Drop Dead Gorgeous (7 page)
"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
Wyatt left shortly after dawn to go home, shower and change clothes, and then head to work, where I figured he would spend more time than he should looking at parking lot tapes trying to get a tag number for the Buick. He'd gotten some more sleep, though anything longer than a short nap was difficult with a nurse coming in every so often to make certain I wasn't dying from a brain bleed. I wasn't—a relief— but neither was I getting much sleep.
Mom stirred around seven, left the room and came back with a cup of coffee that smelled heavenly—but which she didn't offer to me—and got busy on her cell phone. I did the same, calling Lynn at Great
Bods
to inform her of my latest mishap and to make arrangements for her to fill in for me for at least the next couple of days. My head hurt so
much,
I figured it would take me at least that long to be functional.
Talking and eavesdropping at the same time is an art, one that requires practice. Mom can do it effortlessly. When I'd been a teenager, I'd been as good as she was at it, out of necessity. I was still good, but out of practice. From the conversations I overheard, I learned she had a closing on a house that day and was showing another house, and she was postponing the showing until later in the day. She also called
Siana
, but either she didn't mention
Siana
by name or I totally missed it, because I was surprised when
Siana
entered the room around eight-thirty, wearing a great-fitting pair of jeans and a slinky little chemise top with sequined straps, plus a leather blazer draped over her shoulders. That was so not what she would wear to work, that I knew she'd taken the day off.
Siana's
a lawyer—as I've mentioned—very junior in a firm full of rainmakers, but senior in attitude. I didn't think she'd stick with the firm for much longer, because she'd do better on her own.
Siana
was born to have her own firm and be a raging success. Who wouldn't hire her? She was brilliant, had killer dimples, and was ruthless, all of which are great things to look for in a lawyer.
"Why aren't you working?" I asked.
"I'm taking Mom's place so she can close on a house." She settled in the chair where Wyatt had spent the night, eating an apple.
I eyed the apple. The hospital hadn't offered me anything to eat, just some crushed ice, evidently holding off on feeding me until some doctor somewhere decided I wouldn't need emergency brain surgery. Said doctor was taking his or her own sweet time, and I was starving. Hey! Surprised, I did a quick check of myself. Yep, the nausea had diminished. Maybe I couldn't handle eggs, bacon, and toast just yet, but I could certainly handle yogurt and a banana.
"Stop staring at my apple,"
Siana
said placidly. "You can't have it. Apple envy is an ugly thing."
Automatically I defended myself. "I don't have apple envy. I was thinking more along the lines of a banana. And you didn't have to take off
work,
I should be released sometime this morning. It was just for overnight."
" 'Overnight'
doesn't mean the same thing to doctors that it does to real people," Mom said, completely dismissing the reality of the entire medical profession. "The emergency room doctor won't be the one who releases you, anyway. Another one will eventually look at your test results, eventually look at
you
, and with any luck you'll be home by late this afternoon."
She was probably right. This was the first time I'd actually been admitted to a hospital, though I'd visited the emergency department a few times and had found that time definitely had a different meaning there. "A few minutes" invariably meant a couple of hours, which was okay if you knew that, but if someone went in expecting to be seen literally "in a few minutes" she was bound to be frustrated and annoyed.
"Regardless of that, I don't need a babysitter." I felt honor bound to point that out, though we all knew I didn't want to be left alone, they weren't going to leave me alone, and discussion was fruitless.
Though sometimes I enjoy fruitless discussions.
"Deal with it,"
Siana
said, grinning at me and flashing her dimples. "I thought the firm needed a day without me, anyway. I'm being taken for granted, and I don't like it." She took another bite of her apple,
then
tossed the core in the trash. "I've turned off my cell phone." She looked pleased with herself, which meant the people who had been taking her for granted would probably try several times during the day to get in touch with her.
"I have to leave," Mom said, leaning over to kiss my forehead. She looked great, despite a night of very little sleep and her worrying about me. "But I'll check in during the day. Let's see, you need clothes to go home in. I'll swing by and pick them up before I go home, then bring them at lunch. No way will you be released before lunch. I'm also hot on the trail of a wedding cake maker, I've located an arbor, and late this afternoon I'm going to Roberta's house"— Roberta is Wyatt's mom—"and we're going to brainstorm emergency procedures if the weather is bad. Everything's under
control,
so don't worry."
"I have to worry; that's the bride's job. There's no way all the marks from the road rash will be gone by then." Even when the scabs were gone—
euuu
, scabs, how lovely—there would be pale pink marks left on my skin.
"You'll need long sleeves or some kind of wrap anyway, since it'll be October."
I hadn't yet seen a mirror to assess the damage for myself, so I asked, "What about my hair? How does it look?"
"Pretty bad, right now,"
Siana
answered. "I brought shampoo and a blow dryer."
I adore her. She has my priorities straight.
Mom assessed the stitches in my hairline—my former hairline—and the shaved patch. "It's manageable," she pronounced. "A change in hairstyle will cover the shaved part, which really isn't very big."
All right! Things were looking up.
A nurse about my age breezed into the room, fresh and crisp in pink scrubs, which looked great with her complexion. She was a pretty woman—very pretty, with almost classic features—but she suffered from a really bad dye job. When it comes to hair color, "bad" almost always equals "do-it-yourself." This particular dye job was a sort of flat brown, making me wonder what her real hair color was, because who colors her hair brown? My own hair crisis was making me very aware of hair, not that I'm ever really unaware, but my level of attention had been jacked up. When she smiled and
came
closer, placing cool fingers on my pulse, I studied her brows and lashes. No help there— her brows were brown, and her extra-long lashes were tinted with mascara. Maybe she'd gone prematurely gray. I envied the eyelashes and approved the mascara, which reminded me that my own mascara was probably giving me raccoon eyes by now.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, keeping her fingers on my pulse and her gaze on her wristwatch. She was another
multitasker
, counting and talking at the same time.
"Better. Plus I'm hungry."
"That's a good sign." She smiled and flicked a glance up at me. "I'll see what I can do about some food for you."
Her eyes were that great mixture of green and hazel, and I thought she must look really hot when she fixed herself up for a night on the town. She was calm and collected, but there was also a controlled spark of fire in her that made me
think
all the single doctors, and maybe a few of the married ones, were probably doing their best to hook up with her.
"Any idea what time the doctor makes the rounds?" I asked.
She gave me a rueful smile and shook her head. "The time varies, depending on whether or not he has any emergencies. Don't tell me you aren't happy with our hospitality?"
"You mean other than the no-food thing? And waking me up every time I doze off to make certain I'm not unconscious? And shaving my hair
twenty-eight days before my wedding
? Other than that, I've had a really good time."
She laughed out loud.
"Twenty-eight days, huh?
I