Leighton held the phone to her ear while her gaze hopped around the hospital scenery that had grown way too familiar in the past three days. She needed to get out of this room. And her daily trips to therapy didn’t count.
“You don’t remember anything?” Beverly Clarke’s voice had an intriguing je ne sais pas quality, after decades of dividing her time between the United States and France.
It had felt good to hear her mother’s voice. It brought a measure of assurance she didn’t get from anyone else. Except him. Jonathan. Her fiancé. No memories had surfaced yet but she felt like she knew him. Wanting to remember him and their relationship was the only thing that kept her fighting to reclaim her life during the times when she’d prefer to live in the past to escape her current uncertainty.
“Not from the prior six years.” Even after the barrage of questions she’d fired at her doctors, she was having a difficult time wrapping her mind around this whole amnesia thing. Pun intended. “I’ve been working with a team of therapists trying different treatment options. I’m able to recall most of my older memories, but that six-year period, nothing.”
Her mother’s sigh was a force of nature. “I wish someone would’ve contacted me earlier, instead of almost a week after it happened.”
Speaking of that . . . “I’m surprised you didn’t know something was wrong. We talk several times a week. Weren’t you worried when you didn’t hear from me?”
Silence on the other end of the phone. “We haven’t . . . talked very much . . . lately.”
Leighton frowned. Why not? She adored her parents. As an only child, they’d spent a lot of time traveling together and she’d been inspired by their passion for justice and their resolve to do the right thing. There was no one she respected more. She grew up listening to them preach the value of public service and giving back, especially when they’d been blessed with so much. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen to pursue politics instead of going to a big firm after law school.
“You want to know what’s weird? Logically I know it’s been years since Daddy died, but emotionally . . . for me, it was just six months ago.”
“Oh, Leighton . . .”
Tears stung her eyes and she rubbed the skin over her heart. Her father’s death had been a devastating blow, the void he left in her life immeasurable. She’d been a Daddy’s girl, had thought him the best and smartest man she’d known. In the months following his passing, she and her mother grew closer than ever, clinging to each other as they both navigated the turbulent waters of losing the biggest love of their lives.
So she found it disturbing that she’d stopped communicating with her mother to the point that their not speaking for over a week wouldn’t set off any alarm bells.
“Why haven’t we talked, Mom? Was it work?”
Congress would come back from recess soon. Maybe she’d been busy analyzing bills that were due to be voted on. Several times a year, members of Congress tried to attach a slew of riders and provisions to must-pass pieces of legislation in an attempt to sneak through items they could never introduce on their own. Groups needed to keep a vigilant eye on certain bills to make sure the constituency they represented didn’t lose their rights while no one was looking.
“What are your therapists saying about your missing memories?” Beverly asked instead.
“They tend to believe they are still there, being stored somewhere in my mind, but that the injury to my brain may have disrupted my ability to recall them. When my brain heals, I may regain access to them.” She shrugged though her mother couldn’t see her. “Or not. Despite all they’ve learned, there’s still a lot they don’t know.”
A gut wrenching sob assaulted her hearing and Leighton jerked the phone away from her ear. “Mom! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Beverly hiccupped. “I . . . I’m just so happy to talk to you.”
Having no children of her own, Leighton couldn’t imagine what her mother was going through. But if Beverly had been in an accident and Leighton hadn’t known about it until a week after the fact . . .
“Mom, it’s okay. I’m going to be fine.”
A soft curse, some sniffling, a shaky breath and Professor Clarke was already re-emerging. “My plan was to head back to DC in a couple of months to begin preparing for my winter seminar. Maybe I should come now?”
“No. Stick to your plan, or at least, give me a few weeks. I can’t wait to see you, but I need some time to regain my strength. I’ll need to defend myself when you turn into Mommy ninja,” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
Beverly Clarke was a fierce protector, unafraid of taking on anyone or anything that threatened her family.
“I will for now, but I reserve the right to change my mind at a later date. When are they releasing you from the hospital?”
Beverly’s lawyer-speak made Leighton smile. “In a couple of days.”
“But who’s going to take care of you?” Her mother’s voice rose sharply.
A good question. One she’d asked herself.
“Jonathan, I assume.”
“Who’s Jonathan?”
Leighton laughed. “Ummm, my fiancé.”
“Your fiancé?”
Her mother couldn’t have sounded more shocked if Leighton had told her she’d planned to quit her job and become a bucket drummer outside one of the metro stations.
“You didn’t know I was getting married?”
“No.” Instead of the anger she would’ve expected, her mother sounded crushed.
