The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(44)

I knock hard and see the familiar, dimpled smile of a short, brunette nurse who always wears pink. She gets the door and shakes her head at me.

“Front doors only, Mr. McKellan.” She tsks, and I rub at my head. “Dammit. I forgot.”

She shrugs. “New rule.” She rolls her eyes, teasingly. “You’ve only had…mmm, coming up on three months to adjust.”

I let her rib me as we walk down the hallway toward the sign-in desk, where I see the surprise on the receptionist’s face.

“It’s not—” She must get some signal from the nurse behind me, because she blinks a few times, then smiles thinly. “Mr. McKellan!” She leans forward, on her bony elbows. “What can we do for you today?”

A few minutes later, I’m ushered into Dad’s room, where I find him sitting up in bed, watching a game show with the windows open, casting his room in a deep blue glow.

When I step inside, he glances toward me with a frown. “Who’s that come to bother me?”

I raise a hand in greeting. “Hi, Dad. Gabe.”

“That ole Gabe. That boy took off, years ago. Just left.”

I swallow as I take a few more steps inside and rest my elbow on the cracked, leather recliner. “How ya doing?” I ask.

Dad scowls my way. “Are you one of those doctors in ‘civilian’ clothes?”

I shake my head. “Just came by to check in on you.”

He shakes his head roughly, his single flop of faded brown hair smacking his freckled forehead. “I don’t like it here. They’re assholes, and no one gives me coffee.”

I squint at the table by his bed. “I think there’s a coffee cup beside you.”

“That?” He glares at the cup. “Sugar water.”

Is it wrong I have to struggle not to laugh? “Oh yeah?”

He nods once. “Sugar water like they give the little babies! Motherfuckers here, I tell you. Nothing but a bunch of motherfuckers.”

I rub my hand over my mouth. “Is there anything you like?”

“Well—there’s that nurse. The one with white hair. Very nice one, that one. Fluffs my pillows. She knows what it’s like.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, just making conversation.

Dad pounds his fist against the bed’s rail. “To be locked up in here like a fool!”

I nod slowly. “No one thinks you’re a fool.”

“You do. You and your New York. And that clean girl. In every picture, she looks clean, so clean she’s sparkling. Sure wish you took care of your old man that way.” He shakes his head. “Selfish and self-absorbed…going off up there.” He shakes his head again.

I inhale slowly. Work my hand into a fist, then let it relax.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” I’m not, of course. But I think it never hurts to say you’re sorry.

“Yeah—well.” With obvious reluctance at first, he looks me over. “Looking thinner now there. Older, too. I must be missing time again. Who’s president? It’s that fucking talk show host!”

I work to hide a smirk.

“You look like shit.”

I blow my breath out, steeling myself for more of his erratic commentary.

“Not drinking,” he says—but it’s a question.

“No.”

“Then it must be a woman.” He chuckles at that thought and then zones out, blinking at the TV and murmuring to himself for half an hour, but not looking over again at me.



*

Marley





I open the door with a big grin on my face. Because I fell asleep last night, and Gabe covered me up and made me cider, and then put a huge bottle of it in my refrigerator before he left. When I woke up later in the night and found his number on the notepad by my bed, I felt so warm and cared for. Like we’re really in a partnership of sorts.

So when I get an eyeful of him Wednesday night, my stomach twists a little.

“Heyyy.” I hold the door open, and he steps inside. He gives me a small, closed-mouthed smile as I drink in his long-sleeved, navy blue t-shirt and ragged khakis. As I check him out, I start to shake my head.

“Are those those Mountain Hardware ones? From way back when?”

He smiles, a little more, and I blink at his eyes as he says, “Yeah.”

“Oh my goodness, those are antiques.” I step a little closer to him. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

He blinks. “Sick? Nah.”

“Are you sure?” I take his hand and turn it so it’s palm over, feeling there to see if it feels warm and finding that it doesn’t.

He nods, his eyes squinting slightly. “Just a headache.”

“I’m sorry.”

I flatten his palm against mine and sandwich it between my hands…and I find I don’t want to let it go.

“Come here…” I tug him toward the bedroom. At the bed’s footboard, I nod. “Lay down. Face first. If you don’t mind,” I add, smiling.

With a funny look my way, he stretches out—and I climb atop his back, straddling his hips, and start to stroke his back through his shirt.

Gabe groans softly as I drag my thumbs over some pressure points in his midback.

“I don’t remember this.” His voice is muffled in my pillow.