Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(18)

He takes a step closer.

“Why me?” Vero whispers in my head. But she is not whining anymore, just making conversation.

“Is your head all right?” Thomas continues. “Do you have a headache?”

On cue, my head explodes. I grab my temples, squeeze my eyes shut. In that moment, Thomas closes the gap between us. His arms snap like a steel trap around my shoulders. The hospital personnel fall back. Why not? The husband has arrived. Clearly, he’s got this.

“The sound of my voice,” he commands.

So I do. I listen to the sound of his voice. And with the weight of his hands upon my shoulders, I turn and fall in step meekly beside him.

In the hospital room, he effortlessly slides down the metal rails, then helps me onto the tall bed. He tucks my trembling legs beneath the sheet, smooths the blue coverlet high across my chest.

I stare at him resentfully, prepared for his expression of gloating. He has won, I have lost, even if I don’t understand the rules of engagement. When he glances back, however, I’m startled to see that his eyes are overbright, his expression distraught. He catches himself, makes a visible effort to pull himself together. For my sake or his?

“Please, honey,” he begins, “you can’t keep doing this. You’re calling unnecessary attention . . .” His voice breaks; he looks away. He’s upset. I’ve upset him. I feel bad, like I should apologize. Those dark, dark eyes, I think. How I loved him once. Love him still?

He swallows heavily. “I know you don’t believe me. I know; everything feels upside down, topsy-turvy. But I love you, Nicky. I have only ever wanted the best for you. Whether you remember that or not.”

“I want to go home,” I whisper.

He smiles tiredly.

“I don’t think the doctors will let you. You’re very sick, Nicky. Three concussions and you’ve bruised your ribs.”

“You’ll take care of me.”

“Based on the past six months, Dr. Celik would beg to differ.”

“It’s not your fault I drink,” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

“I won’t touch any alcohol,” I promise more rashly. “Just get me out of here. The lights are too bright. They hurt my eyes.”

“The police want to question you,” he says bluntly. “Here or at home, Nicky, you have to face them.”

“But I don’t remember anything!”

“Not even buying the Glenlivet?”

His question, spoken coolly, brings me up short. Do I remember buying the bottle of scotch? Maybe. Kind of. Is that even a real answer?

“I want to go home,” I say again.

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to do with me anymore. Will he leave me?

Will I miss him?

“Do you remember the promise I made to you, our first night together in New Orleans?” he asks abruptly.

I don’t. It must show on my face.

“Once upon a time, you said your home was wherever I was,” he says.

The words mean nothing to me.

“Once upon a time, you said my love made you strong.”

I have no answer.

“And once upon a time, you said as long as we were together, it would be enough.”

I don’t know what to say; he’s telling me stories from someone else’s life.

He seems to know as much. His shoulders come down. He regards me expressionlessly. “We made a deal that night. Anytime you thought you smelled smoke, you’d reach for my hand. Do you smell smoke, Nicky?”

I frown at him. For the first time, his words sound familiar, as if I should know what he’s talking about. Slowly, I shake my head.

“Did you smell smoke last night?”

I have to think about it. “After the crash,” I murmur.

He doesn’t say anything. Just a muscle flinches in his jaw. A sign that he’s heard. A sign that he hurts.

“I died once before,” I hear myself say.

My husband is not surprised by this news.

“There are only so many times a woman can come back from the dead.”

“We’re going to get through this,” Thomas says evenly.

My turn to smile. Because I might have forgotten his name, but I still know when he’s lying to me.

Vero, I think.

Then I reach out and take my husband’s hand.





Chapter 8




HOW GOES THE battle?” Tessa asked.

On the other end of the phone, Wyatt contemplated his girlfriend’s lighthearted question and promptly sighed heavily. “Long morning,” he admitted. “Long, strange morning. But the good news is, I think we should get a puppy.”

“What?”

He could already picture her, sitting up straighter, blue eyes blinking in bewilderment.

“A cute yellow Lab,” Wyatt continued. “One that will wag its tail and cover you with kisses every time you come home. That would be perfect.”

“Perfect for whom? Dogs have to be fed, you know. As well as taken outside, exercised regularly. And Sophie and I are never home.”

“Mrs. Ennis would help.”

“Mrs. Ennis is seventy years old—”

“And still the toughest broad I know. In fact, if things don’t work out between us, I might just set my cap for her.”