“Much to my dad’s distress, that hasn’t changed,” Wes interrupts, the corner of his mouth ticking up.
Despite my misery and irritation, I let out a gust of laughter. Yeah, that would drive old “get the government regulators off my back” Sam Barrows crazy, all right.
Another nurse and a doctor—I can tell by the white coat—burst into the room.
“She’s 162 over 98,” the first nurse says in low, urgent tones.
Verging on stroke territory. I should get a grip, stop freaking out, but I can’t. It’s too much to process. Or maybe it’s too little. Either way, I’m out of control and I’m not getting it back.
I reach up to touch Wes’s cheek. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, and the dark stubble along his jawline scrapes my palm. This has to be as hard for him as it is for me. Hell, maybe it’s worse, since I have no idea how long he’s been sitting here, waiting for me to wake up.
“Please, just tell me if I missed your birthday this year.”
His lips soften into something approaching a smile. “It’s August 23rd.”
Three weeks. His birthday is in three weeks.
“Thank you.”
Someone says, “Two milligrams of lorazepam, stat!”
They’re going to put me back under. They don’t want me stroking out. I guess I can appreciate the desired result, even if I don’t care much for the methodology.
“I’m going to give you the best birthday of your life,” I promise as the nurse pushes the needle into the IV bag’s injection port. I’ve got a matter of seconds before I conk out. “I love you so much, you know.”
Wes puts his hand over mine. He blinks rapidly, as though he’s holding back tears. “I know, baby. I know.”
Wes pressed his fingers to his eyes until he saw stars. Of all the nightmare scenarios he’d imagined in the past week, this was one he’d never considered. Perhaps because, on some level, it was a dream come true. From the moment she left him, he had wished for a way to go back and change things. And now, in the most perverse way possible, his wish had come true. For Delaney, at least.
He still bore the burden of remembering every rotten second.
“What the hell am I supposed to tell her when she wakes up again?”
He posed the question to Dr. Jessica Fernandez, Delaney’s neurologist. A dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in her mid- to late-forties, the doctor reminded him a lot of Delaney’s mom, Vivian, who had died of metastatic breast cancer shortly after her daughter graduated from college. The resemblance was both vaguely disturbing and oddly comforting.
The doctor shifted in the square, vinyl-upholstered waiting room chair. “In most cases like this, I’d recommend telling the patient the truth,” she said slowly.
“But not in this one.”
She took a deep breath then leaned forward. “May I ask you a rather personal question, Mr. Barrows?”
“Wes.” The correction was a reflex. Mr. Barrows was definitely not him. “And yeah, go ahead.”
“Why did you and Ms. Monroe end your relationship? Was it her idea, yours, or a mutual decision?”
Oh yeah, that was personal, all right. “What difference does that make?”
“Well, it’s just that I’ve looked at her brain scans, and I can’t see anything to suggest her memory loss is organic. She doesn’t have any damage to the regions of the brain associated with long-term memory, and while I’d expect her to have trouble recalling the accident itself, that’s more a psychological mechanism than a physical one. We generally don’t like to relive a trauma, so our brains protect us by making it possible for us to forget what happened.”
“And the reason we broke up is relevant because…?”
Dr. Fernandez turned her palms up and shrugged, as if to admit she was in uncertain territory. “The only explanation I can come up with for her long-term memory loss is that her subconscious is trying to protect her from something she finds painful, even traumatic. Since her memory seems to be intact up to your engagement but not beyond, I have to believe the breakup itself was traumatic for her and she wants to forget that it happened. Her desire to forget isn’t conscious, of course, and she hasn’t lost her memory on purpose, because that’s impossible, but the brain is very powerful and can do things like this without our knowledge or consent.”
Wes considered this then shook his head slowly. “Well, I don’t know about the traumatic part. Our breakup was Delaney’s idea, not mine.” Not that he hadn’t played a role in leading her to that decision.
“Be that as it may,” the doctor said, a slight smile curving her lips, “I have to think the fact that she still lists you as her next of kin means she hasn’t completely moved on.”
He frowned. “I think that has more to do with the fact that she doesn’t have any family than anything else.”
She could have chosen Chelsea, though, a treasonous, hopeful voice in the back of his mind pointed out. Or Jett. They’d been best friends since kindergarten. Or even someone she worked with at the firehouse. Why had she chosen him instead of one of them?
“Which brings me to the other…concern I have to consider when it comes to Ms. Monroe’s condition and recovery.”
Wes knew when he was being softened up to have a major problem dropped in his lap. His father was a master at it. The only difference was that Sam called it delegation.
“And that is?”
“I can’t keep her in the hospital for more than another day or two.” Dr. Fernandez leveled her gaze on him. “After that, I’ll have to release her, no matter what the state of her memory is. The problem is, I’m not comfortable with the idea of sending her home alone, especially when she’s emotionally and psychologically living nearly three years in the past.”
His stomach lurched, because he could already see where this was going. “You want me to take her home.”
It was a terrible idea. The worst ever.
