Chapter 6
Six
Faye
I smile at the nurse—this one a curvy blond with burgundy scrubs, a badge decorated with a Grizzlies pin, and thank her.
She winks, taps a few keys on the computer next to my bed. “I should be thanking you.” She taps the breast pocket of her top, where she carefully stowed the autograph she’d asked for, and sighs happily. “You’re the one who introduced me to none other than Gray Roberts.”
I know exactly how she feels.
I’ve sighed a time—or hundred—over Gray Roberts.
He’s gorgeous, friendly…and rescues damsels in distress from blazing fires.
What’s not to sigh over?
Being stuck in the hospital, I think dryly.
“You spring me from this room and I’ll see about getting you tickets to the next home game,” I tell her.
“Nice try,” she teases, pausing at the door to look back at me. “But doctor’s orders are to keep you overnight.”
I scowl.
“That’s cute. No wonder Gray likes you so much.” She waves a hand at me, smiles widely. “I’m just so glad he’s moved on from the other one—”
“Oh”—my face smooths out—“it’s not like that. He’s…”
But I don’t get to finish before she’s disappearing out into the hall and I’m left completing the sentence on my own.
“…just my neighbor,” I whisper.
A neighbor who saved me from being burned alive.
And how the heck can I possibly repay him for that?
I wonder if he likes banana bread.
Then I think I could probably bake him his body weight’s worth of banana bread and I still wouldn’t come close to repaying him.
He broke down my door. He carried me from my burning house.
Yeah, banana bread isn’t going to cut it.
Neither is my homemade fudge cake with rich double chocolate buttercream frosting.
Nor my pretzels with jalapeno cheddar dipping sauce.
Or my salted caramel filled sugar cookies or my zucchini muffins or my peanut butter fudge.
I could even pull out my most finicky and also my most impressive recipe—my chocolate soufflé—and it still wouldn’t be nearly enough to repay him.
Not that I’m going to be baking any time soon.
Not with my house…well, I don’t know what the state of my house is, really, but I can’t imagine it’s going to be soufflé ready anytime soon.
For a second, that thought threatens to overwhelm—God, it hurts so much to think of what I’ve lost—but I push it down, slap a lid on the emotions.
There’s nothing I can do right now.
Not from here.
And in the meantime, I’m wide awake.
I’m alive.
I need to sit in that, remember that, and not be grouchy because I can’t peck away at my keyboard—or really, enjoy the fact that I finished a book yesterday (and seriously, thank God I emailed it to Gerta before my house burned down and I lost all that work).
I can replace plates and wine, my laptop and Kindle.
I can replace my paperbacks (though maybe not all of my signed special editions, which sends a pang through my middle).
I could—even if it would have practically killed me—recreated the final version of my book.
I have backups on the cloud.
Would I have lost the final day’s worth of tinkering and that really sexy scene with the sprinkles, chocolate syrup, and the can of whipped cream?
Probably.
But I would have been okay.
I will be okay.
Because I always am.
Because my fictional main characters—and the side ones too—always find their way to their happy endings. Oh, and the bad guys (or gals or gender non-conforming baddies) always get their comeuppance.
That’s not to say it’s easy for my fictional friends.
In fact, I’ve had many an accusation on social media (and in my inbox) about my penchant for putting my heroes and heroines through the wringer.
Bad exes? Oh yeah.
Horrible, abusive parents? Definitely.
An evil druid out to destroy the world? Abso-freaking-lutely.
Sexual trauma? Loss of loved ones? Bosses that should be arrested? Yup. Yup. Yup.
I’ve written car accidents and broken bones, magical deaths, and yes, even a house fire or two.
But my main characters are always saved by a fantastic possessive and protective man (or occasionally—because my girlies need their turns too—by my kickass heroines).
Anyway, I should be thanking my lucky stars I was rescued by the hot hero (hello inspiration for future books) and also that I’ve done enough research on what to do after a house fire to know what my next steps are.
Get out of the hospital.
Get a hotel room.
Contact my insurance company.
Or, well, items two and three may be reversed depending on whether I can drum up some sort of payment method to guarantee the reservation.
Either way, I have next steps.
Then I can see about paying back one Gray Roberts for his heroics.
I reach for the remote that’s attached to the bed, the long cream-colored cord wound through one of the holes on the side rail, and jab at the buttons until the TV turns on and I find some sort of game show to pass the time.
It’s not long before my eyes start drifting closed, but my sleep isn’t restful.
My nurse comes in to check on me and run vitals; I meet the doctor taking over my care when she rounds with the new night shift nurse. I’m finally cleared to eat something—though that something is broth and some green Jell-O (clearly the best flavor).
In between all those interruptions and me finding out what the survey says repeatedly, fatigue creeps back in and I nap.
And I’ve just allowed my lids to slide closed again when I hear the door to my room slide open with a soft whoosh, the sound of footsteps on the industrial-grade tiles.
Ugh.
What will it be this time?
Blood work? Making me pee to prove those parts are functional? The social worker who popped by earlier and promised to come back to discuss what support is available?
That would be really helpful, actually.
Since my house is…well, whatever my house is right now.
I open my eyes, tuck my elbows under me and start to sit up—
A warm palm lands on my shoulder.
“Just me, Faye.”
Tingles spread all along my skin. Heat blooms in my belly. My head goes a little woozy.
Right. Not the social worker.
It’s Gray.
He drops into the chair next to the bed, reaches for the remote and turns up the volume.
“What are we watching?”