Over the next few hours, the nursing staff had kindly supplied me with updates.
Don’t worry, he’ll be fine, and he’s coming around.
Then, it won’t be long now, along with he’s just undergoing a neurological evaluation. He has a nasty concussion.
And just before I fell asleep in the chair at seven in the morning, I’d received the last update.
He’s about to have his wound cleaned. Would you like to come hold his hand while it’s sutured?
That’d be a big fat no, actually.
I’d lived in a lot of places, at least ten towns across four states before I turned twelve, but I was born in Kentucky, and my mom used to say Kentucky women have both sugar and fire in their veins. But I guess even women from the Bluegrass State have their weak spots, and mine is the sight of blood. Or maybe it’s a case of a cat being born in a stable not making it a horse. Either way, if I can see Remy now, the gory business must be over, and I can breathe through my nose again without fear of passing out.
As I haul my tired body from the chair, the nurse’s kind smile suddenly falters. My gaze follows hers to where my coat has fallen open as I’ve dozed.
‘Thank you.’ I leisurely pull the sides closed, knotting the belt tight as I stride past her into the nearby hallway. She can judge me for drooling but not for an honest night’s work. Even if me and my slutty outfit could be mistaken for a hooker.
‘Ah, here she is.’
The curtain is open at the end cubicle, and I find myself freezing, not at the sound of the doctor’s voice, but because of the man facing me in the bed opposite. His hair is matted and stained russet in parts, his complexion sallow against the stark white of the pillows propping him up from behind. A Steri-Strip bisects one eyebrow, making him look thoroughly dissolute, but even that doesn’t detract from how good looking he is. I mean, I’d known he was attractive. Handsome, even. Didn’t I say as much to Amber over the phone? But it turns out that good looking doesn’t even cover it. The strong line of his jaw is a perfect complement to those sharp cheekbones, the whole effect made more mortal than Greek god by a rasp of stubble. His eyes are the kind of green that speaks of tropical islands that are lush and inviting, but possess an intensity that’s almost mesmerising.
‘He’s looking much better now, don’t you think?’
‘He’s looking good,’ I find myself replying in a completely unnecessary tone, as I enter the cubicle, immediately drawn to the side of the bed. I can’t say whether it’s out of concern or curiosity, or even something else.
‘I don’t think there’s any cause for ordering imaging,’ the doctor muses, his index finger tracing across the screen of a tablet he holds in his hand. ‘No need for X-rays or a CT.’
‘Good.’ Those sound expensive.
Wow. He has such big shoulders under that thin hospital gown.
‘And even though it looked as though he’d lost a prodigious amount of blood, his head wound was superficial.’
‘Good, that’s good,’ I agree just as pensively, my eyes flicking down to where his long-fingered hands lie over the edges of the blue hospital blanket.
You know what they say about big hands.
‘I’m Dr Scott, by the way. One of the emergency physicians here. We were quite concerned when Remy arrived, but his testing has so far been satisfactory. In fact, I was hoping you could help us with his cognitive assessment. . .’
Hands that size would make even my ass feel small.
‘. . . by translating for us.’
‘Hmm. Yes. I understand.’
‘Great. We won’t need to involve a translator, in that case.’
‘Okay—wait, what?’ My head whips to Dr Scott, who is, apparently, serious.
‘Well, my French is non-existent. You’d need only to ask him some questions on my behalf,’ he reports.
He only speaks French? I find myself looking at him again.
He’s French. Ooh-la-la!
‘One of our nursing staff helped out until a few minutes ago,’ the doctor continues. ‘Her knowledge of the language proved very helpful, but she’s been called to another ward. Ordinarily, I’d call in a translation service, but as you’re listed as his significant other . . .’ His words trail away as, like a bad comedy sketch, my head then whips from doctor to patient, the latter managing a wan-looking smile.
‘I’m what?’
‘You’re noted as Remy’s girlfriend. Is that not right?’
Did he say I was his girlfriend? Or did the hospital staff assume, the same as the paramedics? Oh my God, if he has a brain injury, they might have told him I’m his girlfriend, and he might think it’s the truth! And if he does have a brain injury, it could be my fault—caused by being whacked upside the head with a monstrous sex toy.