Page 9 of In Every Chapter

Lights. Beeping. Whirling.

I willed my eyes to open, but they felt like sandbags. A hand probed my forehead, utterly unfamiliar and frigid. Clammy, really, like a limp noodle. Or a fish. Disgusting. I grunted and shoved the hand poking my temple away, peeling my eyes open a sliver.

Everything was gritty and distorted. A shadowy man loomed over my prone body, and that was all it took for my survival skills to kick my adrenaline into overdrive. I was not dying today. Naturally, I aimed a blow to his gut. From the grunt he gave, I probably missed and hit lower.

Excellent. Now to escape.

But another hand touched my face. Calloused but warm and . . . familiar? Why did I know this hand?

“Easy, love. The doc’s just trying to help.”

That voice. I forced my eyes to open wider, but my muscles weren’t cooperating. I was two seconds away from having to prop them open with toothpicks. Doc? The sterile walls and brain-frying white lights murdering my retinas confirmed my guess of a hospital, along with the tubes and wires tugging at my arms and nose.

And what did that voice say? Love?

My eyes sagged shut again because the effort of keeping them open was too much for me to care if they tried to kill me or not. Wow, I need to lay off the true crime podcasts if murder was the first thing that came to mind after . . . after . . . The thought drifted away from me like a puff of smoke, without any indication on how to finish it. After what?

“Love?”

I shivered but not uncomfortably, I noticed, taking inventory of my body. That smooth tenor timbre did something to me. Again, why? The voice was like that hand, the ghost of a memory I needed to know. Needed to remember. Come on, brain. Snap to it.

Lips touched my forehead. What?!

I flung out a hand, making contact with a very sturdy chest. Which, naturally, I shoved away from me. Not that I was very successful. The guy, whoever he was, was solid. Like a mountain. Someone needed to give his personal trainer a raise.

“What . . . what are you doing?” I croaked. Why did I resemble a duck with laryngitis? And who did this guy think he was to be taking liberties? Even if his delightful gravelly voice sounded cute, you didn’t kiss a concussed woman you didn’t know in a hospital bed. At least, from the pounding in my head and the churning whirl of nausea in my stomach, I was assuming a concussion was on the table. And who knows, maybe he was the sort of man who kissed random women?

Something twinged in my chest at the thought. Nope, didn’t like that idea. Which was ridiculous because I didn’t know him. Yet he was here with me.

Why? Why? Why? my brain chanted on a loop.

That wasn’t important right now.

With a final herculean effort, I peeled my eyes open. Stabbing pain or no, I needed them in working order to address the situation of the unwelcome forehead kisser. Even if the gesture did make my stomach flutter. Get a grip . . . My name. What was my name? I couldn’t even lecture myself in the third person because I couldn’t remember my own name, thanks to the cotton stuffed where my brain should be. Oh great, I was one pair of overalls short of turning into the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz.

As I blinked back the rising flood of panicked tears and nausea, the owner of the sturdy chest’s face came into focus. Or almost focus. Without my glasses, I could only see in broad strokes. This close up, the tanned face was etched with worry lines around ocean-blue eyes, rimmed with long lashes. Why did guys get the best lashes? Such a waste.

A faint scar above his eyebrow added a hint of mystery to him. Angular cheekbones and a five o’clock shadow darkened a strong jawline. He was . . . pretty, in a manly way. But a blank canvas in my mind. Let’s call him Cute Guy.

“Anyone ever tell you you could pass for a rugged James Norton?” I slurred, then frowned, cursing my bleary vision. “Or maybe James Dean. Ooh, James and James. One of them definitely.”

“You’ve mentioned that a time or two.” He was silent for a moment. “Paisley?”

I mulled the name over, mouthing it. It felt like my name, slipping over my skin like a well-worn cardigan. I squinted at the man, but my head was being split in two by the pain, so I was probably glaring. “Who are you exactly? Is your name actually James?”

Maybe-or-maybe-not-James’s jaw twitched, but he gave me a tired half grin that would be dazzling at full strength. “Don’t be fooling. You scared me, love.” His voice broke over the last words, and he cleared his throat before trying to touch my cheek again.

I swatted his hand away. “I don’t know you,” I rasped again. Ugh, seriously, what was wrong with my larynx? “Water, please.”

Cute Guy eased closer and offered me the plastic cup with a straw sitting on the hospital tray to my right.

A few sips of the life-giving liquid had me feeling much less parched and my voice less inclined to scratch a record. “Thanks.” Much better. “Why are you here? Who even are you, and where’s Jared?” Where did that name come from? I was barely aware of what I was saying.

Cute Guy’s eyes widened, then slid shut, like he was trying to compose himself, but not fast enough to hide the brief shattering in the expressive blue depths.

“Don’t worry. Amnesia can be a common effect after a head trauma like that. These things take time,” the doctor I’d forgotten about said.

Sure, talk about me like I wasn’t even here. Two out of ten on your bedside manner, Doc.