20. ANASTASIA
Chapter twenty
T he anticipation of Conan’s visit kept me glancing at the clock every few minutes. As I waited for him to arrive, I rummaged through the clothes Samantha had brought me earlier. Among them was a casual but flirty light heather-gray off-the-shoulder top, which paired perfectly with some comfy black leggings. It was just the right mix of cozy and cute—ideal for a night in but nice enough to show I was making an effort for the company I was expecting.
I spent a good while in front of the small bathroom mirror, working on my hair until it fell in soft waves around my shoulders. A touch of makeup enhanced my light blue eyes, making them pop. I was doing this for me, I told myself, but the flutter in my stomach at the thought of Conan’s reaction indicated otherwise.
There was a firm knock on the door that snapped me back to the present. “Come on in!” I called out on the way out of the bathroom. Conan stepped into the room, his arms loaded with bags that smelled like heaven. He grinned when he saw me, his eyes doing an appreciative once-over.
“Hope you’re hungry, because I might have overdone it.” He grinned, setting the bags down and starting to unpack. “Wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got a little bit of everything.”
“Looks like you bought out the whole restaurant,” I joked, helping him lay out an array of dishes on the table by the window: spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna, carbonara, chicken parmigiana, shrimp Alfredo, and garlic bread. He even brought raspberry tea and a bottle of wine, plus some torta tenerina and a bunch of those cute little red-and-white butter mints.
“Planning to feed the entire floor, or just us?” I asked.
“Eating is serious business.” Conan shrugged, giving me an easy smile. “But remember, just one glass of wine for you tonight. Gotta take care of that head of yours.”
His concern warmed me more than any wine could. I nodded. “Doctor’s orders, huh?”
“Something like that.” He chuckled, pouring me a small glass before filling his own.
“Not sure what I like,” I admitted, looking over the feast.
“Let’s make it fun then. We’ll share and try a bit of everything. Can’t go wrong with Italian, right?” He handed me a plate.
We started with the spaghetti, both of us making appreciative noises as we ate. Next, I twirled a forkful of carbonara and took a bite. As soon as the creamy richness burst on my tongue, something clicked. I paused, holding the fork just outside of my mouth, and got lost for a moment in a sudden rush of images. The room faded away as a memory surfaced—me, laughing as a young delivery boy blushed at my teasing, the familiar comfort of my home around me. Then another flash of memory hit me—a cozy, warmly lit kitchen, laughter, and the same dish in front of me.
“Angel?” Conan’s voice was tinged with concern. He reached over, gently brushing a strand of hair from my face.
I blinked, and the room snapped back into focus. “I…I just remembered something. Carbonara is my favorite. I always order it from this little Italian place just a few blocks from where I live. There’s this young delivery boy—oh, how he gets so flustered every time he comes by—I flirt just to watch him turn red,” I said, giggling. “And, from the memory, I think I live alone…”
Conan’s expression shifted from worry to amusement. “Got a thing for younger guys, huh? Sounds like you are quite the heartbreaker.” Then his smile softened. “But hey, that’s great you had a happy memory. I bet it means more are on the way. Looks like you’re getting your life back piece by piece.”
We continued eating, the tension from my flashback dissipating into easy conversation. Every so often, Conan would make a joke or I’d laugh, and it felt like we were just two people having dinner, not a patient and her nurse navigating the complicated aftermath of amnesia.
After we’d polished off what must have been half the menu of an Italian restaurant, Conan patted his stomach, declaring a need for a music break. “Gonna grab my guitar from the car. Hang tight, okay?”
With him gone, I took the opportunity to clear away the remnants of our feast. I stacked and bagged the empty containers, replaying the day’s conversation in my mind. Conan really was something—with his straightforward charm and that rough-around-the-edges vibe that somehow made him even more enticing. I was particularly looking forward to hearing him play again. His singing voice seemed to smooth out the sharp edges of my shattered memories.
By the time I’d arranged the pillows against the raised head of the bed and settled cross-legged on the soft blanket, Conan was back, guitar in hand. He flashed me a playful grin and plopped down at the foot of my bed, tuning his guitar.
“Where’s the case?” I asked.
“Oh, I left it in the car. I grabbed it and ran back inside. It was just easier than having to stop and let your guard check it out. He took forever with the food. I’m surprised it wasn’t cold by the time I got in here.”
I shook my head and huffed out a sigh. God, how annoying to be constantly babysat. Was a guard really necessary? Did someone think I would run out of here with nothing but my broken mind?
Without missing a beat, Conan started strumming a tune that stirred something in the recesses of my mind. When he started singing “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman, my mouth dropped open, and I couldn’t suppress my shock or the smile that followed. He caught my reaction, and his grin widened.
“Too soon?” he flippantly asked.
With a laugh, I shoved his shoulder, then let my hand fall to the bed beside his guitar, which rested on his thigh. Leaning into him, I curled my legs up and to the side, tucking myself comfortably around him as he continued to play.
He sang with a teasing edge, and I was mesmerized by his playing. I watched, almost hypnotized, by his ability to use such big hands to deftly finger the notes and pick the guitar strings with ease, making complex movements look simple. It was hard to believe that hands big enough to palm a basketball could manipulate the frets with such precision. The music vibrated through the mattress, resonating not only with my emotions but sending tingles through my body. I was getting turned on, growing wetter with each strum, and I had to clench my thighs to keep from reacting to my raw impulses.
