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“I’ve got to get home,” she announced, shoving back the bedspread. “I’m fuzzy about what the nurse practitioner said, and what she did. I need to see my hand therapist. And the hounds…I’ve got to pick them up.”
“The hounds are fine.” Derek halted Sloane’s motion, easing her back onto the bed. “Mrs. Wagner’s keeping them overnight. I found her number on your speed dial,” he added, preempting Sloane’s next question with an answer. “And you’re not going anywhere. Not till tomorrow morning. The nurse practitioner emphasized that about twenty times when she prescribed the Vicodin.”
“But I have some nerve tingling in my hand.” Sloane was trying to stay calm. “That could mean I redamaged something.”
“The nerves are inflamed. That’s it. Other than the fact that you tore up the tissue around your scars pretty badly with that wrench. The ice pack took down the swelling. Anyway, they did some tests. You passed with flying colors. And you spoke to your hand therapist, as did the nurse practitioner. Constance—I think that was her name—was satisfied with all the procedures that were done, and with the results.”
“Right.” Memory filtered back in fragments. “I did talk to Connie. She said I should follow the instructions health services gave me, take the Vicodin, and see her at her New Jersey office tomorrow at three.”
“Exactly.”
Relief surged through Sloane with the force of a tidal wave. Her hand would be okay. And the hounds were safe and cared for. “What about my car?” she asked.
“It’s at the local gas station. The mechanic is patching your tire. It’ll be good as new tomorrow, just like you.” Derek unwrapped Sloane’s Whopper with cheese and handed it to her. “Now eat. But use your left hand.”
“I intend to.” Sloane took the burger, her brows still drawn together in question. “How did my car get to the gas station?”
“I drove it there after I changed the flat. Tom picked me up and brought me back to my car. Then he took off and I swung by health services and got you.”
“I remember the drive.” Sloane was still sifting through filaments of memory. “I also remember us pulling into the hotel parking lot, and going inside the room. Oh, and I remember your giving me this to change into.” She plucked at the sweatshirt, which fit her like an oversize dress. “I don’t remember much else. I guess I was pretty out of it.”
“Those painkillers are strong. Still, you were pretty coherent until we got into the hotel room.” A corner of Derek’s mouth lifted. “Coherent enough to slam the bathroom door in my face when I tried to come in and help you change out of your wet clothes. But after you got into bed, you conked out. You’ve been asleep since.”
“Wow. That must be three and a half hours.”
“Close. Now eat your Whopper. You’re dripping sauce on my bed.”
Sloane glanced down quickly, smiling as she saw the predictable napkins and outer wrapper Derek had placed on her lap. “Somehow I knew that was a lie. Did you think I’d forgotten, Mr. Clean?”
“Nope.” Derek took a bite of his own Double Whopper. “Just checking to see how lucid you are.”
“More lucid by the minute. And this meal should help.” Sloane chowed down, devouring her Whopper and eating her french fries with gusto. In between bites, she gulped down her drink.
“I never did understand the whole Diet Coke thing.” Derek took a swallow of his root beer. “If you decide to pig out and stuff your face with fat and calories, why not go the whole nine yards? I think I’ve seen you eat junk food maybe five times since I met you. So why dilute a great experience with a drink that tastes like watered-down Coke syrup with a vile aftertaste?”
“It’s actually pretty good.” Sloane grinned at his description. “Especially with the lemon. Besides, if I’m going to gorge myself, why waste calories on soda? I’d rather use them on some extra fries.”
“I say, go for both.”
“Be the ultimate hedonist.”
“Exactly. Pleasure’s not something to enjoy half measure. Throw yourself into it, full force.”
“Like you do everything.”
“So do you.”
Sloane’s chewing slowed down. “I guess I can’t deny that one. I’m pretty much an all-or-nothing girl.”
“Which leads to our talk.”
“Or not.” Sloane gave him a hopeful look. “Can’t I plead weakness from my injury? Being spaced out from my meds? Or appeal to your logic by saying we’ve been getting along so well, why ruin it now by getting into things that are going to start a war?”
“You could try them all. But none of them would work. This conversation is thirteen months overdue. And we’re having it.”
Sloane moved her take-out wrappers aside, then pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “If you review things rationally, we already had this conversation, right in the Stockton parking lot this afternoon.”
“We got out some of our anger and emotion. But we didn’t really get into the fundamentals. There’s a reason we couldn’t see each other’s point of view a year ago, a reason why you walked away, and a reason why we never reconnected.”
