“Because I’m not bringing you a bedpan?” Oh, yeah. All the way sassy now.
“Don’t remind me. Besides, I’m mobile.” He nodded to the walker beside the bed. “I objected on the grounds that I look like somebody’s grandpa. I wanted crutches. They didn’t listen. Something to do with intravenous opiates and falling risk. No bedpans, though. Always a plus. And you’re very beautiful.”
She didn’t say it wasn’t true, but he suspected she wanted to. “And, no,” he said, “that isn’t just by comparison. My surgeon’s fairly hot.” He laughed at her look of outrage. “That’s better. I like your pretty dress. Also your hair, but I always like your hair. I’d have dressed up for our date myself, but . . .”
Her smile had more confidence in it now. More sunniness, too, like her optimism came naturally. She kicked off her flat sandals and sat in his recliner again, the full skirt of her halter-neck bandana-print blue sundress settling around her in a drift of whisper-light fabric. She looked so much cooler and fresher than he felt, with her hair in a soft knot at the nape of her neck, and some tendrils escaping because, he guessed, they always would. Her lipstick was red, and she had some color in her cheeks that he thought was natural, because the light dusting of freckles was right there to see on her straight nose. “Somebody’s combed your hair, though,” she said. “And brought you flowers. I was right.” She eyed the gargantuan bouquet of orange Oriental lilies, birds of paradise, and some kind of twisted snaky things that stretched almost all the way across the window. “It’s cheerful, I guess. There’s that.”
“Mm,” he said. “That was the partners, as you predicted. Very romantic. It’s like the jungle in here. That’s also who I have to thank for my private room, though, which I appreciate more. All I need is my laptop, and I’m back in business. That’ll have to be tomorrow, though. Things still have an annoying habit of going in and out of focus. I did comb my hair and brush my teeth, and I did it myself, like a big boy. Shaved, too, see? I’m civilized. Not going to throw up on you this time, either. You look like you got some sleep. How are you feeling?”
“Brett.” She laughed. “You’re the patient. I ask you that. Except that I can tell you’re better. Is there ever a time when you’re not in charge?”
Only if I want there to be, he didn’t say. “I had them turn down the drugs some, is why.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Lots of things hurt.” In fact, it hurt quite a lot, but he hated feeling drugged and groggy more. Not to mention nauseated. “Fortunately, the break wasn’t too high up, or this would be worse. I’ve got titanium in me now, it seems, a rod right down the middle of the bone. On the one hand, I’m destined to be patted down at every security checkpoint in every airport for the rest of my life. On the other hand, I may have superpowers now. Also, I have strong bones, or so my surgeon says. That’s good. I’ll be weight-bearing in a few weeks. It’s a miracle.”
“Your surgeon. The hot one? Sure she wasn’t just buttering you up because you’re cute? And I reckon you already had superpowers. That’s the man I saw.” There it was. The sunshine, then the flash of vulnerability that drew him to her like . . . like something too strong.
“Glad you think so.” He tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t. It was hard to be suave when you were lying on your back and dressed in a hospital gown and nothing else.
“I think you must,” she said. “Because, mate, what did I do yesterday? I got in a stranger’s car and took him home. I went for a walk with you when I should have been working. And I watched you not scream when anybody else would have. Those are superpowers, Batman. Or close enough.”
Red mouth, blue dress, pale skin, and once again, no bra. He was losing his focus again, and it wasn’t just the drugs. He might not be ready for a bout of athletic sex, but if she sat beside him on the bed, bent over him, and brushed her lips to his . . . He could handle that. He could take not being in charge this time. Besides, his hands still worked fine.
“I have some surprises for you,” she said. “Ready?”
Yeah. He was. She reached into her flowered tote, pulled out the kind of collapsible mini-cooler you’d put a six-pack in, and showed him the Popsicles. “I thought the food might not be too flash here. And that this would be easy on your stomach.”
“That,” he said, “looks almost as good as what I had in mind.”
“What?” she asked, and when he didn’t answer, said, “Righty-ho, then. Not asking. I also have a strawberry-mango smoothie in a thermos, with a bit of protein powder in. We’ll break that out later, depending on how you go with the ice block. And something else, too.” She pulled another item from the bag. It was navy blue. It was plain. It was . . .
