Chapter 5
Francesca
“N o, but what you can do—” I heard Stefan’s voice down the hall, “is fuck right off. I already told you I don’t want to see you. Didn’t want to see you before this bullshit happened. And I sure as fuck don’t want to see you now.”
There were two women standing outside Stefan’s door. They were giving each other concerned looks. The blonde one said something to the brunette. And they both nodded.
I hurried to his room. I was the only one on the floor who could deal with Stefan. He seemed to hate everyone else with a fiery passion. And I had to admit—that made me happy. Which was warped and weird. And totally illogical.
I glanced at the women as I got closer to the door.
Cripes.
They weren’t just pretty. They were gorgeous. I gave them a small smile before I rushed through the door and—
Whoa.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Holy crap.
It was hot guy central in here.
A dark-haired man—wearing a suit that probably cost more than an entire year’s worth of rent—looked right at me. He was standing to the left of Stefan’s bed.
On his right—double holy crap. An even taller guy stood, peering down angrily at Stefan. He gave off lumberjack vibes if I was completely honest. Those arms could chop dozens of trees a day without breaking a sweat.
I’d bet on it.
“Why are you yelling? You know you’re not supposed to get upset like that.” I tossed my lunch bag onto one of the chairs.
Stefan’s eyes found mine immediately. And in an instant—the anger in his expression melted right off.
I looked at the man in the suit, first. “You and your friend need to leave. Now. Stefan can’t get riled up like this.
It’s not good for his recovery. Kindly leave before I call security.
” My hands held onto my hips as all three men stared at me.
A sudden all-over-body shiver traveled from my head to my toes.
I had to admit that it wasn’t exactly a bad thing.
The two men at Stefan’s sides looked at each other.
And grinned.
Then their eyes landed back on Stefan.
“Looks like visiting hours are up,” the bigger, lumberjack guy said with a smile on his face.
“Yeah, we didn’t mean to rile you up,” the guy in the suit said, then glanced over at me again. His eyes took a long slow descent down my body. One that I didn’t mind him doing at all. For some reason.
When his eyes finished looking me over, he said, “Take care of him for us, will you?”
I gave him a frown. “Uh, that’s what I’ve been doing. And you guys are doing the exact opposite. I’d suggest you don’t come back again until Stefan says it’s okay.”
The two men looked at each other again.
And grinned.
Why were they smiling?
“Was I not clear enough? You need to go. Now.” I could practically hear the blood coursing through my veins.
“I guess we’re being thrown out,” the guy in the suit said to the lumberjack guy.
Then the lumberjack guy said, “Apparently.”
Stefan pushed himself up. “Would you two assholes get the fuck out of here already?” A look of pain shot across his face that made me gasp.
“Sheesh,” I said, heading to Stefan. I squeezed between the lumberjack and the bed and helped Stefan lay back down. “You know you’re not supposed to sit up by yourself yet. Why didn’t you ask me for help.”
Stefan grunted. “You were way over there,” he said, sounding more than a little ticked off.
“Nurse Maureen said you did that earlier, too. And your stitches bled. There are plenty of other people around here to help you,” I reprimanded him. Though, over the last few days, the nurses had all ordered me to look after him. Nobody else wanted to deal with his awful attitude.
“I don’t want any of them to help me. I want you,” he muttered while I fixed his blankets.
“I don’t live here, Stefan. You need to let someone else do some crap for you, too.”
Someone behind me cleared their throat.
My head twisted to see the lumberjack still standing behind me.
He looked at me and then at Stefan. “Bye, Stefan. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Stefan’s eyes shot to him. “I won’t fuckin’ answer.”
After that, the guy in the suit said, “Take care, Stefan. Look after yourself.”
Then they both retreated and left.
“Sheesh, what the heck was that all about?” I asked Stefan.
Then I wandered over to his supper tray that was still on the table.
I opened the cover to see an entire untouched plate.
“And you didn’t eat again?” I looked over my shoulder at him.
“How do you expect to gain your strength back if you don’t eat? ”
Stefan glared at me. “The food here is awful. I can’t eat that slop.” He pointed at his meal. I mean, he was right. It wasn’t great, but it was edible.
I sighed and put the cover back on the plate.
“I tell you what. Why don’t you eat my supper, and I’ll eat yours?
We’ll trade. Okay?” I’d actually made a wonderful supper for myself today.
I’d spent hours and hours preparing it. I was lucky to get the meat on such a sale, it wasn’t even funny.
Bernie texted to let me know he’d kept a stash for me.
He had a butcher shop below my apartment.
Stefan gave me a disgusted look that almost made me laugh. The way he screwed up his face and tilted it slightly to the left—I had to hold in a giggle. How someone could be so angry over supper, I’d never understand.
Yes, hospital food kind of sucked.
Yes, I could make food that was way, way, way better than anything they served here.
But, like my Nona used to say, beggars can’t be choosers. So, if I was hungry, I’d eat whatever the heck was put in front of me. And I’d be just fine with it.
“I’m not eating your fuckin’ supper, Francesca,” he said incredulously. Like me offering to trade meals with him was the most inconceivable thing he’d ever heard. Stefan shook his head and laid back. Not all the way, though.
Over the last few days, we’d been able to move the head of the bed up more and more. At first, he couldn’t sit up for more than a few minutes before asking to be let back down again.
But now, he could easily stay up for a good hour or more at a time.
