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 think you should rest.” She holds the door open for me as if I need it. I already know her well enough to know she’ll fight me on it if I argue, so I walk in and sit on the couch.
“You want to take my temp, too?” Dropping my mouth open, I hum, “Ahhhhhh.”
She laughs as she comes to sit on the chair closer to me. “I want to be honest with you.”
“I like honesty.” That makes her smile, which in turn elicits mine. “But I didn’t know you had been lying to me.”
Sitting on the edge of the cushion, she clasps her hands together. Her smile falters as she bounces her heel in forewarning. Not good. “I haven’t per se.”
“Per se?” What could she have been lying about? I’m her patient—“Oh shit, am I dying?”
“No,” she squeaks like a chipmunk, and then takes a breath. Sincerity shines in her eyes, putting my racing heart back at ease. “You’re going to be good as gold. I promise.” She points at me, not afraid to lay down the law. “As long as you listen to me and take it easy this week.”
“I graduated at the top of my fire academy training class. There’s a reason I’m called Mr. Reliable. I’ll give you a hint. I’m damn good with directions.” I shift my legs onto the couch and stretch out. “But to circle back, you haven’t been lying to me on purpose, but you have been lying to me per se?”
Scooting onto the back of the chair, she tucks her legs under her. “Lying is such a strong word.”
“When the shoe fits.”
Ire flashes in her eyes, a spark that could cause a wildfire. “The shoe doesn’t fit, Brandon.” I can see her anxiety rising with her chest as her breathing picks up. “I just, well, to tell you the truth . . .”
I can’t just lie here when the energy between us has changed. The humor is gone, her smile faded, and my chest feels heavy, reminding me of when I first woke up at the hospital. The same unknown weighs down her shoulders and darkens her eyes as well. I shift my feet to the floor again, needing to be upright for whatever is about to be said after I ask, “What’s the truth, Autumn?”
“I’ve known your mom my whole life, and I met Tucker when he brought people in during emergencies.”
“Your whole life? How is that?” My mind can’t wrap around that since I’ve done the same. Many times. “I’ve brought people to the hospital many times, yet we don’t know each other?”
“We do though.” Biting the inside of her cheek, she drops her gaze as she fidgets with a loose strand at the hem of her shirt. When her eyes lift to find mine again, she says, “We’ve met, but for some reason, you don’t remember me.”
I grin, catching onto the joke. “You almost had me there. Can’t fool me, though. If we’d met, I would remember you.”
“I’m not joking with you. As much as I’m flattered by the compliment, you don’t remember me.”
I’m still chuckling until I realize she’s not entertained at all. “Why would I forget . . .” I shift my gaze to the wood-paneled ceiling while I try to pull something from thin air that seems to be missing. Memories of her. “I don’t understand. Are you saying . . .?” Concern streams through the lines of her forehead. She knows. She already knows the answer. “I have amnesia?”
“You have selective amnesia.” Her voice is too calm for this revelation. But it’s also steady, keeping me from freaking out that I’ve lost part of my memories, and no one told me. Until now. I close my eyes, willing one image of her prior to the hospital to return.
Blue dress.
Flowers.
Those gorgeous eyes set on mine, though there’s no warmth to them.
I open my eyes, and the image is lost. “I thought the only thing I couldn’t remember was when I fell. I remember waking up at the hospital, but the in-between has vanished. So, when you say selective, you mean—”
“I mean, me and the accident. You appear to remember everything and everyone else.”
“That makes no sense.” Running my hand through my hair, I tug at the roots before asking, “I know trauma can pocket events away to protect us, but why would I forget you?”
The corners of her eyes soften, along with a condolent smile that feels temporary at best. “I don’t know.”
“Is that your professional or personal opinion?”
She’s stopped messing with her shirt, and her breathing seems to have regulated as we ease into the details. Although I may be wrong, I think I catch a hint of disappointment residing in her eyes. “Both.”
That same emotion takes hold of me. What am I missing? “I’ve been talking to you like we have no history, no past knowledge of each other existing, but you knew. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”