god by a rasp of stubble. His eyes are the kind of green that speaks of tropical islands that are lush and inviting, but possess an intensity that’s almost mesmerising.
‘He’s looking much better now, don’t you think?’
‘He’s looking good,’ I find myself replying in a completely unnecessary tone, as I enter the cubicle, immediately drawn to the side of the bed. I can’t say whether it’s out of concern or curiosity, or even something else.
‘I don’t think there’s any cause for ordering imaging,’ the doctor muses, his index finger tracing across the screen of a tablet he holds in his hand. ‘No need for X-rays or a CT.’
‘Good.’ Those sound expensive.
Wow. He has such big shoulders under that thin hospital gown.
‘And even though it looked as though he’d lost a prodigious amount of blood, his head wound was superficial.’
‘Good, that’s good,’ I agree just as pensively, my eyes flicking down to where his long-fingered hands lie over the edges of the blue hospital blanket.
You know what they say about big hands.
‘I’m Dr Scott, by the way. One of the emergency physicians here. We were quite concerned when Remy arrived, but his testing has so far been satisfactory. In fact, I was hoping you could help us with his cognitive assessment. . .’
Hands that size would make even my ass feel small.
‘. . . by translating for us.’
‘Hmm. Yes. I understand.’
‘Great. We won’t need to involve a translator, in that case.’
‘Okay—wait, what?’ My head whips to Dr Scott, who is, apparently, serious.
‘Well, my French is non-existent. You’d need only to ask him some questions on my behalf,’ he reports.
He only speaks French? I find myself looking at him again.
He’s French. Ooh-la-la!
‘One of our nursing staff helped out until a few minutes ago,’ the doctor continues. ‘Her knowledge of the language proved very helpful, but she’s been called to another ward. Ordinarily, I’d call in a translation service, but as you’re listed as his significant other . . .’ His words trail away as, like a bad comedy sketch, my head then whips from doctor to patient, the latter managing a wan-looking smile.
‘I’m what?’
‘You’re noted as Remy’s girlfriend. Is that not right?’
Did he say I was his girlfriend? Or did the hospital staff assume, the same as the paramedics? Oh my God, if he has a brain injury, they might have told him I’m his girlfriend, and he might think it’s the truth! And if he does have a brain injury, it could be my fault—caused by being whacked upside the head with a monstrous sex toy.
I open my mouth to come clean when the man in the bed reaches for my hand, and a swirl of ink peeks from the sleeve of his hospital gown. He has tattoos? My eyes trace up his arm as I wonder what else he’s hiding under there. As I glance up at him once again, he shoots me the kind of smile that makes blood hum in my veins.
But it’s one thing to have waited around, to let the staff assume, even if my intentions were good. It’s another to continue this charade. Except, he’s alone, and he’s hurt, and I find I can’t abandon him. Especially as I might be partly responsible for him being here.
Concussion by sex toy, and not a headboard in sight.
‘His girlfriend,’ I murmur, almost to myself. And I’m pretty sure he just tried to nod. Though now he’s grimacing.
So, was that a smile yes, or a grimace no?
If I come clean now, I’ll look like an idiot. Or worse still, maybe I could be charged with impostor-ing. Maybe even assault.
‘If you’d prefer, I can contact the interpreter service?’ the doctor prompts.
‘No, that’s okay,’ I find myself answering. Or maybe that should be absolument?
And then the magnitude of my mistake dawns on me; of what I’ve just done.
Not only am I not this hottie’s significant other, but I also don’t speak French.
3
Rose
Merde! Merde on a stick!
I seem to have no issues remembering French curse words.
Fils de pute! Son of a bitch!
My mind rapidly runs through the snippets of French I remember from a week spent in a backpacker’s hostel in Paris, my stupid brain only offering up profanity.
Encule toi, Salaud! Fuck you, bastard!
But what else? There must be other words—phrases? Sensible things to say?
Café au lait, une croissant, un grande vin. Coffee, croissant, and wine; what else does a girl need for a week in Paris?
Casse-toi! Piss off! Now, this I remember came in useful one Saturday night, but it’s