Leighton pinched her lips together. What was going on? First she learned that she hadn’t spoken to her mother in a while and now she found out she hadn’t told her mom about her engagement. That thought about the bucket drummer job had been a joke, not a recovered memory, right? She hadn’t really done that, had she?
Dammit. She wanted her memories back. Now!
“Is there something you know that you’re not telling me?”
“Leighton—”
“Something must’ve happened. Did I do something to disappoint you, to make you mad?”
“No, of course not, honey.”
“So you just stopped talking to me because the sun was shining?”
“I wouldn’t stop talking to you for any reason.”
“So I stopped talking to you?”
“No, that’s not what I said.” Beverly sounded defensive. “I don’t want to get into this over the phone. Maybe I should come home early.”
There was a brief knock on her door before it opened. Jonathan stood there in dark jeans and a navy V-neck t-shirt, the shadow of a stubble lending him a wicked presence. Their eyes locked. Moisture flooded her mouth and her heart thundered in her chest. She swallowed.
The man was walking sin. And he was all hers.
“No, don’t come home early. We’ll talk about this later,” she said to her mother, continuing to watch Jonathan.
Beverly sighed. “I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too.” She hung up the phone, placing the handle back in its cradle.
Jonathan’s gaze flew from the telephone to her face. He shoved his hands in the front pocket of his jeans. “Who was that?”
“My mom.”
His shoulders lowered and he nodded. “How you feeling today?”
Leighton raised self-conscious fingers to skim the bulky white bandage on the back of her head, above her left ear. “Physically, I feel pretty good.”
“You look good.”
His gaze skimmed down her body and she heated from the inside out. And that was just from a look. How had she responded to his touch?
She studied him, trying to catalogue his expressions.
“I didn’t think I would see you again.”
“I’ve stopped by every day but usually you’re in therapy or they’re running more tests. Didn’t they tell you?”
“They did, but I’m still getting adjusted. Right now, a day feels like three or four to me.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could be here more often, but my restaurant opens in a couple of weeks and—”
She leaned forward. “You own a restaurant?”
“I do. Actually, this is my second one.”
He must be doing well. If you paid attention—and she did—you couldn’t help but notice the man exuded affluence without flaunting it. In addition to his TAG Heuer watch, his jeans carried a well-known high end insignia on the front pocket and the shades tucked into the neckline of his shirt were quality, as were the distressed leather belt and shoes he wore.
“Have I eaten at your other restaurant?”
She wanted to keep him talking, not just for the opportunity to learn something about her life from those missing years, but also to keep him here. Questions overwhelmed her brain, but Jonathan’s presence calmed her, muzzled the noise in her head. Made her feel hopeful about their relationship even though she couldn’t remember it.
“Quartet? No. That one is in San Francisco.”
“I love San Francisco.” At least she used to. “Is that where we met?”
“No. We met here in DC.”
“Oh. How?”
His lips tightened into a grim line. “At a dinner party.”
He stood as far away from her as he could, while remaining in the room. She frowned.
“Do we know the same people, have the same circle of friends?”
He shoved a hand through his hair. Her fingers tingled, jealous, wanting to feel the thick, silky strands themselves. “We met through mutual . . . acquaintances.”
She glanced away, smoothed the material of the thin hospital blanket. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t mean to interrogate you but you’re the only person I know, the only person I have access to, who knows what my current life is like. What I’ve done, who I’ve met, all of it has been erased.”
He moved a little closer. “That must be scary.”
“It is. I’m a person who likes certainty, at least I used to be, and now I feel so uncertain.” She looked at him. “The only thing I’m confident about is you. Or rather, the way you make me feel.”
They stared at each other. He was so tall she had to lean back to look up at him. He had gorgeous eyes, dark and thickly lashed. Women would kill each other in a steel cage death match for those lashes. But instead of making him look feminine they made him sexy as hell. She licked her suddenly dry lips and his eyes blazed to life.
Holy hell.
Just when she thought he was going to come closer, the door to the room swung open. A food service worker wearing maroon scrubs backed in carrying a tray with a covered plate, a small bowl, a dessert cup and a drinking cup, all in the same beige hue.
“Knock, knock.”
Leighton tamped down her irritation and dredged up a smile. “Hi, Shaniece.”
The younger woman’s visits had become the highlight of her day. Shaniece’s bubbly personality made up for the fact that the hospital had her on the senior citizen dining plan, feeding Leighton when it was barely five-thirty.
“I’ve got your dinner, Ms. Clarke. No one saw me, but I grabbed an extra chocolate pudding for you.”
Shaniece turned around and stumbled when she saw Jonathan. He moved quickly and took the tray from her before its contents were fed to the floor. Although, honestly, Leighton wouldn’t have minded that outcome.
