Chapter 8
brANDON
“How does one man create this much laundry?” Mom shoots me a look like I’m seventeen again and still living under her roof.
Her shoulders fall, and the corners of her eyes soften as she lowers the shirt fisted in her hand back to her side.
With tears welling in her eyes, again, she says, “I’m so glad you’re going to be okay, Brandon. ”
Not sure what brought on the sudden change of heart from reprimand to the verge of tears, but my chest tightens thinking about what could have happened, and her being left to deal with the aftermath.
“Me, too.” Before this gets heavier, which it can quickly with my mom, I add, “But I’m here and healing and hadn’t done my laundry in two weeks before the accident. ”
A smile brings her mouth back into place, and she laughs. “So I see. I’ll get it—”
“You don’t have to do it, Mom. I’m capa—”
“You’re not supposed to be doing anything, so it’s the least I can do. I’ll get a load started, and then—”
Knock. Knock.
Her gaze tracks from me, laid up on the couch, where I’m already tired of being, toward the front door across the room. While I try to flip through who would show up unannounced, my mom says, “Stay put.” Like I was going anywhere anytime soon . . . “I’ll see who it is.”
Maybe Tuck forgot something when he dropped me off earlier. Or it could be some of the guys from work?
The mayor coming round to present me with a key to our little city? Rumors have already traveled up the mountain to my mom this morning, who is now giddy over the possibility.
“Autumn!” my mom squeals in delight, throwing her arms around Autumn as if she were her long-lost daughter. Odd.
I jerk up to see her, stupidly forgetting about the injuries, and fall back in pain, gritting my teeth to keep from bellowing like a .
. . well, like a wimp in pain. Breathing through it, I’m reminded how every muscle seems to want to work against me right now.
But her seeing me lying around like a lump on a log isn’t exactly how I'd hoped to run into the beauty again.
Chopping wood shirtless.
Running along the docks for exercise. Shirtless.
Getting that key to the city with her eyes latched onto me. With a shirt, but damn, I want to be shirtless with her. That’s how I want her to see me—strong, upright, and hopefully finding me as attractive as I find her.
While they chat quietly, I hear my name and see Autumn peek around my mom once to catch a glimpse of me before she’s blocked again and whispering to my mother like I’m not in the vicinity.
I use my good arm to wedge myself more upright against the couch arm and readjust the blanket so it looks relaxed, not like a patient rotting on the leather cushions.
An attending hospital nurse making house calls is unexpected.
The hot nurse coming to check on me? Welp, a little heads-up so I could make myself more presentable would have been nice.
I knew I should have brushed my teeth when I got home, attempted a shower despite the warning at release not to, or at least sponged myself off.
This is not how I wanted to meet again. “Hi. Hello?”
Angling toward me, my mom dotes on her, complimenting her hair and how sweet she is for stopping by.
I can’t stop myself from studying the familiarity of their embrace, or how my mom’s tone is an octave higher in excitement, like this nurse is her favorite person. Have I been knocked off my pedestal?
And then my mom says, “Come in. Come in. Our little patient is resting on the couch.”
Our little patient?
Fucking hell.
When my mom shifts to close the door, Autumn’s eyes lock onto mine.
I’m usually good at reading people, but like before, her expression is complex, with no single trait taking pole position.
Annoyance radiates from her, her brows tugging together as if I’ve already pissed her off.
But at the same time, the glint of curiosity I detect in the hue of her green eyes has me confused.
I shift, not knowing how to navigate her visiting me at my home, much less looking at me like she has a bone to pick. I say, “I would have put on a shirt if I knew company was coming.” I wanted her to see me shirtless, looking my best, not like her “little patient” she saw in the hospital bed.
She comes closer, her hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, in blue scrubs that curve in at her waist, and a pair of black Converse sneakers that have seen better days, anchoring her stance.
She stops at the other end of the couch with her arms crossed over her chest and looks me over.
