Chapter 3
Chapter three
Paisley
Lights. Beeping. Whirling.
I willed my eyes to open, but they felt like sandbags. A hand probed my forehead, utterly unfamiliar and frigid. Clammy, really, like a limp noodle. Or a fish. Disgusting. I grunted and shoved the hand poking my temple away, peeling my eyes open a sliver.
Everything was gritty and distorted. A shadowy man loomed over my prone body, and that was all it took for my survival skills to kick my adrenaline into overdrive. I was not dying today. Naturally, I aimed a blow to his gut. From the grunt he gave, I probably missed and hit lower.
Excellent. Now to escape.
But another hand touched my face. Calloused but warm and . . . familiar? Why did I know this hand?
“Easy, love. The doc’s just trying to help.”
That voice. I forced my eyes to open wider, but my muscles weren’t cooperating.
I was two seconds away from having to prop them open with toothpicks.
Doc? The sterile walls and brain-frying white lights murdering my retinas confirmed my guess of a hospital, along with the tubes and wires tugging at my arms and nose.
And what did that voice say? Love?
My eyes sagged shut again because the effort of keeping them open was too much for me to care if they tried to kill me or not.
Wow, I need to lay off the true crime podcasts if murder was the first thing that came to mind after .
. . after . . . The thought drifted away from me like a puff of smoke, without any indication on how to finish it. After what?
“Love?”
I shivered but not uncomfortably, I noticed, taking inventory of my body. That smooth tenor timbre did something to me. Again, why? The voice was like that hand, the ghost of a memory I needed to know. Needed to remember. Come on, brain. Snap to it.
Lips touched my forehead. What?!
I flung out a hand, making contact with a very sturdy chest. Which, naturally, I shoved away from me. Not that I was very successful. The guy, whoever he was, was solid. Like a mountain. Someone needed to give his personal trainer a raise.
“What . . . what are you doing?” I croaked.
Why did I resemble a duck with laryngitis?
And who did this guy think he was to be taking liberties?
Even if his delightful gravelly voice sounded cute, you didn’t kiss a concussed woman you didn’t know in a hospital bed.
At least, from the pounding in my head and the churning whirl of nausea in my stomach, I was assuming a concussion was on the table.
And who knows, maybe he was the sort of man who kissed random women?
Something twinged in my chest at the thought. Nope, didn’t like that idea. Which was ridiculous because I didn’t know him. Yet he was here with me.
Why? Why? Why? my brain chanted on a loop.
That wasn’t important right now.
With a final herculean effort, I peeled my eyes open.
Stabbing pain or no, I needed them in working order to address the situation of the unwelcome forehead kisser.
Even if the gesture did make my stomach flutter.
Get a grip . . . My name. What was my name?
I couldn’t even lecture myself in the third person because I couldn’t remember my own name, thanks to the cotton stuffed where my brain should be.
Oh great, I was one pair of overalls short of turning into the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz.
As I blinked back the rising flood of panicked tears and nausea, the owner of the sturdy chest’s face came into focus.
Or almost focus. Without my glasses, I could only see in broad strokes.
This close up, the tanned face was etched with worry lines around ocean-blue eyes, rimmed with long lashes.
Why did guys get the best lashes? Such a waste.
A faint scar above his eyebrow added a hint of mystery to him. Angular cheekbones and a five o’clock shadow darkened a strong jawline. He was . . . pretty, in a manly way. But a blank canvas in my mind. Let’s call him Cute Guy.
“Anyone ever tell you you could pass for a rugged James Norton?” I slurred, then frowned, cursing my bleary vision. “Or maybe James Dean. Ooh, James and James. One of them definitely.”
“You’ve mentioned that a time or two.” He was silent for a moment. “Paisley?”
I mulled the name over, mouthing it. It felt like my name, slipping over my skin like a well-worn cardigan. I squinted at the man, but my head was being split in two by the pain, so I was probably glaring. “Who are you exactly? Is your name actually James?”
Maybe-or-maybe-not-James’s jaw twitched, but he gave me a tired half grin that would be dazzling at full strength. “Don’t be fooling. You scared me, love.” His voice broke over the last words, and he cleared his throat before trying to touch my cheek again.
I swatted his hand away. “I don’t know you,” I rasped again. Ugh, seriously, what was wrong with my larynx? “Water, please.”
Cute Guy eased closer and offered me the plastic cup with a straw sitting on the hospital tray to my right.
A few sips of the life-giving liquid had me feeling much less parched and my voice less inclined to scratch a record. “Thanks.” Much better. “Why are you here? Who even are you, and where’s Jared?” Where did that name come from? I was barely aware of what I was saying.
Cute Guy’s eyes widened, then slid shut, like he was trying to compose himself, but not fast enough to hide the brief shattering in the expressive blue depths.
“Don’t worry. Amnesia can be a common effect after a head trauma like that. These things take time,” the doctor I’d forgotten about said.
Sure, talk about me like I wasn’t even here. Two out of ten on your bedside manner, Doc.
Cute Guy nodded slowly as if he barely believed the man.
“I’m Paisley,” I said slowly, my gaze oscillating between them like a Ping-Pong ball. “Who are you?”
Cute Guy straightened, clasping his hands between his knees. He leaned forward in his chair beside my bed, eyes never leaving mine. “I’m Greyson Satterfield. Your . . . husband.”
Fireworks exploded in my brain, and the world tilted.
Was this what Stephanie experienced during her POTS attacks when her blood pressure plummeted?
Stephanie. I chased the thought through the corridor of my mind as I sagged back into the pillows.
Stephanie Addams was one of my best friends. Ha, take that amnesia.
“She’s going into shock,” an unhelpfully loud intonation called out. Doctor McClammy Hands needed a new bedside manner and some hand warmers pronto.