Shaniece’s overly lined eyes widened. “Aren’t you Chef Moran?”
Jonathan sat the tray down. “You know who I am?”
“You’re kidding, right? The whole city is buzzing about your new restaurant opening.”
He dipped his head. “Good to know I’m getting my promo money’s worth. You work in the kitchen here?”
“Yeah, but there’s not as much cooking as I thought. More like reheating.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You want to cook?”
“Since I was a little girl. I learned from my grandmother. But I don’t want to work in a neighborhood joint. I want to work in fancy restaurants.”
He nodded. “Have you applied to any?”
Shaniece waved a dismissive hand. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” he asked, sharing a quick, amused look with Leighton.
“I didn’t go to culinary school.”
“You don’t have to go to culinary school to work at a fancy restaurant. And fancy is your word, not mine.”
Shaniece put her hands on her trim hips. “Did you go?”
“Yes, but—”
Shaniece pursed her lips. “I knew it.”
“But not at first,” he said. “In the beginning I worked at restaurants and got as much experience as I could. Then I met a chef who saw something in me and took me under his wing. After a while, he suggested I go to school.”
“That’s great for you, but I don’t have a fairy god-chef.”
“I know lots of chefs who worked their way up in the kitchen and received their education on the job. If you have a good head on your shoulders, are disciplined, and have a willingness to learn and a drive to get better, you can definitely succeed without going to culinary school. Cool?”
Shaniece’s nod set her micro braids swinging and her sunny smile broke through the doubt that had clouded her expression. “Okay, Chef, I hear you.”
“On your next day off, I want you to come by the restaurant.”
“I thought you don’t open for another couple of weeks.”
“We don’t.”
Her dark brown eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I’ll introduce you around. You can talk to some of the cooks and ask questions, then I’ll give you an opportunity to show me what you can do. If after that, you still want a job, we’ll see.”
Shaniece ran over to Jonathan and hugged him tight. “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.”
He looked startled but then he smiled. That smile was warm enough to melt her insides and coax her lips into curving upward in response. Was that when she’d first fallen in love with him? The first time she’d seen that smile?
“You got a good one here, Ms. Clarke. Don’t let him go.”
“I don’t intend to,” Leighton said softly.
The door closed, breaking the spell.
“Thanks for saving my dinner.” Leighton looked down at the tray and frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“The food. I may not know if my tastes have changed, but I know I don’t like this.”
He lifted the lid and she resisted the urge to turn her nose up at the chicken patty, mashed potatoes and broccoli on the plate.
“This is the second time I’ve seen this meal,” she said. “I guess we’re starting over in the rotation.”
He laughed. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here,” she called to his back, taking the chocolate pudding cup and pushing the rest of the tray away.
A few minutes later he returned with bags of cheesy tortilla chips, plain potato chips, chocolate covered peanut candies and a ham and cheese sandwich.
Her mouth watered. “Where did you get that deliciousness?”
He smiled. “The vending machines in the visitor’s waiting lounge.”
“I’ll take all of it,” she said, her arms outstretched to reach for the items.
He opened the bags of chips. “No.”
“Are you kidding me? Did you bring that food in here so I could watch you eat it? Are you trying to torture my memories back? You’re too cute to be so cruel.”
He smirked. “And you are too beautiful to be so dramatic.”
She placed her hands over her warmed cheeks. He thought she was beautiful?
He pulled a plastic cutlery set out of his back pocket, tore open the package and extracted the knife. He divested the sandwich of its bread and began chopping the ham and cheese into uniform pieces.
The deep concentration on his face fascinated her. He gave the task at hand his sole attention and the passion practically vibrated off him in waves. Had he looked like that when he focused on her in bed? Right before he fucked her silly? God, she would give money for that memory.
Finally, he handed her the plate of food and sat at the foot of the bed. “Just a little something.”
“And what do you call this?”
His lips were tilted in a smile, but his eyes crinkled at the corners with anxiety. “Ham and cheesy nacho supreme with a chocolate crumble.”
She took a bite.
The flavors danced on her tongue, the crunchy texture enhanced by a mixture of salty and sweet. Her eyes rolled back in her head in ecstasy.
“Oh my God!”
“You like it?” A look of relief ghosted over his face.
“I love it. It’s so good. I don’t know how you managed to get this meal out of what you had. You should be on Top Chef.” She paused. “Were you on Top Chef?”
His dark eyes watched her devour the food. “No.”
“If you were, you’d win.” She set her fork aside and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Come here.”
His nostrils flared and he hesitated for a moment, before leaning toward her.
She smoothed her palm on his cheek and felt the bristles of his early evening stubble against her hand. She stared into eyes dark with simmering heat and pressed her lips against his.
