by Carian Cole
I really don’t want to do that. I want to get out of this hospital and learn to live. It just seemed less scary talking about it than actually doing it.
“I promise if you don’t like living there, we’ll make other arrangements.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “I guess you can take me home.”
Pulling into the long driveway of the house doesn’t spark any feelings or memories. I was hoping I’d be struck by a blinding burst of light, and all my memories would flash through my brain and settle back into their little niches where they belong, and everything would be normal.
Not that I know what normal feels like, because I can’t remember what normal is.
I only know what this feels like. And this feels awkward.
It actually feels a little scandalous when Asher grabs my suitcases from the back seat of his car and helps me walk the distance to the front door. I almost expect Ember Valentine to come flying down the stairs to confront her husband when we enter the foyer together holding hands.
Don’t mind me, Ember. I’m just here to be the new wife. Thanks for the house, by the way. You can go now.
I pictured Asher’s house to be smaller and messier than it is. The foyer faces a huge, curved stairway that comfortably divides the main floor in half, leaving the space airy and open.
One would think a rock star living alone for years would’ve turned their house into a bachelor pad with dirty dishes, clutter everywhere, and a pool table planted in the middle of the dining room, but there’s none of that.
Next to me, hopeful expectancy is rushing through Asher’s veins like a stormy river. I can feel it bouncing off of him.
I put him out of his misery. “Please breathe. Being here isn’t making me remember anything yet.”
He grins. “Can you blame me for hoping?”
“No.”
“How ‘bout a tour? Or would you rather just go to your room and unpack?”
“A tour sounds good if you don’t mind walking slow.” I gesture to the cane I have to use for balance.
“Not at all.”
He holds my hand as he slowly walks me through the main floor, helping me steady myself. The kitchen, dining room, and living room are modern mixed with dashes of rustic warmth. It’s chic but cozy, and I like it more than I want to.
“This is the guest suite the nurse will be staying in.” He points to an open door. “Her name is Sarah, and she’ll be here later this afternoon. She’ll help you with your physical therapy, and she’ll also help with house stuff like cooking and cleaning, little things like that. She’s had an extensive background check and signed an NDA.”
That sounds very businessy. “Why would she need that?”
“We don’t want anyone leaking information about your recovery, taking photos of the inside of our house or of us, and selling them or uploading them to websites.”
“People do things like that?”
“’Fraid so. Social media is insane.”
He leads me to a four-season porch with sunlight pouring in. A cream sectional with huge, fluffy pillows that looks like the most comfortable couch in the world takes up almost half the room. There are tons of plants—hanging from the ceiling, in the corners, on little stands. Several watercolor paintings of butterflies hang on the walls. Standing in this room gives me a sense of warmth and comfort, and I feel an odd pull to climb on that couch and never leave.
Does a part of me remember being in this room? Or is a big cozy couch just very tempting?
“We’ll talk about social media stuff when you’re ready. You’re going to have to be careful online.”
Confusion about social media is swept from my mind as I move closer to the wall of glass and view the backyard, which is like an oasis with its in-ground pool, jacuzzi, massive deck, stone statues, bird baths, and flower gardens with waterfalls.
“Wow,” I breathe. “It’s beautiful.”
He comes up behind me and rests a hand on my waist and his chin on top of my head. Affectionate, intimate touches of a couple comfortably in love.
“I knew you’d like it. You spent most of your time in this room, cuddled up on the couch with a big blanket, a cup of tea, and your journal. You loved watching the birds and the squirrels outside.”
Turning, I find myself with my face in his chest and his hand on the small of my back. I touch his arm with my free hand, wanting to be part of the affectionate moment instead of feeling like I’m in the way of it—like a wall between him and the real Ember.
I breathe in the scent of his cologne, which always calms me. I wonder if, in another time, I purchased it for him.
“I like this room. I like the butterfly paintings. They remind me of…” What do they remind me of? Where I was? Something else? I don’t know. “Did you hang them because I was coming here?”
“They’ve always been here. You bought them from an artist at a local craft fair right after we moved here.”
“They’re pretty.”
“So are you.” He gives my forehead a quick kiss and grabs my hand. “C’mon, I’ll show you the rest.”
He takes me back through the house, pointing out the laundry room, the door to the garage, and the way to the lower level where he tells me he has a music studio, lounge area, kitchenette, gym, guest suite, and bathroom. He promises to bring me down there tomorrow so as not to tire my legs with too many stairs tonight.
“Our bedrooms are upstairs, are you okay to go up there?” he asks.
“I’m a little tired, but I think I can do it. The therapist says I have to keep trying.”
Concern flashes in his eyes. “I’m going to stay right next to you with my arm around you, okay? I don’t want you to fall.”
Embarrassment flushes through me as we ascend the stairs painstakingly slowly. I grip the handrail tight with each wobbly step. True to his word, he stays glued right next to me with muscular arms and the patience of a saint.
