Chapter 10
brANDON
Thoughts cobble together before I open my eyes and my vision sharpens. I clamp them shut again even though it’s still dark outside. A yawn captures my throat, and I slowly open my eyes once again, the full picture of my bedroom coming into focus.
I stare into the corner across the room from me where Autumn has fallen asleep in my reading recliner.
That chair has knocked me out a few times with its well-worn cushion and the angle when the leg rest is kicked out just right.
I’m sure she fell prey as I have. But why is she there at all when she has a room just down the hall?
Moonlight streams through the cracked-open blinds. Even in the lower light levels, her red hair shines like the last remaining embers of a fire.
Angling onto my good side, I watch how peaceful she sleeps, listening to the soft sound of her breathing. It’s the middle of the night, so I’m not surprised by the calm I feel, even with a stranger hanging out in my bedroom.
Her eyes flash open, and she jerks her head upright. “Are you staring at me?”
Damn, she’s a little firecracker with her ass lit up. “You do realize this is my bedroom, and when I woke up you were stalker-sleeping in here with me.”
She pushes forward, trying to shove the leg rest back down and failing. “I wasn’t stalker-sleeping.”
“Then what were you doing?”
Turning sideways, she puts her weight into lowering the rest. I know it sticks sometimes, but watching her is too entertaining to share that tidbit.
She finally crawls off the side, tugging at the bottom of her scrub top to straighten it out.
“Your chair is broken.” She starts for the door with heavy steps and a point to prove, and stomping is the only way to do it.
“I was checking your breathing since I don’t have monitors to do it.
I sat down,” she says, throwing her hand toward the offending chair, “and must have fallen asleep. It’s been a long seventy-two hours.
” She looks back in the doorway, and adds, “You’re good, so I’m going to bed. ”
She disappears too quickly for a reply. “Nurse?”
Silence extends between us until she finally gives in and replies, “Yes?”
Accomplishing my mission, I selfishly grin in bed. “I’m game if you’d like to stay and stare a while longer.”
The sound of a door closing is the only response I receive. I chuckle and rearrange myself onto my back again. This isn’t my favorite position to sleep in since I’m usually on my side, but there’s no pain lying here staring at the ceiling.
It’s tempting to call Autumn again to tease her, but it’s a quarter past one, and I’m sure she’s in no mood to break the ice between us.
She’s on the feistier side, but I don’t mind because she sure is pretty.
I’m just confused about how I’ve not seen her before.
Even if I hadn’t ever run into her, the guys would have been talking about a knockout down at the hospital.
But no one did. Strange. So where has she been hiding my whole life?
After a deep breath, my body sinks into the mattress, and I close my eyes. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a few more hours of rest before sunrise.
“Why are you smiling?” Autumn plants her hand on her hip and levels me with a look. I’ll give it to her. She doesn’t put up with shit from anyone. That look alone could kill a man who crossed her. She still can’t manage to erase the grin from my face, though, because I’m no ordinary man.
I also can’t stop looking at her. She’s got a great face, and she knows how to move her body in ways that only highlight how sexy she is, even if she is currently annoyed by me.
“If I had known that getting a little injury would land me a live-in chef, I would have made more of an effort before. Bacon and eggs.” I rub my hand over my full stomach. “I’m eating like a king this morning.”
“Getting hurt didn’t get you a live-in chef.
” She pauses, twisting her lips to the side as she lifts her gaze to the ceiling.
Turning her back to me, she messes about with the carton of eggs.
“I suppose I am responsible for your meals, but . . .” She glances over her shoulder at me.
“I’m hardly a chef. I just made breakfast from the food your mom brought over yesterday.
” She reaches up to tuck the carton on the top shelf of the door and adds, “Does she always buy your groceries?”
She would love to hear that I’m a Mama’s Boy just to have something to hold over me.
I am, if loving and caring for my mom fits the definition.
“I take care of myself and do my own shopping. She was helping with some basics to get me by until I’m able to get back out myself. But since I have you here—”
“I’ve already started a list.” She leans on the peninsula between us and picks up a pen. Tapping the tip on a pad of paper, she asks, “How do you feel about chicken?”
“Great.”
“Pasta?” Her eyes stay glued to the pad as she jots more notes.
I shift on the barstool, the hardwood starting to shoot pain up my back. “Can’t get enough.”
“Lentils?”
“Lentils?” I scrunch my nose, imagining those soggy little fuckers messing up my soup when I was little. “Who calls them lentils?”
“Everyone, because they’re called lentils.” She stares at me, but also blinks first and huffs, knowing she just lost the contest. “Fine. Seeds of beans. Legumes?”
“Love ’em.”
“I take it you’re a steak-and-potatoes guy.” The ink is already dry, like she knows me well enough without confirming.
“Looks can be deceiving.” Surprise sends her brow up. “But not this time. Love steak and potatoes.”
