Chapter Sixteen
“KELLI . . . KELLI . . . PLEASE KELLI . . . PLEASE God.”
I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or awake, but all I knew was I could hear someone calling my name and pleading for me to be okay.
I was having a hard time opening my eyes and responding.
I wanted to, but I couldn’t. The voice sounded so upset that I desperately wanted to make whoever it was feel better.
If only I could open my eyes and make my mouth work.
I’m not sure how long I tried, but finally the smell of jet fuel overcame me, and I was able to slowly open my eyes. What I found, when I did, was Mr. Greyson calling my name and smiling at me in relief.
“Don’t you mean, Ms. Bryant?”
He rested his hand on my cheek. “Kelli,” he whispered.
I tried to move my head, but he used both his hands to gently hold it still. “Please, Kelli, don’t move your head. I don’t know how badly you’ve been injured.”
It was then I realized I hurt all over. I felt something wet and sticky on my face. The airbags all around me were deployed. That explained the jet fuel smell. I tried to reach up and touch my face, but moving my right arm caused pain like I had never felt before. I cried out.
“Please don’t move at all,” he pleaded again. He grabbed a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket and used it to apply pressure to the right side of my head.
“What happened?” I managed to ask.
He applied pressure with one hand, while sweetly stroking my face with the other. He looked as if he were on the verge of tears. “A truck ran a red light, and I wasn’t paying attention. I’m so sorry.”
I was able to move my left arm, so I reached up and patted him. “It’s not your fault.”
“This whole thing is my fault.”
“Mr. Greyson, are you okay?” I thought I should make sure, even though I couldn’t see any cuts or abrasions on him.
He kissed my forehead. “Please don’t worry about me. Just hold still. The paramedics are on their way.”
“I think that crosses the professional boundary line, Mr. Greyson,” I couldn’t help but say it.
He chuckled. “To hell with the line, Kelli.”
I tried to laugh, too, but found it difficult. “I don’t feel very good.”
I could see the worry in his eyes. “It’s going to be okay.”
Then, as if on cue, I heard the sirens, and suddenly there was a flurry of activity going on around us. I heard emergency personnel communicating with Mr. Greyson, but he wouldn’t let go of me. I was thankful for that. His presence was more calming than I would have thought.
From what I could tell, without moving my head, the truck that hit us needed to be moved and my door had to be pried opened.
Once the paramedics got to me, they convinced Mr. Greyson to let me go.
I missed his touch immediately, but that quickly gave way to panic as I found myself being placed in a neck brace and I heard talk of my face needing stitches.
They also said something about a possible broken arm and a concussion.
Once they finished their initial assessment, they asked me a series of questions: “What’s your name?
Do you know what happened? Do you know what day it is?
” I guess they were checking to make sure I hadn’t mentally checked out.
I was able to answer each question satisfactorily, I think.
The paramedics carefully removed me from the vehicle and placed me on a stretcher. I winced several times due to the pain. Once on the stretcher, Mr. Greyson came into my line of view. “Do you want me to call Amanda?”
“No,” I cried. “I don’t want her to worry.” I knew if she found out, she would come straight home, and I didn’t want to ruin the vacation they had all been looking forward to.
Mr. Greyson picked up my left hand. “It’s okay,” he said trying to soothe my emotional state.
I had never been in an accident like this before, and I admit, I was a little freaked out.
“Would you like to ride with your wife to the hospital?” One of the paramedics asked Mr. Greyson.
“Of course,” Mr. Greyson responded before I even had a chance to correct the paramedic’s false conclusion.
If I could have scowled properly, I would have. “Mr.—”
Mr. Greyson leaned down and silenced me by crossing way over the professional boundaries, and the worst or maybe the best part was I couldn’t move to stop him.
His lips gently pressed against my own, making me forget for a moment I was in any pain.
All I felt was our surreal connection. It hadn’t gone anywhere after all this time.
His lips glided off mine before he pulled back to meet my eyes. “I think you meant, Ian.”
“Ian,” I repeated back without thinking.
I was wheeled away with Mr. Greyson, or Ian, or whoever the heck he was, holding onto my hand and following me. The jarring from loading me into the ambulance unfortunately made me moan in pain.
“Can’t you give her anything?” Ian asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bryant, we can’t until we know the extent of her injuries,” replied the paramedic.
I had to tell the truth. “His name isn’t Mr. Bryant, we aren’t even—”
“My last name is Greyson,” Ian interrupted. “I’ve been trying to convince her to take my last name, but you know how women are today.”
The paramedic chuckled. What was this? Comedy hour? I was in pain and my boss was a liar. He was also doing and saying things that made my already-pounding head hurt more, and even worse, my heart ached. It ached for things I wish I could’ve had, things I was now pretending to have.
Ian stroked my cheek before I could rebut his asinine comment. “But maybe someday she’ll take my name.”
I closed my eyes. I felt nauseous, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the accident, the ambulance ride, or my pretend husband. But then I remembered something. My eyes flew open. “What about our meeting with Premier?”
Ian smoothed my forehead. “Relax. I’ll call Delfia when we get to the hospital.” He paused. “That is, if you want me to, Director.”
I had forgotten that. Was he really willing to give up his job for me?
Then I thought, did I really want him to?
He was opening doors for me that had once been closed.