And he liked it. Way too much.
“Only if it’s possible. Obviously, if it’s not, we’ll have to make other arrangements. An assisted care facility, perhaps.”
“Assisted care?” The only idea worse than sending her home with him was putting her in some kind of nursing facility. Delaney wouldn’t just hate it. She wouldn’t allow it. “I’ll find a way to make it work.”
He knew he was making it sound as though having her in his home would be a hardship. Nothing could be further from the truth. But the doctor didn’t need to know that.
“Good. I’m relieved to hear that.” She started to get up.
“Wait.”
She paused.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“About?”
“What I should tell her. It’s not just that she doesn’t remember we broke up. She doesn’t know that she became a firefighter. And she thinks we’re married. I don’t know how to explain all of this to her.”
“I see your dilemma.” She settled back into the chair, her expression thoughtful. “As I said, under other circumstances, I’d advise telling the patient the truth. But in this situation, I’m inclined to recommend a less direct approach.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“Since she doesn’t remember the reasons the two of you ended your engagement, I think you should allow her to assume you’re married for the time being. In most cases like these, the patient quickly regains the lost memories and with them, the emotional hooks to the present. Until she does, however, I’m afraid the truth could actually decrease her chances of recovering her memory rather than improving them. She may substitute your recollection of events for her own, which means she’ll always view that past through your eyes.”
Wes stared at the doctor in disbelief. “So you want me to lie to her?”
A wry smile crossed her lips. “I wouldn’t call it lying, but telling selective truths.”
“Whatever you call it, she’s going to be angry with me when she remembers everything and realizes I’ve only been se
lectively honest with her.”
Especially since he didn’t see how he could have her in his home—to say nothing of his bed—without acting on his feelings for her. That was asking for more self-control than any human male possessed. It would be one thing to keep his distance if she knew she hated him. It was quite another when she believed they were married. What was he supposed to do when she slid between the sheets, naked and willing? Pretend he wasn’t interested? Even if he wanted to, concealing his desire for her would be an impossible order.
When she discovered the truth, there would be hell to pay.
This time, the doctor’s smile was sympathetic. “I’ll explain to her before she’s released that I feel it’s best if she recovers her memories herself, rather than fitting her memories to what others tell her. If she asks you anything you feel you can’t or shouldn’t answer, you can blame it on me. Will that help?”
“I guess it’s better than nothing.” He gave Dr. Fernandez a hard look. “Are you certain this is the best approach?”
She sighed. “When it comes to human beings, I’m never certain of anything but, yes, in my professional opinion, Ms. Monroe is more likely to recover her memories in a psychologically healthy way if we follow this path. I realize this will be difficult for you—both of you—but in the long run, I hope that you’ll both agree it was for the best.”
“I hope so, too.”
“Does that answer all your questions?”
Wes considered. “No. I have one more.”
“And that is?”
“What if she never remembers?”
She pressed her lips together. “I doubt that will happen. In cases like these, the lost memories are almost always recovered, at least up until an hour or so before the trauma.”
“But sometimes they’re not?” he pressed.
“In very rare cases. But in the vast majority of those rare cases, there’s damage to the memory centers of the brain. As I said earlier, I don’t see any evidence of that in her scans. I really don’t think it’s something you should worry about.”
It wasn’t a very comforting answer. Because what the good doctor didn’t understand was that Delaney never remembering the past three years wasn’t what worried him. It was his most devout and selfish wish.
Chapter Two
Monday
When Wes opens the door to our apartment, I have the oddest sensation in the pit of my stomach.
This is all wrong.
It’s the same apartment we’ve lived in since we moved in together, of course. Okay, technically, it’s not an apartment, but one of the three suites that occupy the penultimate floor of the Barrows high-rise casino on the strip. They’re all equipped with multiple bedrooms and full kitchens, so they might as well be apartments, except that you can get both room service and maid service if you want. Plus, of course, our rent is free—the apartment comes with Wes’s position as Chief Operating Officer.
Those might seem like big advantages—especially the rent-free part—but they come with a big price. The first is that we live cheek to jowl with Wes’s parents, whose apartment is right across the hall. The second is that it means Wes is at his father’s beck and call, day and night, seven days a week. And believe me, Sam takes advantage of that. Whenever there’s a management crisis, he drags Wes into it, even if it’s the middle of the night or a day off.
“What’s the problem?” Sam will say. “Just get on the damn elevator and get down here.”
Even before we got engaged, Wes and I started talking about buying our own house. Someplace close enough to town that the commute isn’t ridiculous, but far enough so Wes can easily decline a two a.m. summons to deal with a player who’s counting cards at blackjack. Yet, here we are, three years later, living in the same apartment. I don’t get it. Although it explains why we haven’t decided to have kids. Being out of the casino was always one of my prerequisites.
As I walk into the living room, however, I can’t shake the eerie, almost supernatural sensation of wrongness. The feeling is the opposite of déjà vu: a kind of certainty that although I’ve been here before—because I certainly have—I don’t belong here now.