I was still lucid, and a strong hand cupped the back of my head to keep it from banging the side rail of the bed as I slid towards it. Definitely not the doc.
Husband? My mouth tried to form the word, but no sound came out.
I was married to Greyson Satterfield? But what about Jared?
I loved Jared. He was my husband. I could feel it in my bones.
Then why wasn’t he here beside me? I desperately needed to see his boyish grin and hazel eyes. And Satterfield? I knew that name.
“Sweetheart.” Greyson again.
I groaned and tried to open my eyes, but the room swam in a Tilt-a-Whirl, so I slammed them shut.
I hated that ride—all rides really—but that one in particular.
Mom had forgotten me at a carnival one time, and when I’d gotten off the Tilt-a-Whirl, she was gone.
I’d only been eleven and had walked the six miles back to the trailer park, only to find her drinking with her then-boyfriend, Brad.
Or was it Jeffrey? I lost count. They were all losers.
“Where’s Jared?” I whispered.
“I . . . don’t know exactly,” Greyson said, his tone morphing from soft to laced with steel. Ooh-kay. He definitely knew who Jared was, that much was certain. But from the sound of it, Jared could have taken a long walk off a short pier for all Greyson cared. Rude.
“What happened to me?” I figured this was a safer line of questioning. Until my overactive imagination kicked into gear. “Was I kidnapped? Or hit by a car?” My stomach flopped as a new idea presented itself. “Did someone hurt me?” I whispered.
“Hey, no.” Greyson’s voice was incredibly gentle, but his sigh held the weight of the world.
He settled back into the most uncomfortable-looking orange plastic chair at my side.
He didn’t make me nervous by getting too close into my space, just close enough to reassure me he didn’t plan on leaving.
“You fell off a ladder while chalk painting the library windows.”
Death by chalk painting, what a way to go.
“The library? Why was I at the library?” I was tired of frowning, but it was my permanent expression as I tried to take everything in. Also, the world was still blurry without my glasses.
“You’re a librarian.”
“No, I’m not.” I rubbed my forehead, wincing when my fingers bumped the bandage under my bangs. How beat up was I? “I need to finish the final year of my literature degree. And I still have to get my master’s.”
It was Greyson’s turn to frown, and he exchanged a look with the doctor, who, now that my eyes were semifunctional, I could tell was definitely wearing a toupee. Greyson’s posture was casual and controlled, but there was something about his eyes. Was that . . . dread?
“Do you know where you are, Mrs. Satterfield?” Doctor Toupee asked.
“It’s Nichols,” I hissed, glaring at him.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down.”
I snorted. “Wrong thing to say to a woman, buddy.”
“Pais,” Greyson cut in with gentle firmness. “It’ll be okay. Just answer the question.”
“The hospital.”
Greyson’s sigh was tired, but he chuckled. “You’ve got your spunk at least.”
I barely refrained from sticking my tongue out at him. “Seattle.” I was entirely confident in my answer but found myself shooting Greyson a glance to confirm. Why did I do that? I didn’t know this man from Adam—his opinion shouldn’t matter to me.
His jaw twitched, and Doctor Toupee hummed. “And the date?”
“March seventeenth. I just finished midterms.” I was less certain about this part, and from the look the men exchanged, I’d dealt a blow. And when I tacked on the year, we were all frowning.
“Seven years,” Doctor Toupee announced with the solemnness of a judge handing down a criminal sentence. “You’re short about seven years.”
Wait, what? My life is missing? My pulse screamed in my ears. Oh wait, that was the machine shrieking because my heart was doing funny things. Anxiety sent tremors down my limbs, and I sank back in the bed, hot tears threatening to spill over. Lord, help. “Jules,” I whispered. “I need Jules.”
Greyson’s eyebrows flew up. “Jules?”
“My best friend. She . . .” I winced. I couldn’t remember exactly how I knew her. College? Roommates? It hurt too much to think, but I knew her. “She’s like a sister,” I whimpered pathetically against the tears.
“I’m going to give you something for the pain,” the doctor said.
My mind raced with thoughts faster than a skeet shooting competition, but I couldn’t catch a single thought that made sense. So, I tried to nod and ended up groaning. I glanced at Greyson. “Do you know Jules? She’s a Satterfield, too.”
His smile was soft. “She’s my baby sister. She was here earlier but had to step out for a bit. She’ll be back soon.”
“Okay.” I breathed deeply. I wasn’t sure I could sleep with a strange man in my room, but my eyelids were too heavy to care. “Wait . . . Greyson.” I mused over the name attached to a hazy thread of a conversation. “You’re the war hero who’s too busy to ever come home.”
Greyson stiffened, like my words were offensive. And maybe they were—I didn’t exactly have a working filter at the moment. “I’m no one’s hero,” he said gruffly.
My eyes had sagged shut momentarily, but I heard the steel of his tone. I’d hit some sort of nerve. Too bad I was too exhausted to press further because I had questions. Big ones. Lots of them.
“Why are you here?” I whispered.
“Because you matter to me. We’re married after all.”
“How do you know?”
“You’re wearing my ring.” Slowly, Greyson lifted up my left hand, wrapped in a bandage. A gorgeous oval diamond set in a filigree band glinted on my ring finger under the pesky fluorescents.
It wasn’t Jared’s ring. We were thrifty college kids, and Jared was proud of the small diamond solitaire he bought me. So where was it?
“Relax, Pais. It’ll be all right.”
For some reason, I believed him. “Don’t kill me in my sleep,” I murmured.
Or at least I think that’s what I said. Too many crime dramas late at night.
Because I might have said “don’t kiss me in my sleep.
” I couldn’t be held responsible for my concussed conversations with a handsome man .
. . the husband I couldn’t seem to remember.