My baby was set to fly because of him. And despite his, let’s say sometimes abrasive on the clock attitude, he was a good leader.
He was brilliant and we made a good team.
“What I said in the car, I didn’t mean it. ”
He kissed me again. “I’ll call Delfia then.”
I closed my eyes again, tried to breathe, and not to think about the pain I was in, physically and emotionally.
It didn’t take us long to get to the hospital where I was rushed into the emergency room.
I heard them repeat to the doctor and nurse my vitals, which were thankfully normal, and what my injuries and symptoms were.
The doctor, who I believe said his name was Dr. Ellis, asked my “husband” to wait outside while they examined me.
When Ian objected, they said he could come back in a moment.
I didn’t say anything. I still couldn’t believe he was continuing with this charade.
Dr. Ellis examined me from head to toe, and when he got to my arm, I yelped. The sharpness that went from the shoulder to my fingertips was like nothing I had ever experienced before.
“I think it’s a safe bet to say your shoulder is dislocated.
I’m going to have to manipulate it back into place, and your forehead is going to need some stitches,” Dr. Ellis said like it was no big deal.
It was a big deal to me. I desperately wanted to see the cut on my forehead and the word manipulate never sounded good.
At least he didn’t think my arm was broken, but he was ordering x-rays just in case.
But he was concerned about a concussion, so they were going to monitor me for a while, perhaps overnight.
Oh joy. I was even more overjoyed when the nurse informed me I needed to be changed into their lovely attire.
I had a choice between a blue and a pink hospital gown.
“I choose door number three.”
She laughed but wouldn’t let me stay in my blood-stained pant suit.
She unceremoniously started undressing me since my right arm was immobile and they refused to take the neck brace off until after the x-rays.
It was a good thing they had asked my pseudo significant other to wait outside.
He would have gotten quite the show. Once they were done exposing me and poking me, they let him in.
Ian rushed to my side and took my hand, then began assaulting the doctor with his questions regarding my condition.
“Bad news, I’m going to make it,” I teased.
He kissed my hand. What was up with him?
The nurse handed Ian a clipboard as she left the room. “You and your wife will need to fill out her medical history and insurance information. As soon as that’s complete, I’ll take her down to x-ray.”
“I’ll take that.” I tried to reach for the clipboard with my left hand, the only hand I had available to me.
He pulled it away from me. “Aren’t you right-handed?”
“So?”
“Please let me help you.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
He dropped the pen the nurse had given him. “What does that mean? I’m always nice to you.” He sounded hurt that I thought otherwise.
“Not always,” I choked.
He scooted closer and rested the clipboard on my bed. “Kelli, I know we need to talk. I’ve wanted to talk to you about our past. But I don’t think now is a good time.” He was right.
Part of me ached to know the why of it all, but admittedly, part of me was scared to know the truth. “I guess you can fill out my medical history,” I conceded.
“Thank you.” He picked up the pen and clipboard. Not surprisingly he knew so much about me he could fill in several blanks without asking me. But then he got to the fun stuff.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Uh. No.”
“Start date of your last period?”
If you’re not pregnant, is it really necessary to know that? “Are you serious?”
Ian nodded.
I had to think about it for a second. “April 5th, I think.”
Ian seemed to be enjoying this more than he should have, by the smirk on his face.
“Do you take birth control? If yes, what type?” Ian was more than interested to know the answer to this question based on the way he was tapping the pen against the form, trying to be nonchalant about it.
Did that mean what I thought it meant? This was all so confusing to me.
Was my brother-in-law right about Ian’s feelings for me?
I wasn’t sure how I should feel about it all.
“You know what?” the frustration and confusion of the situation and the pain I was in bubbled over.
“Just write thirty-two-year-old virgin across the dang page and be done with it.” My hand flew to my mouth.
Why did I blurt that? Not even my sister knew.
Ian fumbled the clipboard. His eyes blinked about a thousand times. When he got control over his shock, he set aside the paperwork and took my hand.
His touch made me cry. Tears silently poured down my face and dripped onto the uncomfortable neck brace that was making it hard to get a good read on Ian’s facial expression.
His free hand rested on my left cheek. His thumb swept across my cheek, wiping the tears as they fell.
I wanted to ask him how the right side of my face looked.
I had a feeling it wasn’t looking so hot.
Ian stood enough to hover over me. His rich chocolate eyes penetrated my own.
In his I read several conversations we had many years ago.
My experience, or lack thereof, in the sex department was a frequent topic when we were dating.
“I told you it wasn’t unrealistic for me to wait.” Though I never expected I’d be waiting this long.
His hand moved up and tenderly brushed my bangs to the side. “I never said it was unrealistic for you. I said it was unrealistic for us. I still stand by that.”
“You must think I’m some Pollyanna.”
“No. I was thinking how incredibly beautiful and amazing you are.”
I closed my eyes, wanting to believe he meant what he said.
“I didn’t mean for my life to turn out this way.
I’ve just been waiting for someone I loved, who was committed to me and loved me as much as I loved him.
” For some reason those three ingredients never came together for me.
Why I was being so honest with him I don’t know.
It was as if I had my best friend back. I realized in that moment how much I had truly missed Ian.
How much I had wanted him to be the person to make the perfect recipe with.
He kissed my head. “I wanted that for you too.”