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “That’s it. Except for the IV. That’s inconvenient, because I want it.”
“We thought of that.” She spread the thing out in her lap. “I’d like to take credit for this brilliance, but I can’t. My flatmate Azra did a degree in fashion in London. She’s doing an internship now with Wollongong. Surfer chic,” she added at his blank expression. “At least that’s what she calls it. I’m fashion-clueless, myself. Fashion-agnostic.”
“Except for your dresses.”
“Chosen by Azra. So you see.” She held up the T-shirt. “She’s fixed you three of these, with snaps on the right shoulder and down the right side, so we can get around the IV. Awesome, hey. Navy blue, black, and gray. I wanted to do red, cheer you up, but she said, ‘He won’t be any more comfortable in red than he is in a hospital gown.’ I wanted to know how she knew that, and she said, ‘His suit. His white shirt.’ I said, maybe he doesn’t always wear suits, though, and she looked at me like I was stupid and said, ‘No red.’ So you see. Tell me I’m right, that you wanted red, and I’ll go home and tell her I’ve won.”
He couldn’t stop smiling. Must be the drugs. “You haven’t won. Give me that thing.”
“Before dinner? You are desperate. And—oh.” She pulled out a few more items. “A few pairs of undies, and a couple PJ bottoms. And I just realized the nurse said you had a catheter. So not now. But whenever. And why am I so embarrassed?” She was laughing, and so was he. It hurt.
“If you’ll notice,” he said, “I no longer have a bag of urine hanging from my bed. I’ve graduated. And I would be so grateful for a T-shirt, you cannot imagine.”
“Good. Brilliant. Well . . . here, then. You can match. Dark blue and dark blue. Boring, but . . . And before you say anything,” she hurried on, color tingeing her cheeks, “Azra did the, ah, sizing, and the choosing, too, not me. She said large on the T-shirt, because of the, uh, shoulders. She got the briefer type of undies to be easier over the leg, which is why you’ll look like a pinup boy instead of whatever conservative thing you’d normally do, but she sized up there. Waist-wise, that is. Difficulty on and off, and so forth.” Her color was even higher now. “And I also just realized that you’ll need help. Fine. I’m here to help. If you hadn’t been in a suit practically every time I’ve seen you, surely this scene wouldn’t be nearly as awkward.”
“You can help with the T-shirt.” He pushed the button on the remote to raise himself higher in the bed and did not wince at the firework of pain that blossomed hot, then set in to keep the ever-present throb company. “You’re not helping with the underwear or the PJs. That’s what the nursing staff gets paid for. At least I hope they do, because I’m fairly desperate to be wearing actual clothing.”
He was fumbling at the shoulders of the gown, and now, she was sitting at the side of the bed, exactly like his little flash of fantasy. Then she was undoing the snaps, her hands brushing his shoulders, and he got that scent again. Like dessert. Like . . . Boston cream pie. His favorite. Impossibly tender yellow cake, the wonderful surprise of the creamy vanilla-custard filling, and the rich, decadent swirl of bittersweet chocolate on top. That was her all the way. He wondered if she knew how to make it. And if she’d be willing to sit here and feed it to him. And then, possibly
, kiss him. Too much sweetness.
His leg hurt like crazy, but it was worth it. She pulled on his hideous gown, and he lifted up to help her out, grabbing for the sheet along the way, and had to stifle another of those embarrassing groans. Her hands stopped in mid-pull, with the gown halfway up his chest, and said, “It hurts too much. I’m sorry, Brett. This was stupid.”
“No,” he said through his teeth. “Not stupid. I’ll push my pain button if I have to, but I am going to wear clothes.”
She laughed, even though she still looked troubled, and unsnapped the sleeve on his IV side for him, and he yanked the gown the rest of the way off and started on the shirt. She let him put it on, including the fumbling work to get it around the tubes, which was better. He didn’t need to feel four years old, thank you very much. But when he started on the shoulder snaps, an awkward job one-handed and hurting, she said, “Crikey, you’re stubborn. Would you stop that and let me do it? I promise not to peek.”
