Everything I Need, page 7
The bottom line? He didn’t give a fuck. He’d go and hope for the best.
So he’d hopped his prescheduled commercial flight and now here he was.
He supposed he might be in for a bit of trouble for ignoring her wishes, but he’d face that bridge when he came to it.
He raised his hand to knock again—
The door abruptly and violently swung open to reveal a snarling Melody.
Ah. The bridge in question.
“What are you doing here?” she cried in her maimed voice. “We agreed you weren’t coming.”
“We did no such thing. You told me not to come. I heard you out and then I ignored you.”
“I don’t want to make you sick, Anthony. That’s the one thing that would make me feel worse than I already do,” she said, then clapped a handkerchief over her mouth and lapsed into a coughing spasm.
Her moment of speechlessness gave him the cover he needed to study her closely. He didn’t like what he saw. Her complexion was bright with fever, her eyes glassy. Her body threw off a perceptible wall of heat that felt a bit like walking too close to a campfire. Though her forehead was sweaty, she wore blue flannel pajamas with…yes, those were puppies on them. And a huge and fluffy purple nightmare of a robe that made him wonder if she planned to spend the winter in Winterfell. As for her hair, she had it piled on top of her head like a curly black haystack, and there were fuzzy slippers on her feet that appeared to have rabbit heads on them.
She looked, in short, as though Typhoid Mary had mated with the children’s section of some department store.
But she was upright with attitude, alive and kicking, and he’d never been so glad to see anyone in his life.
“I told you I’d be back on Friday,” he said. “It’s Friday. Here I am. Cheers. Are you going to let me in?”
“No, I’m not going to let you in! And why would you want to come in, anyway? You want a piece of this?” she said, waving a hand up and down her body.
“Don’t worry. I’ve thought of everything.” Adjusting the groceries again, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a surgical mask and put it on, hooking the elastic behind his ears. “I’ll be fine. I’ve had my shot. And I never get sick anyway.”
Incredulous snort of laughter from the patient.
“Well, guess what, genius? I wear masks all day. I never get sick. And look at me now. Go stay at the hotel. I’ll be fine.”
He sighed, struggling with his exasperation and his growing affection for this maddening woman as she tried to look formidable while huddled, shivering, inside that hideous robe.
She didn’t honestly think she’d get rid of him, did she?
“Dr. Harrison. I realize that you physicians make the worst possible patients, but I’m here to take care of you and you’re not going to stop me in your weakened condition. Look at you. You’re barely conscious. Kindly step aside.”
A glare-off ensued. He emerged the victor when another coughing fit overtook her, forcing her to double over at the waist. She gave up and waved him inside with a flourish, shutting the door behind him.
“You’re just not that smart, are you?” she called after him.
“I’ve been accused of worse,” he said, dropping one of the bags on the coffee table.
She pointed to a tub of disinfecting wipes. “Will you at least wipe down some of the surfaces before you touch anything? The whole place is radioactive. It’s like Chernobyl up in here.”
He chuckled as he hurried to the kitchen and put his bags down, surveying the scene.
She had a fire going in the fireplace and a half-drunk glass of cranberry juice and some crackers on the coffee table, so that was good. She’d made herself a nest of pillows and blankets on the sofa, so that was also good. But a quick peek at the stove and in the cupboard revealed no chicken broth or soup, so that was bad.
She looked shaky and miserable as she watched him, and that was awful.
He’d felt protective before, of course. Of his mother. His first pet, a golden retriever named Kermit. Of the boys in his unit overseas. But protective didn’t begin to cover the way he felt about this woman who was so sick and so proud and who touched his heart so deeply. And there was no point reminding himself that this was all very new between him and Melody or that she’d be good as new in another few days. None of that mattered to his knotted gut at this moment.
What was the word for when you would happily sacrifice a limb or two to make someone feel better? That was the word he needed.
“How do you feel, darling?”
She slumped onto the sofa and reached for one of the blankets, her expression falling.
“My head hurts.”
Knowing what it cost her to admit that much of a weakness, he figured she had to be half blinded by pain. Something along the lines of a sword through the temple.
“Would you like a cold compress?”
“I’d like a new head,” she said, resting on the pillow and closing her eyes.
She fell into a restless dose, shivering and pulling the blankets closer, then throwing them off all in the space of about five minutes while he warmed up her broth and raided the pantry shelf where she kept her first-aid supplies. She muttered, then cried out.
He hurried back, his hands full of all the things he’d need, and sat on the coffee table facing her.
“Wake up,” he said quietly. “Time for some medicine and a little to eat.”
She didn’t stir.
“Melody?”
Nothing.
His heartbeat tripped and stumbled. She was far too still all of the sudden.
“Melody,” he said, shaking her shoulder.
She startled awake, staring at him with glazed eyes. When she went to sit up, the effort seemed to be too much for her and she slumped over again.
“I’m tired,” she complained.
“I know,” he said soothingly, his breath coming a lot easier now. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t need help. I’m fine,” she said, eyes still closed.
