from her mind.
Carson slept in short cycles, much as he did during the overnight rotations on the ambulance rig. Observation protocol wasn’t fun for either the injured person or the one doing the checking, but it had to be done for her safety.
The first time he’d gone into her room, he worried about startling her, but she hadn’t yet fallen asleep. Or changed into the T-shirt and sweats he’d given her. In her position, he probably wouldn’t have done that, either. Though he tried, he couldn’t imagine the challenge of her situation and her complete lack of self-history and awareness.
The remainder of the night went on in a similar fashion, with him padding down the hall and rousing her gently, exchanging a few words and then heading back to his room. He’d chosen a few questions she could answer with her limited memory, and her answers were consistent with each check. While that was great news for her health, he’d breathe easier if she would agree to be seen by professionals.
He recognized his frustration stemmed from the invasion of privacy. He hadn’t had a woman stay over since well before the ambulance was ambushed, and his current houseguest was about as far removed from a date with a happy, sexy ending as a man could get. She was, in essence, a patient, and more than once as the hours ticked toward dawn, he was grumpy that Grant hadn’t sent her home with one of the women on staff at the club.
At the 8:00 a.m. check, he let her curl up and go back to sleep while he returned to his bathroom to shower and shave. After tugging on comfortable jeans and a shirt emblazoned with the logo from the last 5K he’d run for a charity event, he opened his bedroom door.
The woman—his patient—stood there looking lost, her hand raised to knock. Her bruises stood out in stark relief against her skin, and he mentally ran down options to reduce the swelling. “You’re awake.” He gave her his best reassuring-paramedic smile.
“I am,” she agreed. “Thanks for keeping tabs on me.”
“Just doing my job,” he said quickly. He didn’t want more thanks. He wanted to hand her off to a qualified doctor. “Are you hungry?”
Her warm brown eyes lit up as she held a hand to her midriff. “Yes, I am.”
That was another good sign. “Any memories come back to you yet?”
She gave a small shake of her head and pushed her hands into the pockets of her denim jacket. He suspected she was clutching the business card and matchbook.
“I’ll get some breakfast going.” He’d make something soft and easy to chew as he was pretty sure her jaw would ache like crazy today. “Anything in particular sound good?”
Her dark eyebrows flexed into a frown. “I can’t remember having any favorites.”
“You will,” he replied confidently. He would cling to that belief, sure her memory would return, for both of them. “The hall bathroom should have whatever you need. Feel free to raid the closet or dresser. My sisters leave stuff here all the time and they won’t mind.”
“Are you always this generous?”
“Only with their stuff.” He regretted the joke almost immediately as her gaze clouded over. “I’m kidding.” He extended a hand to offer comfort, then quickly pulled back, reluctant to send any mixed signals. At this point he was basically her doctor, and he needed to maintain that distance. “Take a shower, and I’ll redress and treat the areas that need attention when you come downstairs.”
“Okay.”
As she turned and walked down the hall to the guest room, he realized she was barefoot. The sight charmed him. He ducked back into his bedroom and tried to stifle the awkward blend of empathy and pride that in the midst of her crisis, she trusted him enough to ditch the shoes.
Unwilling to have another encounter in the hallway, he waited until he heard the taps running before heading downstairs to start on breakfast. His own stomach was rumbling loudly by the time he started oatmeal, so he heated a skillet for bacon and cracked a few eggs into a bowl, whisking in pepper and a dash of salt and wondering if he should add dill and thyme the way his sisters did.
He set out raisins, brown sugar and a small pitcher of milk to go with the oatmeal. Better to give her options, he decided, than force her brain to struggle and puzzle over what she preferred.
The second round of bacon was sizzling in the pan when she appeared in ankle-length yoga pants and a souvenir shirt from the October music festival the Escape Club had anchored last year. Her glossy, damp hair was held back with a clip at the nape of her neck, and her hands were hidden in the pockets of the denim jacket. She’d slipped her shoes on.
“It smells good in here,” she said with a lopsided smile.
“Let’s hope that’s a good sign things will taste good.”
She stepped closer to the stove. “You made oatmeal.”
“Is that a problem?” She’d mentioned it last night, and he wanted to support anything familiar.
“No.” She didn’t look convinced.
“It’s a go-to comfort food in my family.” He tipped his head to the table. “We usually add apples, but I’m out. There are raisins and other toppings to make it interesting. I also have eggs and bacon going.”
“I remember the aroma of oatmeal with cinnamon and apples, but I can’t put any faces or names with it.”
“You will in time. It sounds like a positive memory,” he pointed out.
“It does.” Her eyes glistened with a tear-raising emotion, but she didn’t elaborate or let the tears fall today.
She ladled oatmeal into a bowl, added various toppings sparingly and stirred it before taking her first bite. “That’s delicious. Thank you,” she said, adding another spoonful of brown sugar.
“You’re welcome.” He turned the bacon in the skillet. “You don’t have to thank me for every little thing. We stick by each other at the Escape Club, and we help out when and where we’re needed.”
“That extends to people like me?” She took a seat at the counter, cradling her oatmeal bowl in her hands.
“Yes, it does.” He pulled out a tray of bacon and eggs he’d kept warm in the oven.
“Even when you don’t know who you’re sticking by?”
He nudged a plate toward her. “Fill up as you please.” Treat her normally, he thought. They didn’t know her name, and it was better if they ignored that elephant-sized detail for now.
He watched as she chose one slice of bacon and a small portion of the scrambled eggs. While it was possible she was cautious until she knew what she liked, he had the distinct feeling that someone had raised her not to waste food. As helpful details went, it didn’t rank very high on the list, but it was something to keep in mind. She murmured approval of everything she tasted and went back for seconds on the oatmeal.
“Did you get any rest last night?” he asked as he set the machine for a second cup of coffee. She’d turned down the offer of coffee, sticking with water.
“Some, thank y—” She cut off the gratitude with a self-deprecating quirk at the corner of her mouth. The move made her wince. “Some.”
“Would you like another ice pack for the lip or the eye?”
“Arnica oil,” she said, her entire body perking up. “You apply arnica oil to heal bruises.” She grinned and gave the oatmeal a stir. “I’m going to sit here and be thrilled I know that.”
“Okay,” he agreed easily. “I don’t have any, but I can make a call. My oldest sister is big into alternatives to standard medicine.”
Her