Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I know what this is. I'm not confused about what this is. I just don’t see a reason not to enjoy the hell out of a hot guy paying attention to me.
I'm not a particularly religious person, more of a signs-and-omens type, if I’m honest, but I can't shake the feeling that some kind of higher power is judging me right now.
“What kind of visitor?” Dora says as she comes over, checks my IV, takes my pulse, and writes down my vitals. She adjusts the drip and winces, just slightly, at the state of my arms. The bruising has spread again, all black and purple, across my arms like faded ink stains.
I don’t look at them if I can help it. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, after years of needles and draws and all that, but it still makes me feel a bit queasy.
“He's just a friend,” I say, but the way her eyes meet mine, woman to woman, tells me she already knows better. Maybe it’s the way my voice has gone husky and I’ve shifted the sheets to cover the bruising.
“Ah. Maybe not just a friend.”
Honestly, he isn't even a friend but a very sexy, older man I happened to meet at a sex club—who I told I was dying, and who I didn't want to let me die without…
I lift my chin. “Just a friend.”
“Well, you want to look your best for your close friend, don't you?” she says with a small smile. “When’s he coming?”
“Maybe an hour or so. He’s picking up lunch.”
“Good. I like a man who knows how to feed a woman.”
“Me too.”
I look away because my eyes are suddenly all watery. I swallow hard.
Dora leans in and takes my hand, and I'm startled by the warmth of it. She's usually moving from one thing to the next, always somewhere else to be, but this time, she sits down on the edge of the bed.
“There's something I want you to understand, Bridget,” she says, “and it's something I remind all of my patients on this floor because I think everybody needs the reminder.” I stare at her name tag because I don’t want to look into her eyes.
“Yes?” I say, my heart beating fast.
“A great many things are out of your control right now, and I won't pretend otherwise. But it is still up to you whether you say yes to a procedure, whether you trust a doctor, whether you move forward with a treatment plan or not, whether you want a visitor or not. These decisions are yours. And it is my job not only to make sure that you're okay, but also to make sure that other people honor your decisions.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Now.” She winks. “Let's get you in the shower, give your hair a proper wash, and I think you mentioned you have some makeup?”
“I do.”
“Excellent. Let's get you ready to visit your friend, sweetie.”
Forty minutes later, my hair is washed and dried, falling in soft, glossy waves around my shoulders. If nothing else, at least my hair looks good. There's not much to be done about the bruising on my arms, but I’ve put on a little mascara and some lip gloss, and I'm actually starting to feel human again. Dora helped me change into a pair of shorts and a soft tank top instead of that god-awful hospital gown, and I've just settled back against the pillows when I hear footsteps and a deep voice in the hallway.
“Bridget Kavanagh? Right this way, sir.”
The door opens. My heart beats frantically as I wipe my damp hands on my sheets, and Dora’s eyes go wide. She catches herself and smooths her expression, but I look away fast because I'm going to break into a grin, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
How can he look so fucking sexy, holding a bag of soup under the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room? Dark trousers, gray shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular, inked forearms, collar open just enough.
Dora makes a sound beside me that she will deny later. Somewhere in the hallway, a chart hits the floor, and two nurses are standing on the other side of the door, whispering. I stare into the middle distance and think very hard about absolutely nothing.
“You're looking pretty good for a girl stuck in a hospital bed,” he says with a wink. A wink. My heart somersaults.
Declan.
“I try. Thanks for coming. My god, that smells divine. Have a seat.”
“Would you like me to find somewhere to put all of that?” Dora asks, eyeing the massive paper bag in his arms, which looks like it has weight to it. “What is it?”
“D'Agostino's,” he says, setting it on the tray table. “Italian wedding soup and a few others.” He proceeds to unpack four quart-size containers and three loaves of bread.