She snorts, peeking at my body as though to inspect for herself. “Do you think you’ll have pudding dates with some other patient today? I won’t lie… it would hurt my feelings a little if you did.”
“Nah. I’m a taken man now. No more pudding dates for me at least until he—” I tip my chin toward her deserted drawing, “—comes back and sweeps you up. But I’ll probably swipe some pudding cups and bring them home for us.” I put the creamer away and pick up both coffees, placing one on the counter not so far from her arm. I circle the stool adjacent to hers and sit on the edge, my foot on the bar at the bottom so my knee juts forward. “Did drawing him help?”
She shrugs, wrapping her palms around her warm mug. But she looks at the page, to the guy’s eyes, and the soft wrinkles fanning out from the side. “Didn’t help. Didn’t seem to hurt anything, though. What time will you finish work tonight?”
“Six. But if I’m lucky, Dawes might come back early. The second he’s on site, I’m racing out of there and coming home. What are your plans for today?”
“Might stand in front of a mirror and scream for a while.” She shrugs a second time. “Who knows, if I was part of a secret agent government thing, then I probably went through basic training. If I went through basic training, then it’s entirely reasonable that I’ll respond to being shouted at.”
“Perfectly logical reasoning.” I take a slow sip of coffee before setting the mug back on the counter. “Can I offer a constructive suggestion, though?”
Her eyes flicker to mine.
“Be realistic. If after six hours of screaming nothing shakes loose, maybe try something else. Crawling through mud and climbing walls for no reason at all could be a good option.”
She rests her elbows on the counter and leans onto her arms, her long braid toppling forward to dangle over her collarbone. “I’ll be sure to try that, too. Should I cook dinner tonight?”
Surprise pushes my brows up, concern following straight after. “C-cooking? Do you know how?”
“You said procedural memory stuff sticks around, right? I can dress myself, shower, and it turns out I can even care for a plant and read an encyclopedia. This leads me to wonder if, if I simply put a pot on the stove and start mixing things, that skill will come back to me, too.”
“Sure, but…”How to say this without antagonizing her?“I really like my kitchen the way it is, and maybe you didn’t know how to cook before, either. It’s not the nineteen-fifties anymore, and being in the kitchen doesn’t come natural to all women these days.”
She gasps and smacks my arm with her open palm, the loud crack echoing throughout the room. But then she yelps and laughs, whipping her hand back and rubbing it on her shirt. “Ouch!”
“You hit me, but you want me to feel bad for you?”
“Your arm is as hard as a rock!” She giggles, her chest and shoulders bouncing with the sound. “You said you were going to the gym yesterday, but you didn’t say anything about lifting weights.”
“Aw, shucks.” Fuck the pitter-patter of my heart. I take her hand and lay it palm-side-up on top of mine, then I stroke the reddened skin and study, in microscopic fucking detail, the way her fingers curl. How her nails are smoother nearly three weeks out from her ordeal. “Are you complimenting how big and strong and amazing I am? ‘Cos honestly, I work hard at the gymhopingthe ladies will notice.”
“And they certainly do.” Her lips twitch. “I spent two weeks watching everyone else’s wife make excuses to drop by and see you at the hospital.Oh dear, Doctor Darling. I think I have a cough today. Would you mind taking a peek?” She flutters her lashes. “Perhaps you could listen to my chest. Make sure my lungs are not compromised.”
“You’re making that up.” Still, I release her hand and push off the stool, circling behind her and squeezing her shoulder as I pass. Moving to the other side of the counter, I snag a pan from the cupboard and set it on the stove, then I go to the fridge for supplies. “Bacon and eggs for breakfast. If you wanna cook dinner, why don’t you wait for me to get home? We can do it together.”
“And you can protect your precious kitchen.” She taunts. “I was planning to spendoneof my lonely hours cooking, but I suppose I’ll work on my fitness instead. Or read another book.”
“Or you could take a look at the olive plant in my living room. It hasn’t grown a single inch since I brought it home. I water it and everything.”
She flattens her lips. “It’s an artificial plant, Oliver. Don’t water it. Ever.”
ROUND TWENTY-THREE
OLLIE
Twelve hours never dragged so fucking slowly.
Last month, I was the guy who came to work early and left late. If I wasn’t at the gym, I was at the hospital, and I didn’t mind a single minute of it, because this is where I came to be around people, doing the thing I enjoyed so much. But now, while Rose is in my home and I’m right here, in the place I used to rush to just so I could see her, every minute feels like an eternity. Every hour, like a hard-won battle crawling through the trenches of war.
Worse, Janine is on the opposite shift, so I’m left to do my rounds without her comfortable presence, following just two steps behind. And Dara… well, I suppose she caught wind of what’s traveling along the gossip vines.
“When you said you were busy on Valentine’s Day, I didn’t expect it to be with a patient.” She wanders across the hall, her petite frame made boxy by her dark blue uniform, ankle-high boots, a thick utility belt wrapped around her hips, and an oversized radio clipped on her shoulder. She wears her hair in a low ponytail, a dash of lip gloss, and a swipe of mascara to highlight what weallknow are pretty green eyes. “Isn’t there a code of conduct or some such thing forbidding us from bringing them home? Because my partner and I picked up an MVA a few months ago. The patient was sex on legs and flirting like his life depended on it. But when I smiled back, everyone gave me a hard time about it.”
“It’s not how it looks.” I flip a chart closed, add it to my pile, and grabthe next. “And she’s not my patient anymore. She’s just a woman who knows no one, needing a little help to get back on her feet.”
“Right.” She digs her hands into her pockets, rolling onto the backs of her heels. “And you’re the guy whoalwaysinvites former patients back to his house for rehab. What does Eliza think of all this?”
I sign the chart and initial where required, and though Janine walks through the whirring doors, her eyes locking on to mine, I’m stuck here until I’m done with my paperwork and Dawes takes over.
