Laughter bubbles up my throat. I hold out my hands in front of me, motioning holding the giant burger and eating it, as I remember the mess of sauce and juice from the patty that trailed down my hands. Last time I had one, I had to go home and change. “Because you’re filthy by the time you finish eating it. Definitely not date food.”
“I’ll remember that,” he says and laughs.
Sam moves on to his side facing me, crooking his arm to rest against his head. I settle into the chair, sitting on an angle so my back is almost to him and hold the book so he can read over my shoulder if he wants.
“’Kay, where were we?” I ask, fingering the bookmark and spreading the pages open.
Over the next half an hour, Sam listens intently, occasionally piping up when something of particular interest happens. When I start the next chapter, I note there are about forty or so pages left.
Parched, I put the book down for a moment and gulp some water from my bottle. “You sure you don’t want to read some? My throat’s dry.”
“Nope. You’re doing a bang-up job,” he replies, a touch of humour in his tone. Kathleen’s words ring in my ear. I think that young man is having a lend of you …
Smiling, I continue to read the remainder of the chapter. When we get there, I place the bookmark into the spine.
“Whoa,” Sam says. “It’s getting intense. Sure you can’t take the rest of the arvo off sick and stay with me?”
I wish I could. “Pretty sure my boss would be on to me.” I stand and place the book on his bedside. “Oh, by the way. I had a look in lost property for your glasses.” I try to keep a straight face.
He clears his throat. “Oh, yeah?”
I can’t resist winking at him. “Yeah. Nothing so far, but don’t worry—I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Appreciate it.”
“You doing anything at five o’clock?” I ask as I reach the doorway.
“Same thing I’m doing now,” he says and shrugs.
“I’ll be back. We’ll finish the book.”
The smile that grows on his face, eventually showing his straight white teeth, is nothing short of magical.
***
A five o’clock, I pack up my desk and say goodbye to Kathleen. I buy a small pack of salt and vinegar chips from the vending machine in the dining hall, and then duck into the bathroom where I powder my nose, throw my long hair into a messy top knot, and put on some cherry lip gloss. It might be Thursday, but I have the Friday feels.
On my way down to room ten, I cross paths with Paige. For some reason, she winks at me as she passes. I have no clue why.
When I reach his room, I find Sam sitting up in bed. This time though, he’s propped up on top of the covers. A dark grey T-shirt hugs his chest, and black sweatpants sit low on his hips. White socks cover his generous-sized feet. His hair looks darker, as if he’s come straight from a shower. There’s a pinkish hue to his cheeks, which normally don’t house much colour.
I’m not blind. Sam Marshall looks yummy. Mouth-wateringly so.
As I approach, I take in a good lungful of air. The same earthy, spicy scent from lunchtime taunts me. It’s official. He looks as tasty as he smells. Do I tell him he looks and smells good?
I should. It’ll be good for his confidence.
He smiles and crosses his arms beneath his chest.
“Yummy,” I blurt out and then shake my head.
“What?” he says through a chuckle.
I fumble through my bag as I enter, reefing out the small bag of salty treats. “Brought yummy snacks. Sorry, little tongue-tied there. Long day.”
He nods. “Uh-huh. I’d say me too, but you know.”
“You got out of bed, got changed. Don’t discount that. Bet that took effort, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I move the chair from the corner closer to the bed. “Then stop being so hard on yourself.”
“Can you sit up here?” he says, and pats the bed beside him. “My neck’s kinda sore from lunchtime.” Sam moves his neck from side to side.
“Oh yeah. Sure.” I put down my bag, open the chips and hand them to him. I slip off my shoes and prop myself on the side of the bed. I almost topple off, and over correct, which has me bumping shoulders with Sam.
“These beds are skinny,” I grumble.
“Yeah, I should put in a complaint,” Sam says and hands me the book.
“Ready?” I ask, opening up where we left off.
“Yup.”
