Within These Walls (The Walls Duet #1)(21)

If I had known that someone like Lailah would be on the receiving end of Megan’s tragedy, would I have chosen differently? Would I have been able to let go, knowing that a young woman so full of hope and life would get to live on even if my Megan couldn’t?

I really didn’t know.

And that was why I’d ended up in her room even though I had told myself I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t help it.

She confused and intrigued me like no other person I’d ever met. She was facing extraordinary circumstances with death staring her in the face. Yet, when I’d walked into the room, her hand had immediately gone to her hair, and she’d blushed.

Why does she do that?

She would babble when she was nervous, and she made lists like an old lady losing her memory. Faced with such challenges, she was the exact opposite of the type of person I would expect her to be.

When Megan had died, I’d become harsh and bitter. I’d closed myself off from everyone I knew. I’d disconnected from the life I was supposed to lead and disappeared. Lailah’s life had been one bad event after another and yet she was still facing everything head-on.

When she’d mentioned her bucket list, I’d known I found my mission.

I might not have the power of my old life, but I could still move mountains—well, hills maybe.

I just had to learn how to cook first.

After that, I’d figure out a way to get her that transplant.

“Hey, Nash. Heard you are breaking out of here soon,” I said after stepping into his cluttered room.

“Well, I tried to talk that pretty raven-haired girl into running away with me, but she just giggled and said she was already taken.”

“Who? Grace?” I asked, moving to his bedside to begin the process of taking his vitals.

“Yeah, she reminds me of an exotic princess. I want to remove those silly cartoon uniforms she wears and cover her in nothing but silk. I’d also like to lick cream off of her until she purrs.”

That description stopped me as I was in the middle of wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his weathered bicep. “Uh…well…” I tried to think of something to follow up with, but I had nothing.

He smiled a big Cheshire Cat grin that took up half his face. His white teeth were a stark contrast to his dark complexion. “You weren’t kidding. You really don’t talk much.”

After checking his blood pressure, I pulled the cuff off his arm and walked back to the small cart I’d brought in to enter the information into the computer. “Guess I’m a little out of practice.”

“No friends?”

“Not really.” I walked back to the other side to check his IV.

“No family?”

“No.” I shifted from one side to the other, feeling uncomfortable by the sudden onslaught of questions.

“What about a woman? Surely, a man like you has to have a woman?”

“No, not anymore.” The pain from saying the words felt like a sword lancing through my heart—a heart that still beat unlike Megan’s who I’d selfishly kept from moving on.

He obviously saw the hurt in my eyes because he didn’t say another word. He just allowed me to do my job, moving from one task to another, until I was finally finished.

Just as I was about to leave, I remembered a story Nash had told me earlier in the week. Nash was full of stories. His life was an endless cascading sea of them, and as if he didn’t have enough of them to pull from in his real life, he would make them up as well.

With over forty novels under his belt, I’d learned—thanks to Google—that Nash Taylor was one of the most accomplished fictional writers of our time. He’d earned every literary award known to man, and he was also known for being a little flamboyant. Loose with his morals and even looser with his money, the man had a reputation for mischief, which is why he had a slew of ex-wives and several children and grandchildren.

Since I’d met the man, he’d told me so many stories about his life. I felt like I knew his autobiography better than I knew my own. One particular story stuck out more than the others because it could help my current predicament.

In the eighties, during a particularly long period of writer’s block, Nash had decided to take a job as a cook. He’d had absolutely no experience, and he’d said the manager was probably either drunk or incredibly stupid to hire him, but he’d thought the job would give him some inspiration. For six months, he’d explored the culinary world.

“I was the worst cook on the face of the earth—at first,” he’d said. “But the more I tried, the better I became. Like a virgin, I was sloppy and clumsy to start, but I practiced, practiced, practiced! Then, bam! I became a natural!”

Nash always managed to take every story and relate it back to sex. I would call it some sort of gift, but really, I thought he was just a dirty old man.

“Hey, Nash,” I said, turning around.

“Yes, my quiet friend?”

“Could you help me plan a meal? I want to cook dinner with someone, but I seriously can’t cook shit.”

His lips turned skyward, and his expression warmed.

Thirty minutes later, I’d written out a ton of notes and gotten a bit of a headache from the amount of talking, but I had a meal and a plan.





I knew what I had planned would probably take far longer than the hour I was allowed for a lunch break, so the following day, I showed up at the hospital, dressed in my civilian clothes, and for once, I didn’t clock in. Instead, I headed down to the cafeteria, walking past the line of staff and visitors waiting to pay their tabs, and I gave Betty, the cafeteria lady, a quick wink. She blushed and puckered her lips, giving me a flirty air kiss back, as she waved me back through the kitchen.