Page 22 of Grant
“Hi, Spencer. How’s the head?” His lead theatre nurse had the best bedside manner of anyone he knew.
“Still grumbling.” He’d have welcomed the distraction of a busy A&E department, but he wouldn’t put patients’ lives in danger. “I can come back for rounds and paperwork if you need me.”
“We’ll survive until you’re fit. I just called to say that Dr Grimlen has moved Matthias Sharp to psych assessment. Oh, and Susie has released Rylan Jeffers.”
“That was quick.”
“The contusion’s healing well. She thinks it’s due to you dragging him in here when you did. If he’d waited a few days longer, he’d have ended up on a ventilator. His friends have picked him up. They asked after you.”
Her words triggered such a wave of longing that Spencer ended the call on autopilot. All his thoughts were of Grant and the hours he’d spent at Knightdale Court.
And he knew, beyond any doubt, he couldn’t let things end this way.
“Come on, fess up! What’s got you so miserable?” Rylan made himself comfortable on Grant’s sofa and accepted the mug of coffee Grant handed him. “You bounced around like peas on a hot shovel while we were in the hospital, and now you look like you want to crawl into a bottle. Level with me, bro.”
“Your similes are horrible.”
“They got my point across. Where’s your doctor?” As usual, Rylan was uncomfortably perceptive.
“That’s exactly the problem,” Grant muttered. “I shouted at him. He shouted right back. And I haven’t seen him since.”
“I heard he had a mild concussion. They sent him home to rest his head.”
Grant winced. He’d regretted shouting at Spencer as much as he’d regretted leaving the hospital in a huff without checking on the man. He’d been shaking with a baffling mix of adrenaline, fear, and relief and hadn’t realised what he was doing until he’d reached the carpark. And then he hadn’t known how to go back.
“Are you telling me you haven’t called him? Or even texted? Grant, really?”
“I was mad at him for risking his life. I mean, who does that? Who walks right up to their stalker and tries to talk to them?”
“A person who runs on compassion, obviously.”
Rylan struggled a little more upright, and Grant shoved another cushion behind his back. The damage to his lungs needed more time to heal, and the doctor had given them strict instructions about how to keep Rylan comfortable.
“What did you say to him?”
Grant buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know. Really. I was mad. Just blurted shit out. Didn’t mean any of it.”
“Are you sure? You’re a bossy bastard who wants to have his way.”
“I wanted to protect him. Keep him safe.”
“I get that. But he’s a trauma surgeon. He deals with emergencies all day long. He makes life and death decisions. Sometimes, that means he has to risk himself. You can’t take that away from him.”
“I know.” He knew Rylan watched him, as intent as a cat before a mouse hole, and did his best not to squirm.
“You don’t have a clue,” Rylan said. “Let me spell it out. This is your fuck-up. If you want him back, you need to fix this. Call him. Go see him. Write him a fucking note. Just don’t assume he’s clairvoyant.” Without waiting for an answer, Rylan picked up the remote control and turned to a documentary, leaving Grant to ponder his words.
Who the fuck was at the door? Grant felt as if he’d just fallen asleep when the doorbell jerked him awake. He shuffled into the hallway, trying to remember if he’d ordered anything. Most of the delivery services in the area dropped parcels off at the front entrance. Maybe they had a new driver.
He yanked the door open.
Spencer Corel, in tight jeans and a dark brown T-shirt that matched his eyes and set off the gold in his hair, stood on his porch holding a cake tin. A tiny, careful smile curved his lips. “Fritz told me you were home. I want to talk to you, and I thought the conversation might be easier with cake. It’s apple with cinnamon cream.”
Grant’s mouth watered at the thought of apples and cinnamon. It watered even more at the idea of Spencer wanting to share a treat with him, when he hadn’t come up with any reunion strategies of his own. Rylan’s words had kept him awake until the early hours, and now he felt off kilter. He was present enough to hold the door wide for Spencer and to find the on-switch for the coffeemaker.
“I should apologise,” he said.
“You should, yes. Question is, do you want to?”
