Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
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.