With each few pages, I find myself snuggling deeper into the pillows, and closer to Sam. I don’t want this book to end. A settling warmth radiates from his body as we lie shoulder to shoulder, upper arm to upper arm, and thigh to thigh. It’s a wonder I can pronounce any of the words I’m reading with his body against mine.
After I narrate the final paragraph, Sam and I both sigh.
“It’s been so long since I’ve read a book,” he says through a yawn. “Thanks.”
“Well, technically, I read it.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“The author is such a tease. I want more,” I say and pouting, turn to Sam, whose face is closer than I’d thought.
“Me too.” His heated gaze has me wondering if he’s talking about the novel.
“So, um.” Swallow, Jane. “Whaddya think of the book?”
“Pretty good. Not as good as the company though.” Sam’s focus shifts to my mouth. I mirror him, taking that as my cue to look at his plump, pink lips. They’ve kissed me once before. Do I dare kiss them again?
A loud knock at the door brings me out of my lip-fantasy trance.
“Dinner, Sam,” Pauline booms, wheeling her cart loaded with dinner trays into the doorway. That chef is never backwards in coming forwards. I swear one day she’ll give a resident a heart attack with one of her grand entrances.
Sam mumbles something that sounds like ‘timing’.
“What time is it?” I ask her.
“Six on the dot, love.” She places a tray of food covered in foil, a small container of orange juice, and a dinner roll wrapped in plastic on the table beside Sam’s bed.
“Any vodka to go with the OJ, Pauline?” Sam asks.
“You know there ain’t,” she says and shakes her head, before leaving us alone.
Shuffling off the bed, I place the book on the bedside table and stretch my arms above my head. “I should leave you to eat dinner,” I say, wondering if he senses the regret in my voice. I scoop up my bag and dispose of the empty chip packet.
“Stay,” he says, reaching out and taking hold of my hand, his grip weak. He gives no attention to the food that’s been delivered. “I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later.”
“Sam, you need real food.”
He rolls his eyes. “Come on. Stay.”
A heavy sigh falls from my lips. “I wish I could, but Butch will be going ballistic right about now.”
“Why? Has he been cooped up all day?”
“No, he has a doggy door so he can come and go as he pleases. The problem is, he gets hangry, and when Butch gets hangry he starts eating whatever he can get his teeth on. And I just remembered I have a heap of my good underwear on a clothes airer. I couldn’t bear to see my pretties get ruined.”
His fingers tease at the palm of my hand, sending goosebumps to domino over my skin. “Nice visual to leave me with,” he says, his voice thick.
“Sorry. I seem to be frightfully honest around you,” I say and shrug.
“S’okay. I like it.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Talk of underwear?”
He laughs. “Sure.”
I walk in a daze to his door, heady from his company.
“Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow?” he calls out.
I turn around to find a hopeful look on his face. “You bet. Lunch?”
He nods. “Cool.”
“I’m going to the bakery early in the morning. Want me to make you a sandwich? I was thinking something like pastrami, green tomato
relish, and rocket, on rye?”
“I’m drooling already.”
“’Kay,” I say in a soft voice. In my heart, I want to blow him a kiss goodbye. Instead, I wave. It feels so lame. I can’t remember when I’ve had such a nice time with a guy. It was so easy, comfortable. I could definitely sign up for that on a daily basis.
Maybe I will.
Sam winks.
I give in to my gut feeling and press a kiss to my outstretched fingers, and mimic blowing the kiss in his direction. It results in Sam gifting me another magical smile, which causes a shiver from my toes right up the length of my spine.
I’m still smiling as my head hits the pillow later that evening.
But I wish these good vibes could somehow filter into my writing, because right now, there isn’t any sign of a spark in Mount TBA.
Chapter Thirteen
Wheelchair beside chair, Sam and I finish the last of my homemade sandwiches. I’m guessing by the speed with which he’s devoured it that he liked it.