He felt his lips twitch with a repressed grin.
“I know,” he said, scooting over to sit by her hip, helping her up and holding the mug for her.
“What’s this?” she asked, sniffing hopefully. “Smells good.”
“Broth from the Chinese buffet around the corner. When did you last eat?”
“Not sure. What day is it?”
For pity’s sake.
“You should be thanking God I’m here. Take a sip for me. It’s not too hot.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said drowsily, drinking deeply.
He pressed his lips together, determined not to laugh at her. When she’d finished most of that, he put it down and reached for the orange juice.
She made a face. “You should have gotten cranberry.”
He snorted back a laugh. “Don’t drink it too fast. You need to take some paracetamol.”
She shot him a sidelong look. “Speak English.”
“I’m trying. When did you last take some?”
“Dunno.” She scrunched up her face, thinking hard. “This morning, maybe? Or was it lunchtime?”
“Pathetic.” He handed her a couple and watched her take them. “Don’t they teach you to write these things down when you go to Harvard Med?”
She glared at him. “No one likes you very much. I feel like I should tell you.”
He grinned behind his mask. She watched him with her bleary eyes, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile.
“That’s not true,” he said quietly. “I can think of one person who likes me very much.”
“Who?” she asked, shifting around so she could lean against his side, wrap her arms around his waist and press her burning face to his neck. “Anyone I know?”
He greedily gathered her closer with a huge sigh of relief, breathing deeply for the first time in what felt like years. But when he went to kiss her, the mask blocked him. So he yanked it off and tossed it aside.
He kissed her forehead. Burrowed his fingers into her hair and massaged her scalp for the pleasure of hearing her coo. Massaged her temple.
Reveled in the thrill of being back where he belonged. The feeling of…of…rightness damn near overwhelmed him. Maybe he was a half-British, half-American lesser royal who couldn’t quite figure out where he fit in or what he should do with his life.
But he could get this one thing right, goddammit.
He could figure out what this one special woman needed and give it to her before she thought to ask for it.
She eased back enough to look up at him.
“You’re insane. It’ll be your own damn fault if you turn up with the flu. You know that, right? And don’t come crying to me if you get sick.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, kissing her forehead again.
“And don’t expect me to take care of you, either. I only take care of sick people when I get paid for it.”
He choked on a laugh. “Noted.”
She was smiling when she pulled back and looked up at him again.
“I’m so glad you came.”
That might have been the moment, out of all the moments, when he fell irrevocably in love with the amazing Dr. Harrison. It was definitely his reward for putting himself in harm’s way and well worth the potential risk to his health and well-being.
“Did you honestly think I’d let you suffer here by yourself?”
“Well, yeah. We’re just getting to know each other. You didn’t sign up for a whole medical drama this early in the game.”
“I signed up for you. If you turn up sick, then…” He shrugged.
She studied his face, looking vaguely troubled.
“What?” he said, giving her hair a playful tug when the moment got too heavy.
“I’ll bet Annabella Carmichael isn’t sick,” she said darkly, laying her head on his chest. “You might want to rethink.”
He had to laugh. The idea of him either a) being with Annabella, or b) going to such great lengths if she turned up sick, stretched his imagination to the breaking point.
“I’m good with my choice, thanks.”
Melody coughed again, covering up her mouth.
That reminded him.
“Here. I brought you something for that,” he said, shifting her aside so he could reach for the grocery bag on the coffee table.
“If you brought me some honey-lemon cough drops, I’m going to marry you,” she said hoarsely. “Just so you know.”
He bit back a grin, reached into the bag and produced…a bag of cherry cough drops.
“Too bad. Thanks for playing,” she said, starting to take them from him.
“Not so fast.”
He cocked a brow at her, reached into the bag again and came back with a bag of honey-lemon cough drops, which he opened for her.
“Thank you!”
“I consider this a binding contract,” he warned her as she took one and popped it into her mouth.
“Don’t worry. I probably won’t make it through the night, so you’ll be free to marry Annabella, your true love.”
He scowled, grabbed one of her pillows and placed it into his lap. “You. Put your head down. Get some sleep.”
She eagerly stretched out again, settled in and sighed with unmistakable satisfaction as he stroked her hair. She fell asleep in no time.
He found the remote and watched TV, delighting in a Law & Order marathon. He could never get enough of that show, especially the courtroom half of each episode. He was just beginning to doze off, head lolling, when his phone buzzed.
He snatched it out of the back pocket of his jeans by the second ring, soothing Melody when she stirred restlessly and taking a quick glance at the display.
It was his father, Tony.
Fuck.
He hadn’t spoken to the old man in several days. Tony had shown up in town and dropped the bombshell announcements that he’d had a heart scare and that he wanted to mend his fences with Anthony. Since Anthony had enough bitterness toward his father to fuel at least a civil war and possibly even a world war, he didn’t think peace between them was possible. Besides. There wasn’t enough lumber, nails and workers in the world to get these fences mended.
But the old man had seemed hopeful and had wanted to stay in touch. Now this.
