Page 35 of Day Shift

Conan laughed, heading for the door. “Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into with you? I think I’ve created a pint-sized diva!”

His laughter echoed down the hallway as he walked away, leaving a smile on my face. It felt good to have moments like these—light, teasing, almost normal. It was a reminder that not everything in my world was heavy and complicated. With each banter-filled visit, Conan not only brought a piece of the outside world but also a piece of me back to life. I was already looking forward to what he would bring back for dinner—food, music, and maybe just a little more.

Chapter twenty

The anticipation of Conan’s visit kept me glancing at the clock every few minutes. As I waited for him to arrive, I rummaged through the clothes Samantha had brought me earlier. Among them was a casual but flirty light heather-gray off-the-shoulder top, which paired perfectly with some comfy black leggings. It was just the right mix of cozy and cute—ideal for a night in but nice enough to show I was making an effort for the company I was expecting.

I spent a good while in front of the small bathroom mirror, working on my hair until it fell in soft waves around my shoulders. A touch of makeup enhanced my light blue eyes, making them pop. I was doing this for me, I told myself, but the flutter in my stomach at the thought of Conan’s reaction indicated otherwise.

There was a firm knock on the door that snapped me back to the present. “Come on in!” I called out on the way out of the bathroom. Conan stepped into the room, his arms loaded with bags that smelled like heaven. He grinned when he saw me, his eyes doing an appreciative once-over.

“Hope you’re hungry, because I might have overdone it.” He grinned, setting the bags down and starting to unpack. “Wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got a little bit of everything.”

“Looks like you bought out the whole restaurant,” I joked, helping him lay out an array of dishes on the table by the window: spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna, carbonara, chicken parmigiana, shrimp Alfredo, and garlic bread. He even brought raspberry tea and a bottle of wine, plus some torta tenerina and a bunch of those cute little red-and-white butter mints.

“Planning to feed the entire floor, or just us?” I asked.

“Eating is serious business.” Conan shrugged, giving me an easy smile. “But remember, just one glass of wine for you tonight. Gotta take care of that head of yours.”

His concern warmed me more than any wine could. I nodded. “Doctor’s orders, huh?”

“Something like that.” He chuckled, pouring me a small glass before filling his own.

“Not sure what I like,” I admitted, looking over the feast.

“Let’s make it fun then. We’ll share and try a bit of everything. Can’t go wrong with Italian, right?” He handed me a plate.

We started with the spaghetti, both of us making appreciative noises as we ate. Next, I twirled a forkful of carbonara and took a bite. As soon as the creamy richness burst on my tongue, something clicked. I paused, holding the fork just outside of my mouth, and got lost for a moment in a sudden rush of images. The room faded away as a memory surfaced—me, laughing as a young delivery boy blushed at my teasing, the familiar comfort of my home around me. Then another flash of memory hit me—a cozy, warmly lit kitchen, laughter, and the same dish in front of me.

“Angel?” Conan’s voice was tinged with concern. He reached over, gently brushing a strand of hair from my face.

I blinked, and the room snapped back into focus. “I…I just remembered something. Carbonara is my favorite. I always order it from this little Italian place just a few blocks from where I live. There’s this young delivery boy—oh, how he gets so flustered every time he comes by—I flirt just to watch him turn red,” I said, giggling. “And, from the memory, I think I live alone…”

Conan’s expression shifted from worry to amusement. “Got a thing for younger guys, huh? Sounds like you are quite the heartbreaker.” Then his smile softened. “But hey, that’s great you had a happy memory. I bet it means more are on the way. Looks like you’re getting your life back piece by piece.”

We continued eating, the tension from my flashback dissipating into easy conversation. Every so often, Conan would make a joke or I’d laugh, and it felt like we were just two people having dinner, not a patient and her nurse navigating the complicated aftermath of amnesia.

After we’d polished off what must have been half the menu of an Italian restaurant, Conan patted his stomach, declaring a need for a music break. “Gonna grab my guitar from the car. Hang tight, okay?”

With him gone, I took the opportunity to clear away the remnants of our feast. I stacked and bagged the empty containers, replaying the day’s conversation in my mind. Conan really was something—with his straightforward charm and that rough-around-the-edges vibe that somehow made him even more enticing. I was particularly looking forward to hearing him play again. His singing voice seemed to smooth out the sharp edges of my shattered memories.

By the time I’d arranged the pillows against the raised head of the bed and settled cross-legged on the soft blanket, Conan was back, guitar in hand. He flashed me a playful grin and plopped down at the foot of my bed, tuning his guitar.

“Where’s the case?” I asked.

“Oh, I left it in the car. I grabbed it and ran back inside. It was just easier than having to stop and let your guard check it out. He took forever with the food. I’m surprised it wasn’t cold by the time I got in here.”

I shook my head and huffed out a sigh. God, how annoying to be constantly babysat. Was a guard really necessary? Did someone think I would run out of here with nothing but my broken mind?

Without missing a beat, Conan started strumming a tune that stirred something in the recesses of my mind. When he started singing “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman, my mouth dropped open, and I couldn’t suppress my shock or the smile that followed. He caught my reaction, and his grin widened.

“Too soon?” he flippantly asked.

With a laugh, I shoved his shoulder, then let my hand fall to the bed beside his guitar, which rested on his thigh. Leaning into him, I curled my legs up and to the side, tucking myself comfortably around him as he continued to play.

He sang with a teasing edge, and I was mesmerized by his playing. I watched, almost hypnotized, by his ability to use such big hands to deftly finger the notes and pick the guitar strings with ease, making complex movements look simple. It was hard to believe that hands big enough to palm a basketball could manipulate the frets with such precision. The music vibrated through the mattress, resonating not only with my emotions but sending tingles through my body. I was getting turned on, growing wetter with each strum, and I had to clench my thighs to keep from reacting to my raw impulses.

His voice, deep and mellow, layered another dimension of sensation over the physical vibrations. The sound he produced didn’t just travel through the air; it moved through me, making everything inside me hum. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his fingers.

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