You’re welcome.
Aw, sweet.
Don’t mention it.
How could I not?
Do you have any power tools?
Does a vibrator count?I didn’t answer with that, though. Instead, I directed him to the garden shed.
Do you know you snore like a freight train?
Watch it, Benji. I’ll shave your eyebrows off while you sleep.And yes, I did write him that back.
In my last note of thanks, I’d left my phone number. You know, just in case. It couldn’t have been excitement that I felt as I saw he’d added his to the same note the next day. Indigestion. That’s what it was.
~*~
Another morning, the end of another shift.
I always try to start my shift at the hospital looking somewhat professional. My hair pulled into a low bun, dark pants, and a blouse. More often than not, I leave looking like someone escaping a psychiatric ward. Scrubs that belong to the hospital, running shoes I leave in my locker, and my bun looking like squirrels have slept in it.
Night shifts aren’t my favourite mainly because of the theory that less doctors are needed on wards overnight because most patients will be sleeping. Obviously, this isn’t the case for women in labour. Babies are born on their own schedule, and sometimes that schedule is not to my liking. Like last night. Five C-sections, almost one after the other. I felt as though I was working on a production line. That is, until the actual moment of each birth. Sometimes, I hate my job. Occasionally, it makes me cry, whether from tiredness or futility or being confronted by the cruel side of nature because there’s no amount of training available that prepares a person for a role in someone else’s tragedy. But the moment of birth, the moment that slippery, purple little beast takes a first breath? Well, there’s just nothing else on earth quite like it. Even if the moments following are filled with more gore than a horror movie.Afterbirth. Tears. Sutures. Blood.
Birth is a messy business, and fluids have a tendency to gravitate to me, which is often why I end up looking a fugitive.
But last night’s gore fest wasn’t the low point of my shift. Nope, that was actually being woken in the parking lot an hour after said shift had ended. Sliding my key into the ignition, I’d taken the steering wheel in my hands when a yawn overtook me and almost dislocated my jaw. I’d leaned forward and rested my head on the steering wheel—just for a minute, I’d told myself—and was woken an hour later by a parking inspector rapping his knuckles on the window. Nice of him to check that I wasn’t actually dead. Not so nice of him to tell me there was nothing he could do about my parking ticket. So I’m now looking at a fine of twenty-five quid for overstaying.
I should be hungry, I think as I make my way home, but I’m beyond hunger.About eight hours so.As the light on the dash on my tiny Fiat indicates I’m not the only one running on empty, I pull into the nearest service station. This would be where I usually grab something to eat for later when I wake from my work-induced coma. As I fill the tank, I begin to wonder if Ben actually eats because the contents of the refrigerator hasn’t changed since he arrived. All it contains is a dried-up half lemon—the other portion I’d used in the contents of a bottle of gin the weekend Liam left—plus some questionable takeout leftovers, and a few bottles of condiments. Nothing that would sustain a man of his size. Not that it’s my intention to look after him or anything, but still, I could be a little hospitable. It wouldn’t kill me, would it. Especially as he seems to have taken it upon himself to help around the house.
Tank filled, I stand at the chilled section pondering the dairy selection. Milk. Most houses have milk. And maybe yoghurt? Eggs? Bread? What if he’s lactose intolerant like Liam? Or maybe he’s a super health freak who thinks carbs are the enemy.
I could decide not to be a wussand call him.We did exchange numbers, after all.I could ask him about his allergies, rather than fill the cabinets with a mass of random things.
I pick up a jug of 1%, sliding my phone from the jacket I’ve slung on over my scrubs.
The phone rings twice, the receiver then filled with scrambling and static and a rasping curse.
‘’Lo.’ That rasping half word sounds far too sleep-rumpled and sexual for the current state of my jittery mind.
‘I.. . I didn’t wake you, did I?’ I turn my wrist and realise I don’t have my watch on, so I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time. It’s gone eight, I realise, but that’s pretty early for someone effectively on vacation.
As the house is usually empty by the time I return, I find myself wondering where he’s sleeping, and who the lucky girl is. Wow, how things have changed. Prior to this, I’d have pitied the object of Ben’s attentions. I know I felt quite sorry for myself a lot of those years.
‘It’s fine,’ he rasps. ‘I was getting out of bed sometime this morning anyway.’
I grimace, cursing myself. ‘Sorry. I should’ve thought.’
‘Nell, it’s fine, really.’ My stomach flips at the huskiness of his voice. Or maybe because I’m now imagining him in bed all messy blond hair and gorgeous. ‘And waking up to your call is better than waking to a shrieking alarm any day.’ My insides tingle with pleasure. His smile is audible down the line, and as though his words are like some kind of magic or alchemy, I find myself doing the same.
Smiling at the chilled section in the middle of a Tesco’s Express.
God, I’m such an idiot.
‘I’ll be home a bit later ...’ Hell, this isn’t Liam I’m talking to. I’m sure he’s not the least bit interested in my schedule. Taking a deep breath, I hurry on. ‘And I just wondered if you like milk.’
‘Milk?’ he repeats, only far more amused and a lot less idiotic than I’d sounded.
