise he looks like he’s in one piece.
Words shrivel in my throat. I stand paralyzed on the linoleum. I’ve sacrificed so much to be here, and I’m still afraid to stay.
“Cassia?” Grace stands behind me, her hair twisted in a sloppy bun. “You came.”
“Thank you for texting me. What happened?”
“Bram had another seizure. On the street. Thank God he wasn’t alone.”
I shudder. “God, yes.”
“The doctors want to watch him.” She lowers her gaze. “He hit his head pretty badly. He’s at high risk for another seizure.”
I hug myself and nod. I don’t know what to say.
“Hello.” Bram looks between us and smiles before wincing.
Grace brushes past me and stands by her brother. “Did we wake you?”
“Just resting my eyes.”
My vision blurring, I blink fast. He’s so vulnerable right now, I want to hold him.
Grace fusses with his pillow. “You look like you lost a pub brawl.”
“I wish.” He manages to laugh. “They found me outside the pub. From the sound of it, I never made it inside.”
“Gave yourself a black eye.”
“It adds to my character.” Smiling, he glances at me. “Cassia? Why are you here?”
Air rushes from my lungs. What the fuck. Is he joking? Grace purses her lips and nods like I should know what that means.
“Bram.” I try to sound teasing. “I’m your girlfriend.”
His smile fading, he holds himself on his elbows. “You’re my girlfriend?” he says, like he doesn’t believe we could ever be together. My stomach plummets like an elevator in freefall. His words echo in my head.
Cassia, can we start over?
I lost what little we had. I lost him.
Bram stares at his bloodied hands on the hospital sheets. “I don’t remember us together.” Hearing him say it cuts me to the bone. “When I first woke, I didn’t even remember myself. Have I told you about my epilepsy?”
“You did,” I whisper, my throat too choked to speak louder.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Bram looks so heartbroken that I can’t take another second. I walk to him and grip his hand tight. He squeezes back. When I bend over him to kiss him, he startles like I’m a stranger, and I kiss his cheek instead.
Here’s the pain I thought I had forgotten. The hurt so sharp it’s almost sweet.
He tilts his head. Our mouths meet, clumsily, a second chance at a first kiss, a tender lack of understanding.
Grace clears her throat. “When you’re done snogging, let me know.”
Heat scorches my face. I back away from Bram, but he’s grinning, the first real grin I’ve seen since before I left.
I can’t help but return his smile, even though mine is a lie.
33
Bram
“How long are they keeping you here?” Cassia says.
How long have we been dating? My memories drift in a sandstorm through my thoughts. I pick at the IV in my arm. “Overnight.”
“That sucks.” She arches her eyebrows. “Are the nurses at least hot?”
“No comment.” Her smile makes me blush.
Why can’t I remember? I’ve never lost this much time to my epilepsy before. Have I? Uncertainty feeds the fear in my gut.
“Grace, what day is it?”
My sister crosses her arms. “Monday, the 7th.”
“The 7th of what?”
“July.”
“Christ.” I grimace. “I remember it being June. Why am I in Eastbourne? We’re working on Wolfenwold Hall already?”
“You left London to oversee the project.”
I stare at my knuckles. Heaven knows how I bloodied them. “I won’t be much help.”
Grace clucks her tongue. “The doctors say you have a shot at remembering. Then you can go back to being a workaholic.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “I do have a thick skull.”
“Not thick enough to keep you from hurting your head.”
Cassia bites her lip like she’s trying not to laugh. I look into her eyes, a bit shyly, and wish I could kiss her again. Maybe that would make me remember. She glances at the floor, tension in the way she holds her jaw.
“I’m famished,” I say. “Where’s this bloody hospital food?”
“Manners, Bram,” Grace scoffs. “Let me check with the nurse.”
Her heels click on the linoleum as she strides off. Cassia stands ill at ease and toys with the handle of a suitcase.
“Travelling?” I say.
Her cheeks redden. “I was.”
“Where?”
She glances at me, glances away. “It doesn’t matter.” That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.
I shove my pillow back. My muscles protest as I sit upright. “Jesus Christ. I feel like a herd of rhinoceri stampeded over me.”
“Rhinoceri? Is that the plural?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, I’m not the one who studied linguistics at Oxford.”
“How did we meet again?”
Cassia sits and crosses her legs beneath her. “You really don’t remember.”
“Not a single second.” Her mouth falters, and I instantly regret the joke. “That was wrong of me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Fuck.” She lets out the word in a puff of air. “You’re still way too nice.”
“Is there such a thing?”
She looks away. “Maybe there isn’t.” I’m not sure why she looks so troubled.
Grace marches back into the ward, her heels clicking, and carries a plastic tray of food. At least, it must be food. My sister sets it on a table and wheels it over to my bed. I stare at the plate: a mass of soggy peas, anemic meat vaguely resembling chicken, and a boiled potato that looks naked without its peel.
“Lunch,” Grace says. “Bon appétit.”
