Page 23 of Yours Truly, Fall

“If I had known that getting a little injury would land me a live-in chef, I would have made more of an effort before. Bacon and eggs.” I rub my hand over my full stomach. “I’m eating like a king this morning.”

“Getting hurt didn’t get you a live-in chef.” She pauses, twisting her lips to the side as she lifts her gaze to the ceiling. Turning her back to me, she messes about with the carton of eggs. “I suppose I am responsible for your meals, but . . .” She glances over her shoulder at me. “I’m hardly a chef. I just made breakfast from the food your mom brought over yesterday.” She reaches up to tuck the carton on the top shelf of the door and adds, “Does she always buy your groceries?”

She would love to hear that I’m a Mama’s Boy just to have something to hold over me. I am, if loving and caring for my mom fits the definition. “I take care of myself and do my own shopping. She was helping with some basics to get me by until I’m able to get back out myself. But since I have you here⁠—”

“I’ve already started a list.” She leans on the peninsula between us and picks up a pen. Tapping the tip on a pad of paper, she asks, “How do you feel about chicken?”

“Great.”

“Pasta?” Her eyes stay glued to the pad as she jots more notes.

I shift on the barstool, the hardwood starting to shoot pain up my back. “Can’t get enough.”

“Lentils?”

“Lentils?” I scrunch my nose, imagining those soggy little fuckers messing up my soup when I was little. “Who calls them lentils?”

“Everyone, because they’re called lentils.” She stares at me, but also blinks first and huffs, knowing she just lost the contest. “Fine. Seeds of beans. Legumes?”

“Love ’em.”

“I take it you’re a steak-and-potatoes guy.” The ink is already dry, like she knows me well enough without confirming.

“Looks can be deceiving.” Surprise sends her brow up. “But not this time. Love steak and potatoes.”

I catch the faintest of eye rolls before she makes more notes. “Sweets?”

“All the sweets.”

Glancing up at me again, she asks, “Maybe it would be easier to ask what you don’t like.”

“Mushrooms.”

Tapping her pin to the pad, she laughs. “Got it. No foraging for us.”

“We can forage. Just not for mushrooms.”

“Actually, there will be no foraging on my watch. My sole goal is to get you healthy enough to return to work. You’ve already been on that barstool too long. Let’s get you to the couch, and I’ll bring you something to drink.” She comes around the counter, weaving her arm under mine and around my back. With her gentle lift, I move with her to the couch. It’s not like I didn’t walk in here this morning on my own, or even last night. I don’t want to make her feel like she’s not helping, so I add in a little limp at the end before dropping onto the couch. “Ow,” I bemoan for added effect. “Foie gras.”

“Foie gras?”

“I don’t like foie gras.”

She laughs as she slips away and returns to the kitchen and her notepad. Leaning down, she starts writing again. “Lucky for you, I don’t have foie gras on the menu.”

I’ve never been jealous of an inanimate object until I watch as she slides the end of the pen against her lower lip. “I’ll need to get groceries tomorrow when I go home to get clothes.”

The fiery strands of her hair stand in defiance against the purple scrubs she’s chosen to wear today. But it’s her eyes that I’m having trouble looking away from. Those same eyes staring into mine over the shoulder of somebody come flashing back. I clench my eyes closed, trying to hold on to the image, but it disappears too fast.

“Brandon?” A delicate touch caresses my shoulder as she sits at the table beside me. “Are you okay?”

I open my eyes, exhaling from deep in my chest as disappointment slips between us. “Yeah.” I glance over at her only to be met with worry she didn’t carry in the hospital. We can’t have that, or she’ll be living here for weeks on end. “I’m fine. I just . . .” I scrub a hand over my face and take a breath. “I’m sure it was nothing.”

“What? What is nothing?”

Lying back on the couch, I shake my head, wondering if I just fantasized about her or if that was real. If it was real, was it a memory? Nah. I wouldn’t forget her. I would have gotten her number.

Straightening her back, she puts on her concern hat. “Please tell me. As your nurse, I need to know what’s going on.”