My eyes scan the text, my heart beginning to gallop quite suddenly.
Head injuries.
Concussion.
The warning signs of mild traumatic brain injuries.
‘I think he should be admitted overnight.’ He doesn’t look up, though his expression ripples with something uncomplimentary. ‘I mean it. I’m not qualified to do this.’ I say, almost waving the leaflet under his nose. ‘I can’t even keep a houseplant alive!’
‘I’m confident he’ll be fine in your care.’
Along with this reassurance, Dr Scott straightens, bestowing me with an empathetic look. You know the look; the one I swear they must teach at medical school. For the record, I don’t feel comforted.
It occurs to me that now would be the perfect time to come clean. To admit to the good doc that I’m just the good Samaritan who found Remy on the staircase, and we’re not dating. That we’re nothing more than strangers. It might be the best opportunity I get to relinquish this responsibility, even if it’d make me look insane, but I find I just can’t do it. I just want to make sure Remy is okay.
‘You just need to make sure he rests up for the next few days.’ The doctor’s voice refocuses my attention. ‘No strenuous activity. No sport, horizontal or otherwise, for at least seven days.’
I guess I brought that on myself but find myself clutching the lapels of my coat anyway.
‘He needs to rest mentally, too. No video games or TV for forty-eight hours minimum. Reading, too. It’s all in there.’
I glance down as he taps the edge of the leaflet in my hand, attempting to mentally work out the time in Australia. I’m almost sure that Amber speaks French, and I’m sure she won’t mind explaining to Remy what he should and shouldn’t do, provided I don’t call her in the middle of the night, that is.
‘But he’ll be okay? He doesn’t need any medication?’ I want to be sure he has everything he needs before I call an Uber and have him dropped off at his hotel or whatever.
‘He’ll probably suffer from a headache for a few days, so stick to Tylenol. No ibuprofen.’
‘Okay.’ A trip to the pharmacy it is.
‘And check on him every couple of hours for the next twenty-four, especially if he’s sleeping.’
‘W-what?’
‘Don’t worry. It sounds dramatic, but it’s standard protocol for a concussion.’
‘So I should . . . do what?’
‘He should be observed for the next twenty-four hours. Check on him while he’s sleeping.’
‘So he can’t be left alone?’
‘That’s usually the nature of observation. Is that going to be an issue?’
His tone brims with judgment, and my mind is a riot of thoughts—
I can’t have a stranger stay with me, not even if he is as hot as Hades.
I have work later today, so I won’t be in any fit state to “observe” him.
I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow!
Still, I find myself answering anyway.
‘No. Of course. It’s the least I can do for him.’
4
Rose
It’s the least I can do for him. You know, other than save his hide after he frightened me half to death in the early hours of this morning.
I suppose also the least I can do for him after spending hours in the hospital, hours when I could’ve been sleeping.
And also the least I can do for him when I’ll (most probably) lose my job when I call in sick tonight in order to “observe” him.
At least he’s pretty to observe.
Urgh!
But it might not come to that, I tell myself. Surely, he has someplace to go—a home or a hotel? I’ll just take him to my apartment, and once Amber is awake in a few hours, I’ll call her and get her to speak to him. Once she stops laughing, that is. Or maybe shouting.
It’s not so crazy, is it? Taking him home, I mean. I did the exact same thing for that mangey Poodle a couple of weeks ago; I took him to the animal hospital, got him patched up and cleaned, then took him to my home until I found him a forever home.
At least Remy won’t need worming or a flea bath.
I study his profile in the Uber on the way back to my place. His eyes are closed, and his head tipped back on the headrest. He appears to be asleep, which is convenient because I can’t help but stare at the arch of his brow and high slant of his cheekbone. Or the way his long lashes make shadowy half-moons against his skin. He may not be cute or fluffy, but I still have the urge to reach out and touch him. I blame the other kind of animal magnetism. The very male kind. His large hands rest on his broad thighs, the flat planes of his stomach barely concealed by the hideous pink and yellow aloha shirt he’s now wearing. His bloodstained T-shirt was cut from him while unconscious, and this was the only thing the nurse could find that fit because the man is kind of large.