I grabbed my lunch bag from the chair and set it down on the narrow table. The smell of meat sauce already hit my nose, making my mouth water. I opened up the plastic margarine container full of pasta and smiled. Stefan was going to love this.
Then I proceeded to move his supper onto the ledge by the window and set up my food on the table. After that, I pushed the patient table over to the bed, directly in front of Stefan.
“I just told you that I’m not eating your supper,” he said less convincingly that time. Again, I wanted to giggle. But I didn’t.
“Too bad. I’m eating yours, so there’s no other choice. If you don’t eat it, I’ll just have to chuck it in the garbage,” I lied. If he didn’t eat it, I was going to put it in the staff fridge and eat it tomorrow.
I sat down in the chair and started eating a very bland, very sad, piece of chicken. It wasn’t horrible. It just could have been so much better with the proper seasoning. A good homemade gravy. And my stuffing.
The mashed potatoes were lumpy as heck. But I’d had worse. Like when Nona’s arthritis was really bad, and she just couldn’t cook like she used to.
“Are you seriously going to eat that?” Stefan’s voice pulled me out of memory lane.
“It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with it.
You’re just picky.” I waved my hand at the food on his table.
“You need to eat something. At least take a bite.” I rolled my eyes and pretended like I didn’t care how much he ate.
When in reality, if he didn’t lose his mind over how freaking wonderful it tasted—I might have my own temper tantrum over here.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. But when I looked up a few moments later, he was taking his first bite.
Yay.
It gave me more joy than it should to know that he was eating food that I’d painstakingly prepared.
“Holy fuck,” he said over top of a mouthful of pasta. “Did you make this?” he asked while he chewed. Watching him eat my food gave me an indescribable feeling inside. One that I’d never felt before. It confused me. But it also made me happier than I’d been in a long, long time.
I swallowed down the greasy, bland chicken. “I did,” was all I said, and stuffed a forkful of mashed—or more like unmashed—potatoes into my mouth.
“Where did you get these noodles?” Stefan asked, twirling his fork in the spaghetti like a pro.
“I told you, I made it.”
His eyebrows nearly flew off his face. “You made the noodles? From scratch?”
I nodded and continued eating. “Yep. It’s the only way. I hate boxed.”
He ate another mouthful or two before giving up and laying back down.
I stood and wiped my hands off. Then I walked over to his bed and pushed the button, so the head of his bed rose up again. “You haven’t eaten much. Stay as upright as you can for a while,” I advised him. Then I turned to sit back down again.
“I wish I could eat more but I’m full.” He pushed the table away and sighed.
“Give yourself some time,” I said, as I picked the last few strips of meat off the bones. I was still hungry. This really didn’t hit the spot. Probably because my brain wanted the spaghetti and meat sauce I’d made.
“Francesca,” Stefan said calmly. I loved how he said my name with a slight Italian accent. He definitely looked Italian to me.
Both of his hot friends did, too.
“Francesca?” he said my name again and I looked up. “You should eat the rest of this. It would be a shame to put such a wonderful meal in the garbage.”
I thought about that for all of two seconds before I jumped out of my chair. I grabbed the margarine container and swirled the noodles around my fork. “Mmm,” I said, my eyes fluttering closed with delight. “So good.” And it was. Even though it had cooled off. I didn’t mind. Not one bit.
I loved my sauce. Hot or cold.
Stefan chuckled—well, he kind of did. His chest still hurt him quite a bit. So things like laughing—and breathing—increased his pain significantly.
“What?” I asked with a completely full mouth. But I didn’t care at all. Nothing was getting between me and eating the rest of my food.
“Nothing,” he said with a smirk on his face as he stared at me. His eyes looked me up—and down, causing interesting tingles over my skin. I liked it when Stefan did that. I liked it a lot.
“Did you make the sauce, too?” he asked and cleared his throat.
I nodded and chewed. “Yep,” I said over another mouthful of spaghetti. “And I made meatballs.”
Stefan’s eyebrows rose up and nearly flew off his forehead. “Why didn’t you pack any?” he asked liked I’d ripped him off or something. It was kinda cute.
I grinned. “They’re huge. I didn’t want to pack another container.” I shrugged. His eyes stayed on me like he was trying to tell me something.
I swallowed and smiled. “Would you like me to bring you some meatballs tomorrow?”
He immediately nodded. “Of course, I want your fuckin’ meatballs, Chesca.”
Oh, boy.
He called me by a nickname. And that did funny things to my body.
And my brain.
With a name like Francesca, I tended to get a lot of nicknames. It was a long name and kind of an awkward one to say—and spell.
Mostly, friends called me Frannie or Frankie.
But nobody had called me Chesca. Until now.
“If your noodles and sauce taste this great, I can only imagine how mind blowing your meatballs are going to be.”
I gave him a bashful smile, then turned around to sit down. “They’re pretty good, Stefan.” I grinned even wider at him from the chair.
His eyes really bore into mine. “I have a feeling you’re about to ruin meatballs for me entirely. I won’t want anyone else’s except yours.”
Something zinged through me at that moment—but I wasn’t sure what it was. I actually thought I was low-level getting electrocuted or something. But I knew that was stupid.
Whatever was happening between me and the very critically injured man in the bed—was something I’d never experienced before.
“My meatballs are tasty, Stefan. But they won’t change your life or anything.”
He chuckled and grabbed his chest as he did. “I disagree, Chesca. I really disagree.”