He sighed, let her snap him up, enjoyed her Boston cream pie scent some more, and said, “So you really do say ‘Crikey.’ I wondered.” Trying to keep it light, to keep her comfortable. To keep her here.
“Could be I’m colorizing a bit. Entertaining the troops. It’s my patriotic duty. Lean forward and let me pull down the back. I’m the pretend-girlfriend, remember? This is a girlfriend job.” He did lean forward, and accepted the flash of pain as a price he was glad to pay, because her hands smoothed the fabric over his back, his chest, and he looked at those tendrils of hair on her forehead and the red lipstick, sweated some, and thought, a little hazily, You dressed up for me, though. And you smell so good.
She looked a little flustered by the time she sat down again, and he had to lean back and get his breath for a second, let things settle down. Damn, that was annoying. She said, “I’ll leave the rest of this here. That’s enough for now.”
“Nope.” He’d pressed the call button midway through his change, and finally, the woman he’d summoned came in. Not a nurse. The aide, on the evening shift. Blond, a little maternal, and a whole lot cheerful. He smiled at her and said, “Hi, Marla. Can I get you to help me with something?” He told Willow, “Give me five minutes to get decent.”
“Brett . . .” she said. “No. It hurts too much.”
“Go read a magazine or something,” he said. “I don’t get naked on the second date.”
Willow leaned against the wall and watched a seventy-something woman in a hospital gown and slipper-socks walk down the corridor, her steps tiny and halting. She was leaning on her husband. Surely, that was her husband. His arm was around her, the other hand threaded firmly through hers, his head bent to her own. Her face was pale, nearly gray, and so were her lips. Her just-colored, defiantly red hair was mussed, the gown was shapeless, and he still looked as tender, as glad to be the one holding her hand, as he must have on the day she’d walked down the aisle to him.
The woman turned her head, smiled at Willow on their way past, and said, “Evening constitutional. First day up.”
“You’re going well,” Willow said.
Her husband said, “She is. She’s a trooper.” They passed on, and Willow watched their slow progress and blinked back a stupid tear or two. The woman probably fussed when her husband hogged the remote, and he probably thought she spent too much time with her sister, but she’d bet that when they got into the car, he still held her door.
Love stories weren’t only for the young and beautiful. She knew that. She also knew that she was still feeling fragile after that terrible wait in the sun, and then the endless ride in the ambulance. Sitting beside Brett, holding his hand and talking to him as if she really were the one who belonged there. Telling him he’d be all right, that she was with him and she wouldn’t leave. Not knowing if he could even hear her, but hoping he’d be comforted, somehow.
Surely he’d wanted her hand there. He’d held it as hard as that man had done just now, with his wife. Everybody needed somebody special, didn’t they? Everybody needed to be somebody special to someone. Or at least to pretend.
What, she suddenly wondered, had her parents said to each other as the plane spiraled down toward the desert floor? They’d held hands. That, she knew for sure. Her mother would have been glad to have her husband there with her at the end. Her father, though? He’d have wished his wife were anywhere else. He’d have wished to be doing it alone, that she was safe.
As for Willow? She’d always had someplace to go, somebody to be with. Even when she’d been alone, there’d been people waiting in the wings to take her in. She’d lost her parents, but she’d still been lucky. Had Brett?
Also, what the bloody hell was she doing? He was on a business trip. She had a business of her own. She had a life. A good one.
The aide came out of his room, closed the door behind her, and told Willow, “He says you can go in now.”
“Cheers,” Willow said, and pushed off the wall.
“Lovely man,” the aide said. “You can tell by how they are in here. Powerless is never a bloke’s favorite spot, and he’s clearly not one who’s used to it, and still, always a smile and a word of thanks. Have you known each other long?”
Willow did not ask whether “not used to it” had anything to do with the results of the undie-wrestling. She didn’t need to speculate about that. Instead, she said, “No. I’m a . . . his temporary companion.”
“Oh,” the woman said. “Well, that’s not what I expected.”
Willow realized what she’d said, wanted to laugh at the look on the aide’s face, and decided to let it go. She needed to retain some cheekiness here. This was a rescue mission, she was the temporary companionship, and she’d best remember it.