Her heart pounded against her ribcage, like a rebellious teenager trying to break curfew, and she pulled away before she succumbed to the longing to pull him down on the bed with her. “Thank you.”
His gaze searched hers. “It’s just a meal.”
“No, it’s more than that. You’re a very busy man and the fact that you’ve stopped by every day means the world to me.” She stole another quick kiss. “I want to remember everything about you.”
Something shifted in his expression and he backed away from her. She swallowed her disappointment at his distance. The accident had happened to her but it affected both of their lives. Maybe he needed some time.
She sat back and took another bite of her food. “Do you have any awards for your cooking?”
“I’ve won a James Beard award.”
“That’s impressive,” she said. But she wanted to give him a hard time, see how he’d react. “So have others.”
He stared at her down the length of his nose. “Quartet has earned three Michelin stars.”
Three Michelin stars! That was fucking amazing! “That’s nice.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve cooked for the governor of California, several Grammy award-winning bands and the cast of the latest Star Wars movie.”
She shrugged. “Well, you just hang in there. You might make something of yourself.”
She lowered her head and held herself still, wondering how long she could hold her amusement at bay. After several long, quiet, seconds, she risked a glance from beneath her lashes and gave in to her laughter when she saw the wide smile splitting his face. She reveled in the brief relief of the tension that always seemed to hover between them.
“Wait, there’s a new Star Wars?” she asked, through lingering giggles.
“Uh-huh. And it’s good. Better than the prequels.”
“I have to catch up on a lot.” And she knew where—or with whom—to start. “You said your first restaurant is in San Francisco. Are you from there?”
“That’s where I lived for the past fifteen years. But I was born and raised here in DC.”
“So we met after you moved back here?”
He paused before continuing. “Yes.”
“And did you move back here specifically to open this new restaurant?”
He leaned back against the footboard. “Among other reasons.”
A critical thought occurred to her. “Are we staying here?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve lived the past fifteen years on the other side of the country. Are you going to stay here in DC or go back to San Francisco?”
“Initially I assumed I’d be bi-coastal.”
“And now?”
He met her eyes. “Now, I’m not sure what my future plans are.”
Because of her. Her and this stupid accident.
The door opened and Dr. Faber walked in.
“Hello.” Dr. Faber shook Jonathan’s hand then walked over to the bed and squeezed Leighton’s shoulder. “I’d heard Mr. Moran was here, so I thought this would be a good time to drop by.”
She wondered what he needed to say that would make having Jonathan here a prerequisite for the conversation.
“Good news. Your last MRI showed the swelling of your medial lobe had reduced significantly. Other than that, everything looks normal.”
“Then why hasn’t she gotten her memories back?” Jonathan asked.
Dr. Faber shrugged. “Not sure. But there’s no reason to keep her here.” He addressed Leighton. “We can release you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? While she was exceedingly happy to leave the hospital behind, she was panicked about her next step.
“Where do I go?”
“Do you live with someone?”
She looked at Jonathan, who swallowed and shook his head.
“I guess I can go home.”
“Not if you live by yourself,” Dr. Faber said.
What was she going to do? Maybe she needed to call her mother and ask her to return early, as she’d suggested.
Jonathan spoke up. “She’ll come home with me.”
Leighton touched the base of her neck. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’ll take good care of you,” he said, his words a solemn vow.
“Perfect,” Dr. Faber said. “The nurse will come in with some instructions for home care. We should be able to get you out of here tomorrow afternoon. After your release, you’ll still need to come back daily to continue with your therapy, at least for the next few weeks, okay?”
As Dr. Faber pulled Jonathan aside to go over a few more items about her impending discharge, Leighton sagged back against the pillows and smiled. She was getting out of this hospital before she had to endure another rotation through the hospital menu or she succumbed to the urge to purchase scrubs to wear in her daily life.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t worried about existing in the real world. Despite the food and the confinement, she appreciated the simplicity of hospital life. Decisions were made for her. Everyone she communicated with knew about her medical condition; internal debates about who she should trust and how much weren’t necessary. Outside hospital walls, the chaos of the world awaited.
Speaking of chaos . . .
She stared at her fiancé and goose bumps sprang to life on her arms. Good Lord, how lucky was she? She’d be staying with him. Living together would give her the opportunity to spend time getting to know him and learning about their relationship. Though she instinctively trusted him to take care of her, she’d always been good at reading people. Those same instincts went on high alert when he averted his eyes and kept his distance.
He was keeping something from her. He may not believe it relevant to her recovery or their relationship, but if he truly knew her, he had to know she wouldn’t rest until she discovered what he was hiding and why.