I make a face. “This is all they had?”
She smiles sweetly. “Unless you want the vegetarian option.”
“Which is?”
“As far as I could tell, cat vomit.”
Cassia laughs before tugging down the corners of her mouth.
“Bloody unbelievable.” I poke at the meat with a plastic fork. “I hate hospitals.”
“You’re almost free,” Cassia says.
I blow out my breath. “I hope so.”
Grace checks her phone. “Bram, I have to head back to work. Eat your slop and give me a ring if you need anything.”
“Or the hospital will.” I smile tightly. “You’re my emergency contact.”
“Don’t be so bleak.” My sister pats my shoulder. “See you soon.”
Grace breezes through the doors, though I don’t blame her for leaving. I would if I could, since I never get any sleep here.
I scoop a forkful of peas into my mouth. They taste like tin.
“That does look gross,” Cassia says.
“It really is,” I say around a mouthful of peas. “And this potato depresses me. I’m Irish, and even I don’t want to eat it.”
She laughs. “Want me to raid the vending machine?”<
br />
I stab the potato. “God, yes.”
“All right.” She hops to her feet. “I’ll raid it like a motherfucking Viking.”
I grin. “Bring back crisps!”
She gives me a thumbs up. I finish off the canned peas, and I’m poking at the meat when she comes back balancing an armful of snacks. “I believe it is chicken, but it looks like it survived an atomic bomb.”
“Post-apocalyptic chicken?” she says.
I stick out my tongue. “Now I can’t eat it.”
“Then feast upon the spoils of my raid!”
She dumps her armful of snacks onto my knees. Crisps and biscuits tumble over the bed in a waterfall of cellophane.
“Sweet Jesus,” I say. “I think I’m in love.”
Blushing, she rolls her eyes. “You totally owe me.”
I tear a bag of crisps with my teeth. It rips down the middle and crisps scatter all over.
“Oh, shit.” She laughs. “Eat the evidence!”
“Help me. Quick. Before the nurses come back.”
We scramble to rescue the crisps from the sheets. I’m laughing, and trying not to laugh, my ribs aching from my bruises. Cassia crams a handful of crisps into her mouth and struggles to chew them without breathing.
“Try not to choke,” I say.
She shrugs. “We are in a hospital.”
I snort and eat another crisp. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”
“Neither are you.”
The crisp sticks in my throat. “That wasn’t my fault.”
She freezes and stares at the crumbs. “Bram, I didn’t mean it like that.” She glances into my eyes. “You scared me.”
I swallow with some difficulty. “Don’t worry about me. Please.”
“But I care about you.”
Her eyes glimmering, she won’t look away from me. I stroke her cheek with my knuckles. She catches my hand and holds it with simple tenderness, my heartbeat stuttering. Did we love each other? Do I still love her?
I break our gaze and grab a candy bar. “Chocolate?”
“Is this bribery?”
I look innocent. “Maybe.”
Her fingers slip from mine, but I can still feel her touch on my skin. She smiles at the chocolate. “Bribery accepted.”
34
Cassia
Visiting hours are over. I leave Bram alone in the hospital and take a bus back to Upper Dicker. It’s a long ride. I rest my cheek against the window, rain trickling sideways down the cold glass, and close my eyes.
The bus lumbers to a halt. My suitcase scoots between my knees and I grip the handle.
Please let Bram make it through the night without another seizure. Then the doctors will let him go home. Somebody will have to watch him for the next forty-eight hours, for the concussion, but I owe him that much.
Evening stains the sky purple as Wolfenwold Hall stands with dark windows.
I walk back to my cottage, dragging my suitcase behind me. The wheels jostle and bump over pebbles. By the time I haul it over the threshold, I’m sweating. I take a quick bath, pull on my pajamas, and dive into bed.
Sleep falls over me like a black blanket. I don’t dream.
When I wake, the sky is still gray and quiet. My phone buzzes on my nightstand, and my heart lurches with panic.
Bram’s number.
“Hello?” I say.
“Morning.” He hesitates. “Were you sleeping?”
“No.” My voice cracks and I clear my throat.
“Sorry for waking you.”
I drag myself out from under the sheets. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He sounds apologetic. “I’m taking a taxi back to Wolfenwold Hall. I’ll be there in an hour.”
My heart soars. “Have you had breakfast yet? What time is it, anyway?”
“Seven, and no, I haven’t.”
I grin even though he can’t see me. “I’ll cook you breakfast.”
“That sounds lovely, but you really don’t have to go to so much trouble.”
I scoff. “I’m a good girlfriend. It’s what good girlfriends do.”
He laughs before grunting. “My ribs are still bloody sore.”
“Don’t laugh so much.”
“I’ll try.”
“I’ll see you at Wolfenwold. You better get your fine Irish ass over here.”
He laughs again. “That was your fault.”
“Sorry. See you soon.”
“Goodbye.” He hangs up.