“Hey,” she said when she’d slipped through the door again. Brett was sweating. That had hurt heaps. No surprise. She detoured to the sink, wet a few paper towels, and took them over to him. “Fair warning,” she told him before sitting down and pulling out the cooler of ice blocks. “The staff now thinks I’m a prostitute, hired for the duration. Who knows what we’re doing in here? You’d have to have heaps of stamina.”
He made a choking noise, then finished wiping his face, and she took the paper towels back, tossed them in the bin, and asked, “Red, yellow, or green?”
“Oh, red,” he said. “I always ask my prostitutes for red Popsicles before we get down to business. What did you say? I can’t wait.”
“Said I was the temporary companionship.” She took a green one for herself, then zipped the cooler again. “Sounded bad, I guess. This last one will keep a bit. Do you mind if I put my feet up on the edge of the bed? Also, what are we watching on our fake date?”
“Hey,” he said, “I put on clean underwear and everything. That makes it a real date. Also, eating this is reminding me that I’m starved. I hope that smoothie’s still good, and that you brought something for yourself. I hate to eat alone. And as far as the movie? Let’s watch a romance.”
It was eight o’clock on Sunday morning, and Willow had been working for well over an hour already. Her schedule was much too tight to allow her to visit Brett before today’s wedding, which was surely just as well. And, yes, she may have been pulling out her phone to text him, but anybody would do the same. He was in hospital in a foreign country where he knew almost nobody. It was only kind.
He’d given her his mobile number the night before, along with his wry smile. “In case I need an emergency Popsicle run,” he’d said. “Or in case you have bad dreams about sharks. I’ll be right here, with nothing to do but listen.” He’d been looking pretty faded at the time, though. Too much pain, and too much denial of it.
She’d wanted to kiss his cheek, and hadn’t. Why not, though? She could kiss a man’s cheek. A man who was lying helpless in bed.
That was the problem. He never actually looked all that helpless.
I’ll come see you tonight, if you like, she typed now. How are you going this morning? Undies working out OK? Easy-breezy, that was the ticke
t. No overenthusiastic hearts need apply.
I’d like, he answered. Immediately, so he was awake. And I’m good. How about you? Dreams OK?
Dreams may have been a bit fraught, she found herself confessing. Long day.
Hard to control those dreams. Good news. I’m getting my laptop today. Will have earned another movie date with a redhead by tonight. Maybe I can make it good for the redhead too. Bring me another smoothie? Would offer to buy you dinner, but don’t think it’d meet your standards. They keep giving me Jell-O. And none of your business about the undies. Third date rule. I’m hard to get.
She laughed out loud, then typed, You are? Really? Got a favorite?
Movie? Or redhead? I liked your choice last night. And that would be you. And no not really. I’m easy to get.
She wiped the silly grin off her face and typed, No, mate. Favorite smoothie. Your turn to choose film too. She hesitated, then typed fast, Better than Julia Roberts? You need another MRI. On brain.
A few seconds, and the green bubble appeared. I know what I like. I keep thinking about sweet things. Vanilla. Almond. The way you smell. Can I get something like that? That’s what I want.
Her hand was on her heart, and she got a flush of heat that wasn’t from the stove. The man had a broken leg. He was on major drugs. He was in hospital. Also, he was leaving. For the States. There was long-distance, and then there was this mad idea.
Peach vanilla? she wrote back. Sneak a bit of ice cream in with the yoghurt? Can your stomach handle it?
Yeah. It can. Can’t wait. I’ll come up with something for you too on second thought. Non-cafeteria. My turn to provide. Time to try harder.
Working your powerful-man magic remotely?
That’s it. You can judge how I do. See you tonight.
“That’s all?” she asked aloud. “Not fair, mate.” She set her phone down firmly in a corner, out of temptation’s way, and washed her hands. He must be a killer negotiator, flirting like that, then cutting it off. She’d wanted to keep going, even though she had heaps of work to do, and not enough time to do it. At the moment, she desperately wanted to forward the whole conversation to Azra, or possibly read it aloud. “And then I said, and then he said, and then I said . . .” What was she, fifteen? No. She hadn’t even been that bad when she was fifteen.
Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3) Page 8