Page 35 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Instead, I slip back into Faye’s room…
And then slide into bed next to her.
Twelve
Faye
I wake up with my cheek vibrating.
Considering I’ve fallen asleep with my face pressed to my phone on more than one occasion, I don’t really think as I blearily reach a hand up, searching for the button on the side of it, trying to stop the incessant buzzing.
But my hand doesn’t encounter the rubber edge of my phone case.
Instead, it encounters something hard and warm and…rumbling.
My senses finally catch up with me and my eyes fly open, the last of sleep disappearing in an instant.
Because I’m in the crappy hospital bed…and I feel more rested than I have in years.
Gray is on his back, one arm around my shoulders, wrapped tight so I’m on my side, snuggled tightly against him so his other arm can settle on my waist, long fingers resting on my hip, drawing nonsensical patterns over the thin material of the hospital gown I’m wearing.
And the vibrating?
It’s from him speaking quietly to the doctor.
I don’t move, don’t dare to lift my head. Hell, I barely even breathe.
“All of her vitals from last night look good,” the doctor is saying. “I’ll finish my rounds and come back, do a quick exam for—which, I’m sad to say, you’ll have to vacate the bed.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Then we do our best to get her out of here. Medically, if the exam is good, she’ll be fine to go home, but make sure someone hangs close. These things can change and it’s better she has someone nearby, just in case.” A pause. “Also, you should be aware there may be other long-term outcomes of the event.”
Gray’s body goes tense. “Like what?”
“Nightmares,” the doctor says and it takes everything in me to remain still. “PTSD. She’ll need someone watching out for her.”
“We’ll have her covered.”
I wish I could see Gray’s face when he says those words because there’s something in them that has my pulse speeding, my heart rolling over in my chest…and the insane urge to roll closer, to cling tighter to him.
To trust in that promise.
But how can I when everyone I’ve ever cared about has?—
“I know you’re awake, Red.”
I jerk in his hold.
Which, for the record, is completely the wrong thing to do when it comes to trying to pretend to be asleep in my hot hockey-playing neighbor’s arms.
He slides his hand along my side, fingertips drifting over my forearm, lifting goose bumps on my skin. Up, up they travel—over my elbow, the outside of my arm, lightly trailing over my shoulder. There he stops.
Or doesn’t stop.
He just doesn’t move any higher as he winds a lock of my hair around his finger.
“Can’t imagine too many women would spend the day in the hospital, after barely escaping a house fire, and have hair that feels like silk,” he murmurs.
“The nurse helped me shower yesterday.”
He bends, presses his nose to my head, and inhales. “Apples,” he murmurs.
