Page 10 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

“I must be invisible,” I muttered to myself.

Dad patted my hand. “No, we’re all just really worried,” he said quietly, cutting right through my bravado. He had a knack for doing that, but then he had a keen instinct concerning me, maybe because I’m so much like Mom. I’m afraid Wyatt has the same instinct, which will be fine when we’ve been married thirty-something years the way Mom and Dad have, but while we were still jockeying for position that sort of put me at a disadvantage and I had to stay on my toes. In this Wyatt is light-years ahead of Jason, my ex-husband, who never saw beyond the blond hair and tight ass—his own, by the way.

Jason is one of those people who is like a Slinky; you always smile when you think of watching him fall down the stairs.

Anyway, back to the hospital room. Mom quickly got everyone sorted out. Dad and my sisters were sent on their way, because it was almost two a.m. and no one had had any sleep. She and Wyatt were both showing the strain, with that tight, bruised look around the eyes—and they still looked way better than the other occupant of the room, namely me.

A nurse came in to see if I was asleep, and to wake me up if I was. I wasn’t, so she took my blood pressure and pulse and left, with a cheerful promise to be back in two hours or less. Other than the sickening headache, that’s the worst part about having a concussion: they—meaning the medical staff—don’t want you to sleep. Or rather, it’s okay if you sleep, as long as they can wake you up and you know where you are and stuff like that. What this means is, by the time they get finished taking vitals and asking you questions, by the time you get settled down and doze back off, a nurse is breezing through the door again to start the whole routine all over. I foresaw a long and unrestful night.

Wyatt offered Mom the chair that opened into a narrow, uncomfortable bed and she took it without argument, opting for whatever fitful sleep she could get. He pulled the tall visitor’s chair to my bedside and sat down, reaching through the rail to hold my hand. My heartbeat skittered and jumped when he did that, because I love him so much and he knew how much I needed even that small, silent communication.

“Get some rest if you can,” he murmured.

“What about you?”

“I can nap right here. I’m used to odd hours and uncomfortable chairs.”

That was true—he was after all a cop. I squeezed his fingers and tried to get comfortable, which really wasn’t possible because of the way my head was pounding and my various scrapes were burning. But I closed my eyes anyway, and my old knack of being able to sleep anywhere, anytime, kicked in.

I awoke in the darkness; after I’d gone to sleep, Wyatt had turned out the dim light. I lay there listening to the breathing rhythms of two sleeping people: Mom at the foot of the bed, Wyatt on my right. It was a comforting sound. I couldn’t see the clock to know how long I’d slept, but it didn’t matter, because I wasn’t going anywhere.

My head still hurt as much as before, but the nausea was marginally better. I began thinking of everything I needed to do: call Lynn and arrange for her to handle Great Bods on her own for at least a couple of days, get Siana to water my plants, get my car retrieved from the mall, and other pesky details. I must have stirred, because Wyatt immediately sat up and reached for my hand. “Are you okay?” he whispered, so he wouldn’t wake Mom. “You didn’t sleep long, less than an hour.”

“Just thinking,” I whispered back.

“About what?”

“Everything I need to do.”

“You don’t need to do anything. Just tell me, and I’ll take care of it.”

I had to smile to myself, which was the only way I could smile since it was dark and he couldn’t see me. “That’s sort of what I was thinking, trying to remember everything I need to get you to do.”

He gave a faint snort. “I should have figured.”

Because it was dark, I got the courage to continue. “I was also thinking that I don’t know how you could look at the mess I am and ever want me again.” I kept my voice very low, because, hello, my mother was right there in the room, but I was listening to her breathing with one ear and it hadn’t changed, so she was still asleep.

Wyatt was silent a moment, just long enough for me to start feeling sick to my stomach, as if I needed that on top of how sick I already felt, then he gently stroked a finger down my arm. “I always want you,” he murmured, his voice as warm and dark as the room. “How you look at any given time doesn’t have a lot to do with it. It’s you, not your body—though I like the hell out of your ass, and your tits, and your sassy mouth, and all the parts in between.”

“What about my legs?” I prompted. Man, was I feeling better. I was improving by the minute. If he kept talking, I’d be walking out of this joint in another half hour.

He gave a low laugh. “I like them, too. I especially like them around my waist.”

“Shhh,” I hissed. “Mom’s right over there.”

“She’s asleep.” He lifted my hand and pressed a warm, damp kiss into my palm.

“You wish,” came the sharp comment from the foot of the bed.

After a startled moment Wyatt began laughing, and he said, “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

I love that man. I was considerably cheered by our little dark-time talk, which was a relief, because it’s a lot of work to feel sorry for yourself. I squeezed his hand and happily went back to sleep. So what if my head still hurt? Everything was okay.

I hadn’t been asleep more than ten minutes when a nurse came in and turned on the lights to ask if I was awake. Figures.

Chapter

Five

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