I catch the faintest of eye rolls before she makes more notes. “Sweets?”
“All the sweets.”
Glancing up at me again, she asks, “Maybe it would be easier to ask what you don’t like.”
“Mushrooms.”
Tapping her pin to the pad, she laughs. “Got it. No foraging for us.”
“We can forage. Just not for mushrooms.”
“Actually, there will be no foraging on my watch. My sole goal is to get you healthy enough to return to work. You’ve already been on that barstool too long.
Let’s get you to the couch, and I’ll bring you something to drink.
” She comes around the counter, weaving her arm under mine and around my back.
With her gentle lift, I move with her to the couch.
It’s not like I didn’t walk in here this morning on my own, or even last night.
I don’t want to make her feel like she’s not helping, so I add in a little limp at the end before dropping onto the couch.
“Ow,” I bemoan for added effect. “Foie gras.”
“Foie gras?”
“I don’t like foie gras.”
She laughs as she slips away and returns to the kitchen and her notepad. Leaning down, she starts writing again. “Lucky for you, I don’t have foie gras on the menu.”
I’ve never been jealous of an inanimate object until I watch as she slides the end of the pen against her lower lip. “I’ll need to get groceries tomorrow when I go home to get clothes.”
The fiery strands of her hair stand in defiance against the purple scrubs she’s chosen to wear today.
But it’s her eyes that I’m having trouble looking away from.
Those same eyes staring into mine over the shoulder of somebody come flashing back.
I clench my eyes closed, trying to hold on to the image, but it disappears too fast.
“Brandon?” A delicate touch caresses my shoulder as she sits at the table beside me. “Are you okay?”
I open my eyes, exhaling from deep in my chest as disappointment slips between us.
“Yeah.” I glance over at her only to be met with worry she didn’t carry in the hospital.
We can’t have that, or she’ll be living here for weeks on end.
“I’m fine. I just . . .” I scrub a hand over my face and take a breath. “I’m sure it was nothing.”
“What? What is nothing?”
Lying back on the couch, I shake my head, wondering if I just fantasized about her or if that was real. If it was real, was it a memory? Nah. I wouldn’t forget her. I would have gotten her number.
Straightening her back, she puts on her concern hat. “Please tell me. As your nurse, I need to know what’s going on.”
“I . . .” This doesn’t sound like someone who’s healing. It sounds like the opposite, in fact. But I don’t want to worry her, so I shift, grab the remote, and say, “I just wanted to add how much I hate sardines or any canned fish or meat for that matter.”
Her eyes peer into mine as if she sees the lie, which makes me shifty.
I turn on the TV. Just as Guy Fieri’s voice blasts through the speakers, she pats my knee, which I like a little too much, and stands.
“No tinned fish or canned meat then.” Walking away, she says, “That gives me an idea for dinner, though. I can make homemade sloppy joes like a pro.”
I like watching her walk into the kitchen like it’s hers, and maneuver around as if she lives here.
We got off to a rocky start yesterday, but so far today, things are much smoother.
Having a clear understanding of our roles—me as the patient, her as the caretaker—has me tucking my hands behind my head and kicking my feet up on the arm of the couch.
Maybe it won’t be so bad with her hanging around.
“I didn’t know you were a Food Network fan?”
“The guys have it on sometimes at the station. It helped me fall asleep yesterday.”
She returns to the living room with a glass of water in her hand. Standing in front of the TV, she sips and then says, “My nighttime comfort show is The Golden Girls, but since I work a lot of night shifts, I watch the Food Network to help me fall asleep when I get home in the mornings.”
“You don’t watch it for the recipes?”
Her eyes dart back to me. “Do you?”
“No, but if I’m ever in Orlando, Florida, I know the right sandwich shop to hit up.” The air is lighter between us, and her smile soothes some of the annoyance I’ve been feeling while being trapped at home.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Orlando.”
“How do you feel about sandwiches?” I give her a wink that doesn’t cause any pain. Is my face finally healing? An effortless smile sparkles on her face, bringing a shine to her eyes. I lower my hands back to the couch, enjoying this side of her. A lot. “It’s a date then.”
A cold breeze of emotions sweeps her smile away so fast I don’t have time to save it.
Striding across the room, she says, “It’s not a date, Mr. Culver.
We will never go on a date.” The sound of her bedroom door closing leaves me wondering how the hell I just fucked that up.
We were getting along. At least, I thought we were.
I get her professionalism, but I thought the joke about a date was obvious. Not sure what just happened, but I apparently crossed a line I didn’t see drawn in the sand.
Do I get up and attempt to salvage this error in judgment or let her have time to herself?
Clueless what to do, I start to get up but stop and lean forward to rest my arms on my legs.
I can always blame the concussion for acting a fool.
But the extra we’ll never date she tacked on at the end burns.
It wasn’t really necessary, yet it still rolled off her tongue like she’d been waiting for the opportunity to say it.
It’s going to be a long week.