“I’m here to help with that, but don’t cover up on my account.
I’ve seen it all before.” Her eyes travel from my injured shoulder to the healthy one, where her gaze lingers.
I tighten my hand into a fist in a desperate attempt to flex my muscles, but her gaze has already slid above my head.
Her mouth drops open before she clamps it shut and walks along the back of the couch, her eyes staying focused through the picture window behind me.
“Your view is . . .” She blinks as if she’ll see something different when she reopens them.
“It’s incredible.” Glancing down at me, she adds, “You can see all the way to the ocean. I bet you never get tired of it.”
Staring at her and tracing the lines of her delicate features, I reply, “No. I never would.” The smallest of upturns at the corner of her mouth are detectable but not for long when she shifts her gaze away again.
I take a breath and fuss with the blanket that’s determined to slip to the floor and pull it back into place over my legs.
Even though showing a little knee isn’t going to cause a commotion, her visit might. “What brings you by, Nurse?”
“Autumn came by to check on you,” my mom responds, practically beaming in a spot of sunlight from Autumn’s presence. “Isn’t that so sweet, Brandon?”
Signaling to the empty chair at the end of the coffee table, I say, “Make yourself more comfortable.”
“Actually,” Autumn starts, her voice gentle as she returns to the other end of the couch. “I’m not here for my comfort. I’m here for yours.” The pause stretches as I work through what she’s saying, but then she adds, “I’m here in a professional capacity, Mr. Culv—”
“Mr. Culver?” My mom’s balk startles Autumn, whose eyes widen. My mom snaps her mouth shut when the reaction receives silence instead of understanding, but then her eyes mimic Autumn’s. “As a nurse?”
“Yes,” Autumn replies, walking toward the front door, “but my bag is in the car. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as she exits, I whisper, “Why is she here, and who is she?”
She laughs. “It’s just a friendly visit, Son.”
“Why would it be a friendly visit?” Seems unwarranted and slightly concerning that she’s crossing professional lines, considering I barely know her, but okaaaay. I shift myself even more upright, getting in the best defensive position I can manage in this condition.
Mom passes by me with a beaming smile and sits in the chair beside me. She rests back. “Imagine if she was your personal nurse. Wouldn’t that just take the cake?”
“There will be no cake taking or personal nursing involved. The hospital put in a request for someone to help with some basics around here, but it hadn’t been approved when I was discharged.
Anyway, I told them I don’t need help. I can function,” I say, flailing my hand around like that will prove my point.
“It’s only a little bruising. That’s all. ”
“It’s not just bru—”
“I’m back,” Autumn announces, loud enough to alert half the mountain. Dragging a suitcase behind her, she stops shy of the living room and looks left and then right before she glances back at us. “Which way do I go?”
“Go?” I ask, bouncing my gaze from the suitcase to the hefty bag draped from her shoulder to the look of expectation in her expression, making me wonder what I missed and how we got here.
Despite her being hot, the night-shift nurse showing up at my house out of the blue is befuddling.
I scratch my head. “What do you mean, go?”
Adjusting the bag on her shoulder, she angles her head down with confusion, wrinkling her brow like I’m speaking another language. “Which way is the bedroom?”
“The bedroom?” My chin drops, and I stare at her out of the tops of my eyes, the same confusion volleying between us. “My bedroom?”
The sudden jerk of her head gives me a spark of relief like we might be getting closer to figuring out this strange misunderstanding. “Huh? Oh my God, no,” she sputters, grabbing at her throat as if she can coax the words out. “Not your room. The room where I’ll be staying.”
Apparently, I’m more concussed than I realize because I am totally lost regarding what this woman is doing here besides hugging my mom, checking out my view, and acting like she’s moving in. “Why would you be staying?” This has gotten awkward. “I think I should call the hospital.”
“That’s probably best.”
I take the phone from beside me on the couch and scroll through some numbers until I see the one I want and stab it with my finger.
