Page 33 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

A genuine smile softened her face. “Yeah. I adopted him last year. Well, Mr. Fitzherbert adopted me. He just appeared in my apartment one day and decided he lived there.”

I blinked. “Don’t you live on the fifth floor?”

“Yup.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Still haven’t figured out how he managed that one. There are a lot of unanswered questions in that cat’s life.”

Despite everything happening around me, I found myself smiling.

“Anyway, I’ll be back soon.” She pointed at both of us, her expression turning stern. “Behave.”

Before either of us could object, she grabbed her bag and slipped out.

The moment the door closed behind her, the room fell into an awkward silence, save for the steady beeping of the monitor beside me.

I stared at the ceiling.

Then the wall.

Then the blanket.

Anywhere but him.

Unfortunately, my eyes betrayed me. I glanced in his direction, only to find him back in his earlier position by the window, one shoulder resting against the frame, his arms folded across his chest, his attention fixed entirely on me.

I glanced away.

A few seconds passed.

Another glance.

Still staring.

I shifted beneath the blankets, increasingly irritated by the fact that he seemed perfectly content to stand there and watch me exist.

What was his plan? Wait me out? Stare at me until my memories magically returned? Or had he simply decided that prolonged eye contact counted as a personality?

When did a silent, brooding guy with a staring fetish become my type?

“What happened to the loud guy?” I asked, breaking the silence yet again.

Seriously, was I going to be carrying every conversation in this marriage?

He blinked, pulled from whatever thoughts had his attention. “Liam went to work. One of us—”

The words died halfway out of his mouth.

He froze. For a split second, pain flickered across his face, raw and haunted before disappearing so quickly I almost wondered if I’d imagined it.

I leaned forward slightly. “One of us what?”

He shook his head, dismissing the question with a small movement. “Nothing. He just had to go.”

“And you didn’t?”

Couldn’t he have work to do too? He’d been hovering around me ever since I woke up, practically glued to this room like he was convinced I’d vanish the second he looked away.

Didn’t this man have a job?

At this rate, was he planning to leave at all?