I may have been a shitty anti-girlfriend, but I can be a good girlfriend.
Bram will have no choice but to fall to his knees and worship me once he’s eaten my omelets. I bounce into the kitchen, my bare feet slapping the tiles, and yank open the fridge. Ten eggs left. I still need avocados, green onions, and cream, though, so I get dressed and walk down to the shops in Upper Dicker.
Sunshine pours from the blue sky. The scent of mowed grass sweetens the air. God, it’s a gorgeous day. I get my shopping done fast. After the lady rings up my groceries, I shoulder the bags and haul them to my cottage.
By the time I run to Wolfenwold Hall, I just beat a taxi there.
Bram climbs out of the taxi and smiles at me. His black eye looks even darker in the daylight. “Perfect timing.”
I’m still panting from my run. “Are you hungry?”
His smile widens into a grin. “You honestly think I ate at the hospital?”
“Good point.”
Gravel spits behind the taxi as it speeds away. When he starts walking, he limps slightly. He catches me staring. “I’m stiff.”
“And not in a good way.” I smile sweetly at his blush. “Can you walk to my cottage?”
“I’m sure I’ve done it before.” He struggles not to grin. He’s doing a bad job of it, but I can hardly blame him.
We walk down the path side by side.
He keeps looking at his boots. “How well do we know each other?”
“You hitting your head kind of pressed the reset button.”
Bram glances sideways at me, the sun shining through his bright blue eyes. “Before?”
“Are you asking if we slept together?”
He glances away. “I’m curious.”
“What do you think?”
“Yes?”
I smirk. “More than once.”
“And I can’t remember any of it.” He laughs. “We should make up for lost time.”
My heartbeat kicks into a higher gear, and I’m aware of how close he walks. Is it impossible to deny the lust between us?
He slips his fingers between mine. “This must be strange for you.”
“Strange is an understatement. But I’m glad you’re back.” If only he knew I left him. “And I’m all for making up lost time.”
He speaks in a husky murmur. “When do we start?”
“After breakfast.” I bat my eyelashes at him.
We step into the cottage and fill the small space with laughter.
“Sit down,” I say. “Stop limping for a little while.”
Narrowing his eyes, he drops onto the couch. “I’m hardly a cripple.”
I almost joke about a fetish, but I decide not to push my luck. This is Nice Cassia. I’m not Nasty n’ Kinky Cassia, complete with emotional baggage. That model should have been discontinued a long time ago.
Bram deserves Nice Cassia. So I’ll do my best to be her. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
He sprawls back on the couch, his legs hanging over the armrest, and props a pillow under his head. Coffee perfumes the cottage as my trusty little coffeemaker percolates. I pretend I know how he likes his coffee, since I’m pretending we knew each other better than we did. I serve him a cup with a spoonful of sugar.
He sips the coffee and smiles. “Thank you.”
I can’t decipher the look in his eyes. “I’m making California omelets for breakfast.”
“Were you returning to California?”
I turn a
way from him so he doesn’t see me frown. “I thought about it.”
“Why did you stay in England?”
Bending inside the fridge, I grab eggs, cheese, green onions, and cream. “I’m working at Wolfenwold Hall with you.”
“That must mean I’m your boss.”
“Technically.” I snort. “Though that doesn’t mean I do what you say.”
He laughs. “As I suspected.”
I crack the eggs into a bowl and put a pan on the stove. After I light the burner, I start rinsing green onions in the sink.
“Need any help?” Bram hesitates at the edge of the kitchen.
“You’re supposed to rest for forty-eight hours.”
“I am.” He tries to look innocent.
“And aren’t you supposed to stay away from pointy objects?”
“Guess that means my penis is off limits.”
I laugh. “Do not tell me you’re hard.”
“I didn’t say that.” His eyes twinkle. “Though it’s a distinct possibility.”
I roll my eyes and keep washing the green onions. He steps into the kitchen and stands behind me, the length of his body heating my back, but he hasn’t touched me yet. He bends and kisses the nape of my neck.
I shiver. “My hands are wet.”
“I know.”
I put the green onions on the counter and turn around in his arms. He looks into my eyes like he wants to see into my soul.
“Bram, the stove is on.”
“I know,” he says again.
He tilts his head and kisses me, sweetly, as I hold my wet hands out, not touching him. He sighs against my lips before leaning back and kissing the top of my head. When he backs away, I’m left empty-handed.
“Butter?” he says.
“What?”
“Are you cooking with butter?”
“Yes, it’s on the counter.”
He grabs a butter knife and stares at it. Or maybe he’s staring at the scabs on his knuckles. “Is this knife blunt enough?”
“I won’t rat you out to the nurses.”
He cuts an inch of butter and slides it into the pan. It starts to melt.
I hand him the cheese. “You’re manly and strong. Grate the Emmental for me.” I start chopping the onions.
He salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s not good old-fashioned American cheddar, but it will have to do.”
He grabs the grater. “Cheddar is English.”