His voice, deep and mellow, layered another dimension of sensation over the physical vibrations. The sound he produced didn’t just travel through the air; it moved through me, making everything inside me hum. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his fingers.
By the time he’d finished the song, I was so wrapped up in his playing and the sound of his voice that I hadn’t realized how much my imagination had run wild. I was having a vivid daydream about those very fingers, imagining how well he could play—me—and betting mentally that he could make me sing too.
Conan cleared his throat, yanking me back to reality, and I realized he’d finished his song. He had a knowing smile on his face. I’d been caught in the act, staring a bit too intently, my thoughts wandering to places they probably shouldn’t. My cheeks heated up instantly. Trying to recover, I dipped my head, biting my lip in a mix of embarrassment and lingering thrill.
Conan just chuckled. He seemed to know exactly the effect he had on me. He shifted to retrieve a bottle of water from the nearby tray. Seizing the moment, I stretched across him, my hand grazing his side as I snagged a few butter mints from the pile. Unwrapping one, I popped it into my mouth and started crunching it loudly.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to let those melt, not demolish them. You should savor the peppermint flavor as it lingers on your tongue,” he teased.
Mischievously I glanced over at him and unwrapped another mint, this time holding it between my fingers and licking it slowly and deliberately. Conan watched wordlessly, running his fingers across his lips as I tucked the candy into my cheek with an impish smile.
“I see you’re one who likes living dangerously,” he said, giving me a full-on smirk.
I rolled my eyes and let out a sigh.
“What did I say about rolling your eyes?” he growled, picking up his guitar.
My easy laughter blended with the soft strumming. He began Kenny Chesney’s “Take Her Home,” his voice a soft hum that filled the room with a sweet melancholy. The soothing melody and his soulful voice made everything else fade away, and I found myself lost in the moment.
When the last notes of the song had trailed off into the stillness of the room, Conan set his guitar aside and turned to face me, his eyes locking with mine in a gaze that seemed to drill right into my core. He inched closer, and I got lost in the flecks of gold in his green eyes.
For a moment, we just sat there, the space between us charged. It was as if an unseen magnet was drawing us together. My breath hitched, my heart thumping against my ribs like it wanted to break free.
He leaned forward, cupping my cheek as he traced my lips with his thumb. I dared not blink or breathe out of fear of giving in to the temptation of desire swirling around us. His lips hovered over mine, close enough that I caught the minty freshness of his breath.
Then the tension snapped, and our lips met softly, tentatively at first, coaxing a response I hadn’t planned but couldn’t resist.
His kiss grew hungrier, more urgent, as one arm encircled me, pulling me into him while his hand moved to tangle his fist in my hair. His strength was unmistakable, not just in the hold he had on me, but in the gentleness he managed despite it. I melted into his embrace, my hands finding the back of his neck, drawing him deeper into the kiss. The lingering taste of mint on our tongues only amped up the craving within me.
The kiss intensified, and in that moment, nothing else existed—no hospital rules, no murky past, just the undeniable connection that sizzled wherever our skin touched.
But as quickly as the moment had come, it shattered. Conan pulled back, his face full of regret and something darker, more intense. He swallowed hard, sliding his hands down my arms before pushing me away, leaving me cold and confused.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words rough around the edges. “I shouldn’t have done that. Nurses don’t kiss their patients.”
I sat there, stunned, my lips still tingling from his touch. Part of me wanted to pull him back, to taste his lips again, to lose myself in that rush. But in reality, I realized the kiss had been a stolen moment. My memory was still patchy, and Conan was a nurse at this hospital. We couldn’t do this.
“It’s okay,” I managed to say, forcing a small smile onto my lips. “We just got caught up in the music, that’s all.”
His eyes were full of torment, as though he was torn between what he wanted to do and what he thought he should do. “You’re right. Forget that it ever happened,” he said quickly, standing up. He took his guitar in hand and stepped back. “It’s getting late. I should go.”
And he was gone before I could even reply.
After the door clicked shut, I lay back against my pillows, my mind racing. His departure left an empty space in my soul. It was just a kiss…but the thrill of it had sparked fantasies that I couldn’t allow myself to wish for. If he only knew what I really wanted to do to him, even he would blush.
As I lay there, the hospital room seemed more confining than ever—like a cage keeping me from freedom. Even though my brain was a dysfunctional mess, it didn’t mean I wasn’t a woman with a healthy sexual appetite. I might not remember my partners, but I knew without a doubt I was no virgin. During one of the many discussions with my doctors about the tests they’d conducted, both while I was unconscious and those I’d consented to after waking, they’d assured me that my IUD was still properly placed and that my labs showed no STIs. There had also been no alcohol or drugs in my system on the day of the wreck—news I’d been happy to hear. It was strange knowing I’d had sex but not being able to recall any details. Somewhere deep down, though, my instincts told me I relished it. I supposed that was why I craved what I couldn’t have—at least for now—with Conan. But one thing was clear: I would have my wicked way with him. It was just a matter of time. No hospital rules or professional boundaries would keep that attraction from igniting once we were both free to explore it.