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Once we’ve cleanedand restocked the ambulance, it doesn’t take long to get to Grace’s place. She lives in a small residential borough on the eastern outskirts of central London.
“Most of the houses have been converted into flats,” Grace explains as we pull up outside a 1930s end-terrace. “Queens Hospital is just up the road, and I like that there are a lot of nurses and doctors living in this street.” She chuckles. “Like one big, happy medical family.”
I park the Merc in the allocated spot at the rear of the property and follow Grace back around to the front.
“This is me,” she says, opening the door to the ground-floor flat, which leads directly into the living area.
I’m not surprised to see how orderly and feminine her space is, although I am surprised at its sparseness. Everything has a functional purpose, and there are no nick-nacks on the mantelpiece over the gas fire or picture frames on the walls. This is the domain of someone who’s efficient and thrifty. The only indications of comfort are the scatter rugs, throw cushions, and a few candles.
“It’s not much, but it’s home,” Grace says proudly.
Something tells me her independence was hard gained, and it gives me yet another insight into the remarkable woman she is.
“It’s great,” I say genuinely. I can’t resist adding, “Besides, size isn’t everything. It’s what you do with it that counts.”
Grace bursts out laughing. “Fletcher Hardy, are youflirting?”
Shit. Am I? I’m not sure I even remember what flirting is. “Sorry, just slipped out.”
Grace gives me an exaggerated wink. “Slipped out, eh?”
Jesus, am I blushing? I’m an ex-combat medic. I’ve dragged injured soldiers from battlefields. I don’t fucking blush. What is this woman doing to me? Whatever she’s doing, I’m starting to like it.A lot.
“Here, let me take that,” Grace says, relieving me of the bag with the takeaway food we stopped for en route. We also grabbed some beer from the local off-licence.
I follow her to the small but fully equipped kitchen. A tiny round table and two chairs are tucked in the corner, where Grace places the food and beer.
“Let me show you the bathroom so you can freshen up,” she says, sliding past me and heading for the narrow hallway I glimpsed earlier.
We pass a closed door, which I assume is her bedroom, and I’m assailed with images of her laid out on the bed, her naked curves on display for my eyes only.
“Here you go,” she says, opening the door to reveal a small, impeccably clean bathroom. “Oh, would you prefer to eat at the table or slum it on the sofa in front of the TV?”
I grin. “Slumming it on the sofa sounds good to me.”
ChapterSeven
Grace
I leaveFletcher to do his thing in the bathroom. He brought a rucksack in with him from the boot of the Merc, telling me he always keeps a change of clothes stashed there–a leftover from his time in the Army when he’d have to respond quickly despite being on leave.
I head to the bedroom and change into jeans and a clean t-shirt, releasing my hair from the standard ponytail I wear for work and running a brush through the tangles.
My brow creases as I remember Fletcher’s pain earlier. I’m not an idiot. I saw how he struggled today. He’s not the invincible automaton I first believed. He’s a flesh and blood man who’s sacrificed and suffered for his country. For me.
I didn't want to subject him to the noisy Friday night pub crowd when he was in pain. But this is perfect, and having him in my home feels oddly right.
By the time Fletcher emerges from the bathroom, I have the food and beer set up on the coffee table in the living room. He’s changed into a black t-shirt that moulds to his wide chest and grey tracksuit bottoms.
Our conversation is casual and easy as we eat our curry. I listen intently to Fletcher’s experiences as a paramedic and pick his brain for useful advice and information.
“So, do you have any family nearby? Brothers or sisters?” I ask, taking a sip of my beer.
“My mother died of cancer when I was three, and my dad raised me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, wishing I hadn’t asked. I know the pain of losing a mother, although my circumstances were different.
“Don’t apologise. I was too young to remember her. Dad remarried again when I was sixteen, and I think of Pippa as my mum.” He winces and rubs his thigh. “Pippa is Australian, and they emigrated there when I was twenty-one. They have two boys now, ten and twelve.”