“Do you reckon we start another book?” Sam asks, and eats the last bit of crust.
I snap shut my plastic lunchbox, then take the napkin from Sam’s lap, folding it up to contain the crumbs before disposing of it.
“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about something.”
“I’m all ears,” he says.
“’Kay. Here goes.” I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. “I’m trying to write a book,” I say with a huff.
“That’s awesome,” he says and smiles. He blinks repeatedly, an expectant look on his face.
“It doesn’t look that awesome right now. Trust me.”
“Like I said, I’m all ears, Janie. Sounds like you need to get something off your chest.”
Relief washes over me. “I really do,” I say and nod repeatedly.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning? What made you wanna write?” he asks, giving me direct eye contact. He’s really interested in what I have to say. Something I haven’t found in the opposite sex to date.
“My nan was a historical romance author. She helped me discover my love of reading. I’ve always wanted to be able to create something like she did, something more modern day, of course, but I really suck at the whole writing part.”
“I’m sure you’re not that bad.”
“Well, I definitely know it’s not good. I recently joined a local writers’ group. The girls are all doing so well; they’re successful in what they do. They know their craft. I have ideas, but getting them to form into some sort of well-thought out story? It’s just not in me. Sometimes I can sit at the computer for hours, and then when I read back what I’ve written I think it’s complete rubbish.”
“I’m sure that, like anything, it takes practice. You need a plan and an understanding of what you’re trying to achieve. Once you know where you’re going, you have a starting point and an ending point.”
My brows pull together as I regard him. “You know about writing?”
“I know stuff,” he says and puffs up his chest. “Can’t give away all my secrets, though.”
“Fine,” I say in a soft voice. “The thing is, I don’t want to share something with the group that’s mediocre. I just know they’ll rip it to pieces; I get the feeling that Janice won’t be one to hold back. I’m too stubborn, and I take stuff to heart. So, whatever it is that I end up writing, it has to be perfect. The perfect novel—the perfect romance.”
“This world ain’t perfect, Janie.” Sam points to his chest with his thumb. “Prime example.”
“Sam,” I huff and shake my head.
“You know what a perfect world—well, a perfect anything would look like to me?” he asks before I get a chance to say anything else.
“How about you tell me?” Please. Let me in.
“I sure as shit wouldn’t be in a nursing home. I’d be lying on the sand, watching you strut along on a beach. You’d be wearing a bikini and your hair would blow in the breeze as the sun kissed your skin from your head down to your toes.”
My breath hitches, and my heart? It does a somersault in my chest. Sam Marshall has a way with words. I don’t even think he has to try.
I clear my throat, trying to act cool as if his wishful words didn’t just turn me to goop. “Maybe one day you will. I’ll have to learn to strut first.”
“I saw you walk out of here yesterday,” he teases. “You totally swayed that cute butt of yours.”
I reach out and playfully slap his knee, trying to ignore the fact he was looking at my arse. “I did not,” I protest. “You must have been doped up on pain meds.”
I regret the words as soon as they come from my mouth. Way to remind him of his medical issues. “Sorry.”
“I’ve been off them for a few days, so you’re wrong. You can be comforted by the fact that I’m thinking about you and me on a beach with a clear head.”
Heat flushes my cheeks as I imagine him lying on a beach towel, boardies that sit low on his hips, sunnies over his eyes, bronzed skin and a rock-star smile, like he has the world at his feet. As for sitting beside him when he’s looking like Hollywood? Sounds pretty stellar to me.
“So that’s your perfect day, huh?” I ask.
“Not finished yet.” He reaches over and slips his hand into mine.
My breath hitches. Again.
“We’d walk along the white sandy beach, stroll for miles as the waves licked at our feet until the sun finally went down. Then we’d sit around a campfire, and I’d play my guitar and sing to you until the sun came up.”
Be still, my frenzied beating heart. He wants to sing to me?
