Chapter Two
Chloe
The two men are huddled in a corner, talking in hushed tones that don’t do much to conceal their conversation. The room they put in is so small that it doesn’t allow for much privacy. Still, I play mute and deaf.
“She’ll need plenty of care for the next few days, maybe longer,” the doctor tells my hero. “Are you sure you’re ready to take that on? She’s not your responsibility, Elliott.”
Is that his name? The man who saved my life. Elliott. His eyes, a captivating mix of forest green and amber, remain on mine as he speaks to the doctor. “I found her, which makes her my responsibility. Look, Doc, just tell me what I need to do.”
“Water and plenty of rest. She’s lucky, incredibly lucky that you found her when you did.”
“I’ll make sure she gets plenty of rest.”
“Bring her back if things change, and they can.”
“I will.”
“There’s no sign of head trauma, which is encouraging,” the doctor continues, “but the brain responds to shock and fear the way it responds to physical injury. Sometimes it simply...switches off access to certain things until it feels safe enough to let them back in. Her memory loss is likely a response to what happened rather than any structural damage. That can resolve in hours, days, or longer—there’s no way to predict it.
Be patient with her. Patients suffering from amnesia can get frustrated when they can’t remember, and caretakers can too.
Let’s hope she starts to come back to herself soon. ”
“How long could it take?”
“Hard to say,” the doctor says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his white coat. “It could be days, weeks, and sometimes even months before she gets her memories back. Maybe finding her family will help her regain some of her memories. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
A different nurse reappears before we go, holding a bag of my wet clothes. They’d had me change into scrubs as soon as I arrived. “We can’t send you out in wet clothes, so you can keep the scrubs,” she says simply, setting the bag on the edge of the bed. I take it without protest.
I’m discharged with instructions to get plenty of rest and to return if I develop a fever. I don’t breathe easy until I’m back in Elliott’s truck, driving down a fairly empty road where one side is all ocean—the water that nearly killed me a few hours ago.
But those dark waves did not erase my memories. I remember everything.
Every single detail before I hit the water. I remembered choking, the gasping, and the horrible realization that I was going to die out there. But more than that…I remember exactly how I ended up in the ocean.
I turn from the window and look at the man in the driver’s seat.
A fine specimen if you ask me. He’s a mountain of a man who seems to tower over everyone and everything.
He was shirtless when he rescued me, revealing a body sculpted by hard labor and time spent under the sun as is evident by the healthy tan of his skin.
Even with a T-shirt on, I trail my eyes over his well-defined arms and appreciate the way the cords of his muscles move beneath his skin with even the slightest of movements.
My eyes move up, and Christ, that face. I saw the way the nurses watched him when his back was turned.
He has the kind of looks that take a moment to land—not polished or symmetrical the way some men are, but rugged and rawboned and startlingly masculine.
His beard is full, dark blond shot through with threads of gold from the sun, and his hair is long enough at the top to pull back, shaved closer at the sides.
He is handsome and older too—I place him in his early to mid-thirties.
He keeps his eyes on the road, and I am glad for it because it means I can look at him as long as I want. He is nothing like Royce Simpson. Not in a single way.
His muscles aren’t honed from spending an unhealthy amount of time in the gym but from manual labor.
Everything about him radiates power and control, yet there is warmth in his eyes that makes my heart skip a beat.
I could get lost in those green-hazel eyes with the depth of an ocean. And the way he looks at me…
I turn back to stare at the water.
The memories are all there, sharp and unwelcome.
I remember the yacht, the lunch of generously buttered lobster and the sweetness of the vintage red wine.
I remember the desserts we shared as my parents droned on about how handsome and smart Royce Simpson was—a month later and they never seem to tire of piling on praise.
The yacht ride was yet another attempt on their part to push Royce and me together.
And it worked.
I know everything about Royce—maybe better than his own mother.
I know what kind of foods he likes to eat.
the clothes he prefers to wear, and heck, I’m practically an attorney now with how much I know about his clients.
I’m pretty sure there are laws in play about sharing such matters, but Royce believes himself to be above that law.
God, I hate that I remember everything.
I wish I could forget the lustful look he gave me when my parents left us alone.
Amnesia would be a small mercy from the memory of the way my heart raced with dread when Royce spoke about our future and our children.
Where they would go to school and what they would study.
And then he spoke of our honeymoon and how he already had a place in mind.
I would love it, he’d said. And for our wedding night…
“Are you cold?”
I don’t realize I’m shaking until Elliott asks. I turn to him as he reaches blindly to the back seat and comes back with a jacket. “Put this on, it should warm you right up.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking it. I’m not really cold, but I slide it on anyway and zip it to my chin. It smells strongly of him—warm and outdoorsy, something cedar-dark underneath, like wood smoke and salt air and something that is just entirely him. I discreetly bury my nose in the collar.
This time, I turn away from the water and from the memories.
It’s incredibly dishonest of me to pretend I have no memories.
but I need a break from my family. I don’t want to go back to my parents and Royce just yet.
I want to stay away, even if it’s for one night.
It means betraying Elliott’s trust, but I just can’t help it.
It doesn’t matter that I don’t know him. He could be anyone. But I find that I don’t care. I must’ve hit rock bottom to prefer the company of a stranger over Royce Simpson.
Besides, Royce is the reason I went into the water in the first place.
“We’re here,” Elliott says as the car snakes along a winding road.
I look up, and my breath hitches as a house comes to view.
The brick house appears perched on the edge of the world, bathed in the last of the evening light.
Behind it, the ocean roars. As we approach the house, I make out the gentle curve of the roofline that meets large dark windows that face the water.
The mornings here must be extraordinary, and for one unguarded moment, I picture him watching the sun rise over the water as he enjoys a cup of coffee.
Then I remember I don’t know if he lives alone, and fresh panic moves through me.
I practically twisted his arm into bringing me to his home, and I never once thought to ask.
This man could have a family. A pretty woman and a chubby red-faced baby waiting for him.
I assumed that he was single, alone and…
“I’m sorry,” I say when he stops. I owe him that much.
I owe him honesty, too, but I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth.
Best case scenario, he takes me to the police station or, worse, to my parents.
I can’t go back, not yet. “You’ve already saved my life, and now you’re going out of your way to help me. ”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” I insist, a fresh wave of guilt rolling in, making my chest hurt. “If…I didn’t ask if you lived alone, but if you have a family, then I’ll explain and apologize to them. Your wife or girlfriend will probably be—”
“There’s no one.”