My mom, who looks as flustered as this situation is, moves into the kitchen. “Let me get everyone a glass of water while we’re waiting.”
Waiting . . .
Waiting for the hospital to answer.
Waiting to find out what the hell is going on.
Waiting for this woman to stab us to death . . . “Mountain Laurel Cove Hospital, how may I direct your call?”
“Hi, this is Brandon Culver. I was released earlier—”
“Yes, Mr. Culver. This is Stacy. I was one of your nurses. You weren’t awake when I was your attending nurse, but we’re familiar.” My eyebrow rises in reaction. Maybe they’re all like this. “How can I help you? Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine. But I currently have a little situation going on.
” I keep my eyes on the rogue redhead as she inspects her cuticles, tapping her foot like I’m putting her out.
I lower my voice and hold the phone closer to my mouth.
“A nurse showed up at my house.” Autumn’s eyes dart to mine and narrow. “I think she’s in distress and needs—”
“What?” she shouts, running for the phone. Lunging toward me, I hold the phone just out of her grasping hands. Tipping over the back of the couch, she tries to grab the phone from my hand. “Distress? Are you insa—”
“I need help.”
Falling face down in my lap, she pushes off so fast that she lands on her ass, gasping for air like a fish flailing on the docks. “Hang up, Brandon!”
I maneuver myself to peek over the couch just as she pops up and grabs the phone from my hand. Devious little thing. “Hello?” she says, getting to her feet and walking away from me. “Stacy? It’s Autumn . . . Yes, that’s right . . . He’s fine—”
“Help me, Stacy,” I yell just as she starts down the hall with my phone.
“He doesn’t need help, but the concussion might be worse than we realized,” she says nice and loud for me to hear before a door is shut, and I can’t hear any of the lies she’s telling them.
My mom hands me a glass of water. “What in tarnation is going on, Brandon?”
“You tell me, Mom. You’re hugging on her like she’s—”
“There seems to be a misunderstanding,” Autumn says, returning with the confidence of a lunatic who got away with murder. With my phone still in her hand, she crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m here as a caretaker. This was all arranged through the hospital and your insurance.”
My mom moves around the couch to hand her a glass of water, which she takes and slowly sips as a natural-born predator would right before eliminating their prey.
Calculated—Why the fuck am I still sitting here?
I tuck the covers on the right side of my leg because, apparently, somewhere in my concussed state, I must have decided that would protect me. Fuck. I’m a sitting duck.
Standing by Autumn’s side, my mom looks pleased watching her take the calculated, murderous sip. Mom asks, “You’re the home healthcare provider, Autumn?”
Autumn saunters back to her suitcase, still holding my phone hostage.
She can’t seem to bother hiding the satisfied smirk she’s currently directing at me.
“Day and night for one full week.” I’m in trouble.
She digs through her bag and pulls out papers.
“The job requires twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week supervision.” The job? I’m just a job to her. Just grand . . .
My mom cups her hands together, the loud clap ripping my attention in her direction. “That is absolutely splendid, dear.” She shoots me a look with a smile blinding the rest of her expression. “Autumn will be here taking care of you for the week. Isn’t that wonderful news, Son?”
“Yeah,” I reply, staring back at the traitor I formerly called Mom.
“Just wonderful.” And to think I was contemplating giving this woman the pleasure of seeing me shirtless, and then she shows up out of nowhere when I happen to be half naked.
I eye her, not quite sure I should let my guard down just yet.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Her hair has fallen from the elastic she was wearing during the scuffle over the phone, I assume, and she tucks some strands behind her ears on approach.
She drops the papers on my chest and says, “Here’s the contract for the week so you’ll understand exactly what my duties are, and what they are not.
” Pulling the bag handles to her shoulder again and gripping the suitcase, she starts toward the hall again.
“Now that we’ve got that all settled, where will I be sleeping? ”