Page 90 of Time Stops With You

“I can drink it myself,” I say grumpily, using my good hand to reach for the bottle.

“Put your hand down, Nardi,” Cullen orders.

The man issuffocating.

Too loopy from the pain meds to argue back and forth with him, I give in for this round and open my mouth. Cullen dribbles some water past my lips and it’s intensely refreshing.

“Want anymore?” he asks, his gruff voice a distinct contrast to the gentle way he wipes the water that slipped down my chin with a napkin.

“No.” I turn my face.

He checks me over as if he’s a human lie detector before finally backing off.

Lowering her eyes through her thick square glasses, the nurse asks, “Is that your husband?”

“No,” I sputter.

She finishes with the IV, leans in and whispers, “Honey, I think he wants to be.”

Heat washes over my face. I don’t have a response for that and, thankfully, she doesn’t expect one.

The nurse spins around, glancing between me and Cullen. “The doctor will be back to discuss the results of the tests. If there’s anything else, just press that little button on the side of your bed.”

“Thank you.” I pin my lips together in an apologetic smile.

“My pleasure.”

As the nurse walks out, silence settles on the room. Both Cullen and Josiah are locked on their phones. It’s funny how they both kind of look alike when they’re concentrating. Their fingers fly over the screen in a similarly urgent fashion.

Cullen looks up at that moment, his liquid silver eyes searching me. I immediately shift my gaze to the giant window overlooking the garden. I didn’t know hospitals were like hotels but the moment Cullen demanded a ‘garden room’, I knew that I was in a completely different world.

“Are you in pain?” Cullen says, striding closer to the bed.

“No.”

“How’s the IV?”

“Fine,” I mumble.

“Want more water?”

“Not yet.” I grunt.

He checks his watch. “Why isn’t the doctor here?”

I frown at his insistence. “Maybe because he has other patients with more severe problems.”

“You have a sprained wrist.”

“We don’t know that. The doctor said he’d need to do a few more tests to confirm it,” I argue.

“He needs the tests to see the extent of the damage and check for any injuries he might have missed. Face it, Nardi. Your wrist is in bad shape.”

“So you’re a doctor now?” I ask sarcastically.

“Technically, I do have my PhD,” Cullen answers.

I shift in the bed, annoyed. Isn’t he supposed to be an extremely shy, reclusive genius? Why does he always need to get in the last word with me?

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