This is so flipping weird.
I pull my eyes off the water and look at Mr. Sea Glass again as he looks past me, taking in the same outdoor beauty. My first impressions weren’t wrong.
He’s good-looking. Not young and not old. Mid to late thirties, maybe?
He’s a whole lot of muscle and big bones stuffed in a beige button-down shirt with brown palm trees printed across it. The color suits him. Shows off his tan, his buff edge, his broad shoulders. There’s a tattoo on his forearm, deep black lines in the shape of an eagle holding some kind of fork.
How do I know him?
I stare harder, examining his face. If he’d meant that sleeping beauty remark literally and woke me up with a kiss…well, I don’t think I’d have any reason to protest.
He’s got the Captain McHottie thing going on in spades. His face looks downright princely, set with a strong, square chin, wide-set eyes—yes, that unforgettable azure blue shade again—and topped with perfectly arched dark-brown eyebrows.
His hair is dark brown, cropped, but not too short. His nose is straight, a bit on the wide side, but it fits his face. There are fine, tiny wrinkles around his eyes. Laugh lines. Or is it from stress?
He’s not laughing now, but the fine lines are prominent because he’s looking at me some kinda way.
Is it kindness? Empathy? Or is it just a why me? burdened look?
I can’t tell to save my life.
I don’t know if I know him, either.
Pressing my lips together, I close my eyes, trying to clear my head so I can think. Remember.
No dice.
“Something’s wrong. I just can’t remember…anything.” I whimper, squeezing my shut eyes tighter against the sting of tears. “What’s wrong with me?”
His hand settles on top of the back of my hand. Warmer this time, stronger, his fingers snare mine like a thick, calloused shield. “Think you’re trying too hard. Just relax, woman. You took a big damn blow to the head, and it must’ve rattled something loose. Your shit’s not gone. It’s just not together.”
Lovely. Mr. Sea Glass must’ve used up all his happy points on those Adonis good looks. He’s sure got a way with words.
A Neanderthal’s way. But is he wrong about the relax part?
My shoulders tense. Considering his advice, I try easing my shoulders, arms, and neck, then turn my attention on breathing. Slow, deep breaths, holding it, letting it out slowly. I do a slow count, thankful I can remember my numbers.
One.
Two.
Three.
“That’s it,” he says. “Breathe.”
I nod and keep on breathing, squeezing his hand as I keep counting.
Four.
Five.
It’s helping, little by little. The tightness in my chest, the panic, slowly subsides.
Hissing out a long breath, I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. A big tan paddle blade fan swoops through the air, slowly whooshing around.
The room is tranquil. The walls are a pale olive green with white wood running along the edges, including the doors, and the floors are a light natural wood. The king-sized bed in the center of the room I’m in is decked out in white sheets, a white blanket, and a folded pale-green duvet draped over the end.
There’s a big TV mounted on one wall above a dresser. Then two doors, one on each side of the dresser, both open. One goes to a bathroom, and the other juts off to a hall. On the other side of the room, there’s a set of huge double doors. Both closed. A closet, I’d guess.
Ugh.
How do I know what a closet is, a TV, a bathroom…but not who I am?
He mentioned an accident. Am I dead? Is this some sort of odd heaven?
Nah, there’s no pain in heaven. And definitely no barfing.
I turn to him. “Who are you?”
For a second, he just looks at me. Then he flashes that smile, gives a one-shoulder shrug, and leans closer.
“Flint. Who the hell you think I look like? Elvis?”
“Flint?” I whisper, shaking my head. Doesn’t ring a bell in the slightest. But I do remember the King.
He nods firmly.
Flint. Flint who?
I say the name again. Silently. Let it enter my mind, wait for it to make some neurons fire.
It’s not my lucky day, though.
Everything Flint-related comes back zip, zilch, and zero.
“How do I know you, Flint?” I swallow. “Do I know you?”
“Knock, knock!” Another man walks through the open door from the hall. “How’s our happy patient today?”
“She’s awake. That’s got to mean something.” Flint, I remember his name—but still don’t know if I know him—stands up.
“Yeah, that’s progress,” the new man says. “Now let’s have a looksie at the rest…”
Flint starts to move. His hand slips away. I grasp his fingers before they completely let go of mine.
Maybe I don’t know him, but at least I know his name.
That’s more than I can say about New Guy.
He’s not exactly young or old either, but he has a few more lines than Flint, mainly on his forehead. He’s very tall, muscular, but not nearly as huge as Flint.