Maybe it’s just that the décor is different. Since the casino owns all the furniture, it gets changed periodically to keep pace with current trends. If Sam ever decides to get a paying tenant for this unit, he'll want it to go for top dollar. Plus, redecorating is a tax write-off, and Sam never met a tax shelter he didn’t love.
In place of the plush, tan-suede sofa and chairs I remember is a set of very square, very stern-looking black leather furniture that would look more at home in the lobby of a law firm than in our apartment. I guess that’s the style now, though. I suppose I should be grateful that hardwood floors are still fashionable, because those haven’t been replaced. From my vantage just inside the door, I can also see that the kitchen still has its classic Shaker cabinets topped by the soapstone counters I love so much. I always swear that when we move, I’m taking them with me.
Ha, what if we’ve never bought a house because I refuse to give up those counters?
The other big change I notice is the television. In fact, “big” is an understatement. The damn thing is huge, easily double the size of the thirty-two-inch flat screen that used to occupy one niche in the wall unit. Now there’s no room for a wall unit because the entire wall is engulfed by the massive screen and two tower speakers that sit on either side. The whole ensemble is so imposing, it competes for attention with the incredible view of the city and surrounding mountains.
Wes catches the direction of my gaze and chuckles. “I…we hardly ever watch it. Although it is nice to have during the playoffs.”
For Wes, playoffs means hockey. How a guy who was born and raised in Vegas managed to get so addicted to a game played on ice is a mystery to me. Especially since Sam’s game is football. But then, that probably explains it. Wes would never launch a full-scale rebellion against his father, but he’s more than willing to engage in petty skirmishes.
“I can see that it would be useful for that,” I say with a smile. “I might actually be able to see the puck.”
That’s always been my complaint about hockey. I can’t follow it because the puck is so tiny and moves so fast, it’s impossible to track who has it. Wes says I should watch the players, not the puck, but I’ve never mastered that. As far as I know, anyway.
“I guess it looks different than you remember,” he observes after an awkward little pause. “I should have warned you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. Like Doctor Fe—” I break off. My neurologist asked me to call her by her first name. It still feels weird and unnatural, but I’m trying. “Like Jessica said, seeing things as they are now without being forewarned might spark my memory.”
“And?” He looks at me with raised eyebrows, anxiously awaiting my answer.
I shake my head. “Nothing.” Except this unshakeable sensation that I don’t belong here. But I don’t want to say that out loud, because if I don’t belong here, then I don’t belong anywhere.
His shoulders loosen a little. “That’s okay. We’re probably both expecting too much too soon. A part of me really wishes I could just tell you everything, though.”
“What about the other part?” I ask, teasing a little.
“The other part would be more than happy to live the last three years all over again. With you.”
My heart squeezes at the poignancy of those words. I step in closer and wrap my arms around his neck. “You always did know the exact right thing to say, Crush.”
A shadow crosses his expressive face. His inability to achieve anything approaching a poker face is one of the reasons I fell in love with him. He can’t hide what he’s feeling, whether it’s love, anger, joy, or guilt. I guess some women would find that unmanly. They want the strong, silent type. But I dated a strong, silent type in my sophomore year, and it was sexy right up until I found out he was also banging my roommate. And the girl down the hall.
So…yeah.
“Not exactly always,” he says ruefully.
I smile. “Nobody’s perfect. But you’re pretty darn close.”
Lifting myself up on tiptoes, I press my lips to his. I love the way we fit together, just a few inches of height separating us. At least this is utterly familiar, completely right.
He hesitates, not returning my kiss, but I know from the way his muscles tighten that he wants to. Badly. He’s thinking that I’ve been injured, that I just got out of the hospital, that it’s too soon for this. But it’s not.
I pull away. “Jessica said I should resume my regular activities.”
“I’m not sure there’s anything ‘regular’ about what I want to do to you.” His voice is low and guttural, verging on a growl.
Oh, he wants to, all right. As if I needed further proof, I feel the ridge of his rising erection against my abdomen.
“I like the sound of that.”
His body tenses even more, though that hardly seems possible since he’s already practically vibrating with suppressed energy. Then, with sudden purpose, he puts one arm around my back and the other beneath my knees and sweeps me off my feet. “As you wish,” he murmurs near my ear, raising goose bumps on my neck.
He lowers his head and kisses me with an urgency that takes away what’s left of my breath. Never breaking contact, he carries me down the hall with long, easy strides that belie how much I must weigh. Like so many things, my body has changed in the three years I’ve forgotten. I’m more muscular and athletic than I used to be.
But I can’t think about that right now, because the one thing that clearly hasn’t changed is the instant arousal that sparks between Wes and me, as if we’re two sticks rubbed together to make a fire. The thought of fire tickles something in my memory, but it’s gone before I can make any sense of it, lost as he deposits me in the center of our bed. Following me down, he pulls his black T-shirt off over his head, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and stomach. I reach up and place my palm between his pecs. His heart thuds beneath my hand, swift but steady.
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