Page 10 of In Every Chapter

Cute Guy nodded slowly as if he barely believed the man.

“I’m Paisley,” I said slowly, my gaze oscillating between them like a Ping-Pong ball. “Who are you?”

Cute Guy straightened, clasping his hands between his knees. He leaned forward in his chair beside my bed, eyes never leaving mine. “I’m Greyson Satterfield. Your . . . husband.”

Fireworks exploded in my brain, and the world tilted. Was this what Stephanie experienced during her POTS attacks when her blood pressure plummeted? Stephanie. I chased the thought through the corridor of my mind as I sagged back into the pillows. Stephanie Addams was one of my best friends. Ha, take that amnesia.

“She’s going into shock,” an unhelpfully loud intonation called out. Doctor McClammy Hands needed a new bedside manner and some hand warmers pronto.

I was still lucid, and a strong hand cupped the back of my head to keep it from banging the side rail of the bed as I slid towards it. Definitely not the doc.

Husband? My mouth tried to form the word, but no sound came out. I was married to Greyson Satterfield? But what about Jared? I loved Jared. He was my husband. I could feel it in my bones. Then why wasn’t he here beside me? I desperately needed to see his boyish grin and hazel eyes. And Satterfield? I knew that name.

“Sweetheart.” Greyson again.

I groaned and tried to open my eyes, but the room swam in a Tilt-a-Whirl, so I slammed them shut. I hated that ride—all rides really—but that one in particular. Mom had forgotten me at a carnival one time, and when I’d gotten off the Tilt-a-Whirl, she was gone. I’d only been eleven and had walked the six miles back to the trailer park, only to find her drinking with her then-boyfriend, Brad. Or was it Jeffrey? I lost count. They were all losers.

“Where’s Jared?” I whispered.

“I . . . don’t know exactly,” Greyson said, his tone morphing from soft to laced with steel. Ooh-kay. He definitely knew who Jared was, that much was certain. But from the sound of it, Jared could have taken a long walk off a short pier for all Greyson cared. Rude.

“What happened to me?” I figured this was a safer line of questioning. Until my overactive imagination kicked into gear. “Was I kidnapped? Or hit by a car?” My stomach flopped as a new idea presented itself. “Did someone hurt me?” I whispered.

“Hey, no.” Greyson’s voice was incredibly gentle, but his sigh held the weight of the world. He settled back into the most uncomfortable-looking orange plastic chair at my side. He didn’t make me nervous by getting too close into my space, just close enough to reassure me he didn’t plan on leaving. “You fell off a ladder while chalk painting the library windows.”

Death by chalk painting, what a way to go.

“The library? Why was I at the library?” I was tired of frowning, but it was my permanent expression as I tried to take everything in. Also, the world was still blurry without my glasses.

“You’re a librarian.”

“No, I’m not.” I rubbed my forehead, wincing when my fingers bumped the bandage under my bangs. How beat up was I? “I need to finish the final year of my literature degree. And I still have to get my master’s.”

It was Greyson’s turn to frown, and he exchanged a look with the doctor, who, now that my eyes were semifunctional, I could tell was definitely wearing a toupee. Greyson’s posture was casual and controlled, but there was something about his eyes. Was that . . . dread?

“Do you know where you are, Mrs. Satterfield?” Doctor Toupee asked.

“It’s Nichols,” I hissed, glaring at him.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down.”

I snorted. “Wrong thing to say to a woman, buddy.”

“Pais,” Greyson cut in with gentle firmness. “It’ll be okay. Just answer the question.”

“The hospital.”

Greyson’s sigh was tired, but he chuckled. “You’ve got your spunk at least.”

I barely refrained from sticking my tongue out at him. “Seattle.” I was entirely confident in my answer but found myself shooting Greyson a glance to confirm. Why did I do that? I didn’t know this man from Adam—his opinion shouldn’t matter to me.

His jaw twitched, and Doctor Toupee hummed. “And the date?”

“March seventeenth. I just finished midterms.” I was less certain about this part, and from the look the men exchanged, I’d dealt a blow. And when I tacked on the year, we were all frowning.

“Seven years,” Doctor Toupee announced with the solemnness of a judge handing down a criminal sentence. “You’re short about seven years.”

Wait, what? My life is missing? My pulse screamed in my ears. Oh wait, that was the machine shrieking because my heart was doing funny things. Anxiety sent tremors down my limbs, and I sank back in the bed, hot tears threatening to spill over. Lord, help. “Jules,” I whispered. “I need Jules.”