Anthony struggled for a moment, wanting to send the call directly to voice mail and then most likely delete it without listening. He couldn’t do it in the end, though, a clear sign that he’d let the old man fuck with his head, something that Anthony had sworn he’d never let happen again.
Cursing, he hit the button.
“Yes, hello,” he said wearily.
“What the hell’s going on?” the old man barked, his Texas accent a little twangier than usual, no doubt due to the—ah, there it was. The unmistakable slurp that meant he was well into his bourbon. “Why haven’t you called me back?”
“What is it?” Melody mumbled, popping up and rubbing her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Anthony scowled. Yet another reason to dislike Tony: waking up convalescents.
“It’s nothing,” Anthony told her. “Go back to sleep.”
“Is that Miss Melody?” Tony boomed in Anthony’s ear. “You cracked that nut yet? You weren’t doing so hot on that front the last time I saw you, were you, boy?”
Melody groggily focused on the phone and frowned at it. “I can hear you, Tony.”
Tony laughed. “Why does she sound funny? Put her on the phone.”
“No,” Anthony said. “She’s got the flu. She shouldn’t have to deal with you tonight on top of everything else.”
“I’ll talk to you next time, Miss Mel,” Tony shouted in Anthony’s ear, forcing him to hold the phone out. “Take good care of yourself. I know the boy’s useless in that department.”
“Anthony’s taking great care of me, you terrible man,” Melody grumbled to additional laughter from Tony as she slowly stood and grabbed her orange juice. “I probably won’t make it through the night regardless, but that’s not Anthony’s fault. I’m taking a shower. I think I probably smell. Bye.”
“Bye, Miss Mel,” Tony called. “I’ll catch you the next time.”
Melody managed a limp wave.
“One second,” Anthony told his father, then covered up the phone and anxiously focused on Melody, who was now drifting her way toward the hallway and looked as though the slightest thing, like, say, a carpet fiber that was slightly taller than the others, might trip her up and take her out. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Why don’t you wait until I can help—”
“Screw you,” she croaked. “I’m a grown woman. I can manage a shower.”
She disappeared around the corner. He waited for a beat or two, braced for the thud of her body hitting to the floor, but heard only the faint sound of the shower.
He breathed easier.
“Yes, all right, I’m back,” he said into the phone. “We need to make it quick. I want to check on her.”
“This is an interesting turn of events, I must say,” the old man said thoughtfully. “I never took you for the nursemaid type.”
“Yes, well you’ve never taken me for much of anything other than a worthless waste of tissue, have you?” Anthony got up, went to the drink cart and poured himself a whisky. “To what do I owe the pleasure of the call?”
“I don’t deserve such a bad rap from you,” Tony said sadly. “Have I been one of those cuddly fathers who tells you your shit don’t stink, or that you’re a winner just because you showed up to every soccer practice even though you never kicked the ball during a game? No, I have not—”
Anthony snorted.
“—but I’ve always wanted the best for you. That’s the truth.”
“Yes, well, I certainly felt my best when I walked in and found my girlfriend Amanda sucking your cock when I was back in college,” Anthony muttered.
Tony sipped again. Smacked his lips. Chuckled.
“You know, I forgot about that little, ah, incident.”
“Yes, well there have been so many coeds for you, it’s probably hard to keep track.”
“Time for you to get over it, don’t you think?”
“Is that the sort of thing one normally gets over, do you suppose?”
“It wasn’t my finest moment, I admit.”
“No,” Anthony said. “Nor was your cheating your way through your marriage with my mother, making the resulting divorce as nasty as possible, then skipping her funeral following her premature death when I was only thirteen. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever experienced any of your finer moments.”
“I’m not discussing your mother with you right now,” Tony said, using the icy tone he always employed whenever his ex-wife came up. “But if you think about it, it was best for you not to be with a little college girlfriend who was so free and easy with her affections. I mean, but for me, you might not be with Miss Melody right now, and we can all agree that she’s a damn sight better for you than Amanda ever was.”
“What do you want?” Anthony snarled, stalking down the hall to listen at the bathroom door (he heard the comforting sound of Melody splashing around in there) and back to the living room again. “I don’t have time to play twenty questions with you.”
“Fine. Got a little bad news for you, son. It’s for your best, but I don’t expect you to like it.”
Anthony froze, a nasty suspicion flickering to life in his mind. “What is it?”
Tony sighed. “I’m not releasing your trust fund to you just yet.”
Outrage tightened its grip on Anthony’s throat, making speech impossible for several long seconds. “You what?”
“You heard me.”
Anthony worked his mouth, trying to force the words out.
“That trust comes to me when I’m thirty-five. Which I will be next year. And when it does, I won’t have to scrape by on my stipend from the crown or the measly interest income checks you send my way every six months.”
“Yeah, but as your trustee, I’m not handing the funds over just now. Not when you’re drifting along with no purpose and no goals, christening ships and opening supermarkets for your grandmother. That’s no life for a grown man like you. You don’t need to be under her thumb.”
