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He scanned the half-full reception area before his kindly gaze landed back on me. “So what are we waiting for, then?”
“We?”
Reaching out, he wordlessly prized my overnight bag from my clenched grip. “Yes, we. You didn’t think I was going to let you do this alone, did you?” He hefted the bag onto his shoulder. “And you won’t need this. You won’t be spending the night here. I’m taking you home this afternoon, and then I’m staying and looking after you for a few days.”
Look after me? As if my nerves weren’t frazzled enough, I now had things like caring and kindness to contend with. Sentiments my man delivered in a sexy, commanding manner. I gave a dry swallow; now was not the time for horny thoughts.
“I’ve come out to Heather, by the way,” he added brightly, as he steered me, with more force than necessary, towards the surgical unit. “Turns out her sister is a lesbian but used to be married to a man before she worked it all through. We ended up having a lovely chat. I also clarified the situation with Sally, my secretary.”
“Jesus, it’s like a bloody drug for you, isn’t it?” Breakfast had been verboten on account of my surgery, my hunger reflected in my mood.
Evan clearly didn’t give a shit. “You should give it a whirl, Rob, honestly. It’s fine. A huge weight off my shoulders. I’m telling my mates at the golf club next.”
I made a chuffing noise. “Why don’t you put an ad in The Times and save yourself the bother?”
Too busy smiling and saying hello to everyone, he pretended not to hear. God save me from cheerful souls. Evan was like a celebrity in the ward, which meant, by default, I was, too. And all these terribly helpful strangers must have guessed I was gay; I might as well have been sporting a sparkly unicorn costume, seeing as my ever-so-attentive personal escort fussed over me like my bloody househusband. Even though I’d never see any of them again, it was a peculiar sensation, and not altogether comfortable. But at least it took my mind off the impending blood and the needles and more blood and oh, god, the anaesthesia and the surgeon’s knife and…
Two little white tablets landed in my hand, along with a snifter of water.
“Something to calm you down, Mr Langford,” said the anaesthetist, taking one look at me and giving Evan a knowing eyebrow. Was my knee trembling that obvious? I gulped them down, wondering if asking for two more might be a little cheeky. To be honest, they looked on the puny side, like a couple of paracetamols.
“Are you okay? Your face is rather green,” Evan observed as one of the nurses took my blood pressure. I’d undressed and slipped on a gown; he’d folded away my clothes neatly—I had the tidiest bed space on the bloody ward—then perched himself on the chair next to the bed, relaxed as anything. “Are you too hot? Too cold? Are your surgical stockings too tight?”
The nurse treated us to an adoring look. “Our lovely Mr Richardson can fill in the forms for you, if you’re not feeling too clever. Is this your first time?”
“Yes,” I answered, through gritted teeth. “And the last.”
“I’m writing my name and number in the next-of-kin section,” commented the lovely Mr Richardson after she’d left. “Seeing as I’m here and your sister has gone back home." His pen scratched irritatingly, and he looked up at me. “Unless you want me to put your sister?”
I struggled to replay his simple question in my head. After the tablets, my mouth and brain had begun to feel somewhat disconnected, although at least my hands had stopped shaking. Thank God, as I’d had to sign my consent form with both Heather and Evan watching. I had the first slot on the operating list (a perk of association with a celeb) and any second now, an orderly would be coming to wheel me away. What if I was never wheeled back again? Evan had reassured me a million times, and Heather had echoed him: my surgery was relatively minor, a walk in the park, absolutely nothing to worry about. So naturally, I’d not stopped worrying since.
With a woozy head, I studied my new man, stretched out in the plastic chair, hands loosely in his lap, gleaming with quiet self-assurance. He smiled back at me as if I was the only object worth admiring in the whole ward. If this was going to be my final hour on this earth, did I want to go out knowing Evan was down as my next-of-kin? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Alone behind the curtain, I took his hand. Last night, unable to sleep, I’d had a long chinwag with Watermelons, and we’d thrashed out a few things. My bull was a better listener than Zeus, who tended to nod off as I reached the important parts. Despite dense clouds of cotton wool clogging my brain, using my last few minutes on earth conveying to Evan the feelings I’d shared with Watermelons suddenly felt terribly important. “You do know I’m a grumpy bugger, right?”
His laughter was carefree and tender. “I had noticed, yes.”
“And we both like…um…prefer…um…topping, which we haven’t really talked about yet.”
That had him laughing even harder. “Because you started snoring five minutes afterwards. And, babe,” Evan brushed his lips against my temple, “I’m not convinced that’s strictly true, anyhow.”
“Yes, okay, don’t go on.” Smartarse. His hand rested lightly on my knee, absently giving my inside thigh a heavenly massage with his thumb.
“I should also point out,” he continued, in a low murmur that, combined with the thigh rub, was going to ensure I arrived in the operating theatre with a flagpole tenting my flowery cotton gown, “that the curtains are very flimsy, and the lady in the bed next to you, awaiting bunion surgery, is now fully abreast of both of our alleged sexual preferences.”
Apparently, my skin had learned how to blush after all. Evan kissed it away, which didn’t improve the erection situation. The sexy murmuring and hot minty breath against my temple thing changed to a naughty smirk.
“I’m kidding you, Rob. The bed’s empty.” The fucker.
My conversation with Watermelons hadn’t ended there, and pieces of it stubbornly clung to the edges of my woolly mind. “And…and…we hardly know each other. Not really. You’re going to realise sooner or later that I totally am a farmer cliché. I talk about the weather, like, all the time. And I worry about my herd if I don’t check up on them every four hours. Like I’m worrying now.”
“Do you chew pieces of straw and toss hay with a pitchfork while staring moodily out over the pasture, all gnarly and weather-beaten in a pair of overalls? Because that is so hot.”
“Now you’re taking the piss.”
“Yes I am, because you’re being adorable but ridiculous.” Evan squeezed my fingers. I blinked rapidly; his face had split into two blurred faces. “Sweetheart, listen.” I almost looked over my shoulder to see to whom he was referring. Seemingly, it was me. “We’ve seen each other at our best, but also at our worst.”
I nodded, remembering his blown pupils as I gave him the most magnificent blowjob ever, yet also the way I so manfully dealt with his dislocated shoulder.