What am I doing? I can’t flirt with someone that lives here. Although there wasn’t anything in my contract.
I shift my hand to my lap. “You can play guitar?” I ask, knowing full well he does after overhearing his conversation with Frederick.
“Used to,” he says, positioning his hands as if he has an invisible guitar, and he’s ready to strum. “Kind of off the cards, now.” His hands drop like a dead weight into his lap. I see the pain in his eyes sometimes when he tries to move his hands. I don’t like it one bit.
Sam hangs his head and focuses on his knees. I hate that he seems so defeated over this. He has to have hope. I have to give him hope.
“You’ll play again. I just know it.” I give him a wide smile, the only thing I can do that feels right. Sam won’t even look at me. I reach out and grip his forearm. “Maybe not today, but one day.”
He grumbles and flips his wrist, awkwardly linking his fingers between mine.
“What would you sing to me?” I say in a soft voice.
His eyes meet mine. “Huh?”
“By the campfire,” I coax. “You know, at sunset.”
A grin stirs at the corner of his mouth. “Anything and everything, until my voice goes hoarse and I crash with exhaustion.”
My insides resume melting. There may not be anything left of me at the end of this conversation. “Then you have to believe that that will happen too. I believe, Sam.”
An ambulance siren blares in the distance, growing louder by the second. Moments later, flashing red lights penetrate the sheer white curtains of Sam’s room. Tyres squeal as the vehicle pulls to a halt close by.
“Jane, I need you out front,” the walkie-talkie on my hip screeches.
I bolt upright from the chair and grab the device. My hand shakes as I press down the button on the side. My heart explodes in my chest as adrenaline kicks in. “On my way,” I choke out.
“An ambo’s here?” Sam asks, wheeling closer to the curtain.
“I need to go.”
I hope all the residents I’ve grown to care about are okay.
But I know deep down that I’m wrong.
Chapter Fourteen
I run to reception and find a white ambulance parked out front of the double doors. Two male paramedics dressed in navy blue exit the vehicle and rush to open the rear doors.
“What’s hap
pened?” I ask Kathleen, unable to tear my gaze from the men. One of them pulls out a large black bag with a red cross on the side of it. The other wrestles with a stretcher, wheeling it towards us.
“Mrs Ferguson has had a heart attack,” Kathleen says, matter-of-factly.
I swing my head in her direction as my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. “Oh no,” I gasp.
My feet freeze to the ground. I know this is something that I should be prepared for, having sick and elderly people living here, but I’m not. She has so much life in her yet. Please don’t let this be it for her.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask as Kathleen moves to meet the emergency crew.
“Firstly, Sally-Anne had to leave early, so I need you to man the desk. Secondly, see if you can reach Paige. She went up the road to grab something for lunch. Thirdly, make sure Helen can work later this afternoon. Paige might have to go to the hospital in case they want to discuss Mrs Ferguson’s medical history, and we’ll need someone here just in case.”
“Okay. I’m on it.”
My hands shake. It takes me a moment to find Paige’s number. When she answers my call, she has to tell me to slow down because she can’t understand a word I’m saying. Eventually, after a tonne of deep breaths, I get the message across that she’s needed back here.
I’m more together when I speak with Helen at the nurses’ station. Thankfully, she’s happy to cover until the night shift arrives.
Paige arrives a few minutes later, just as the men are loading Mrs Ferguson into the ambulance, Kathleen standing by the side. Paige talks to the men and then ducks her head and climbs into the back. Lights and sirens blare once more as the vehicle pulls out onto the curb.
Kathleen walks inside, her gaze on her feet. “I’ll be in my office,” she says in a robotic voice as she scans her ID card and strides through the secure doors.
I don’t move from my post at reception for the next two hours. Each time the phone rings, I’m desperate for it to be the hospital or Paige with an update. The phones are eerily quiet.
At around three o’clock, Kathleen breaks the silence and walks with purpose into reception.
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