I feel old and broken and very unworthy of his encouraging yet sexy smile and devoted puppy eyes.
Why is he so good? Is this just who he is? Or is this an act of sympathy or guilt?
I haven’t been very nice to him. Maybe because I woke up to a man who’s physically married to me but mentally married to someone else, and I don’t feel married to anyone at all.
But the more time I spend with him, the more I start to believe he might really care about me—that he really might be a genuinely sweet guy buried under all that hair and ink—and the more I feel drawn to him.
And the more jealous I get of old Ember. Which is totally crazy.
“You have an abnormally big amount of stairs,” I say when we finally reach the second floor, and I have to lean against the wall to catch my breath.
“The cost of high ceilings. I can call my architect and see if we can have an elevator installed.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to laugh at his joke, but he’s not kidding.
“Are you crazy? You can’t put an elevator in the house.” Who does things like that?
“If there’s a way to get one in here, I’ll do it for you.”
“No. I’m only going to get stronger, right?”
“You definitely are.”
I hope so. Struggling in physical therapy at the hospital surrounded by others like me wasn’t so bad. Doing it here in a beautiful home with a well-built sexy rock star hovering around is totally different. What if he sees my bony body shaking as I do leg presses and thinks I’m unattractive?
After a few moments of rest, he leads me down the hall. “This is the main floor bathroom, and this is Kenzi’s room.”
I step inside with a spark of excitement. Everything is pink and purple in this room. It’s bright, colorful, and girly. It screams fun, youth, and happiness. A stuffed bunny toy is perched in the middle of the bed. He’s been loved into a tattered, floppy, and faded state.
Did I give her that bunny? Did she sleep with it as a little girl? Did she hug it and cry for me?
“I love this room. Can I stay in here?”
“Here? No, your room is just down the hall—”
“But I like this one.”
“It’s Kenzi’s room, though.”
“I thought she didn’t live here?”
“She doesn’t. She lives across the street in her own house, but this is her room. She grew up here. She likes to come over and sit in here sometimes.”
“Why? She has her own rooms.” I wonder if Kenzi was spoiled being raised by a single man. Surely I wouldn’t have given in to this kind of room hoarding if I had been around.
He looks around the bedroom with an odd expression. “Because you decorated it with her when she was twelve years old. You painted it together, picked out all the furniture and bedding and curtains. You guys had a blast.”
I see. It’s a memorial of sorts. I wonder if that’s why I’m drawn to it.
“I won’t change anything. I like it the way it is. And she can still sit in it.”
“Em…it’s a kid’s room. There’s a beautiful room for you just down the hall, next to ours. I think you’ll like it.”
“Okay…” I say reluctantly as he touches my arm and gently leads me away. “But I like this one.”
“I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t like the other room better, you can have Kenzi’s room.”
I’m delighted to see the room he’s set up for me is beautiful. I’m sure he and Kenzi redecorated it in all soft grays and mauves with big, fuzzy pillows on the bed. All my favorites since I woke up. When Asher runs downstairs to get my suitcases, I peek into the adjoining bathroom, and my heart swells a little to see the safety bars installed next to the toilet and in the shower, along with the shower stool. On the vanity, two black gift bags with gold spiral bows are filled with makeup, hair dryer, brushes, soaps, and shampoos.
I decide I like this room better, because they made it for me.
They really do want me to feel loved.
Sometimes, I feel bad for Ember.
She lost a lot.
Chapter Twenty
With every hour that passes, Ember is waning with physical and mental exhaustion from being in a new place.
Her first day home has been eye-opening. Living with her is much different than visiting her at the hospital. Now I see much more of the personality shifts, mood swings, and the various physical struggles she’s fighting to overcome. It’s all front and center, and it’s making my love and respect for her even stronger.
I’m not sure I could endure what she’s had to.
Sarah is a motherly woman in her early sixties. A widow. She’s tall with wavy brown hair scattered with grays, and big, rimmed glasses that make her look like an owl. She has a calm, caring, and confident attitude that seems to be exactly what Ember needs.
I hired her not only because of her medical background, but her knowledge and willingness to help in all other areas of Ember’s new life that extend beyond physical therapy. Ember needs someone special, who she feels comfortable with, who only knows her now. Not before. Someone who isn’t waiting for her to remember them.
Sarah’s son suffered a head injury and memory loss years ago, so her personal experience is an invaluable bonus.
Ember and Sarah cook pasta for dinner together, chatting like old friends, and then Sarah takes Ember upstairs to help her unpack and get settled in her room while I clean the kitchen and call Kenzi to give her an update. We decide we should wait a few days before anyone visits, so Ember doesn’t feel overwhelmed with too much at once.
“Mr. Valentine?”
I peer at Sarah from behind the open refrigerator door, which I’ve been staring into for the past two minutes even though I’m not hungry.
What I want is upstairs, not in the refrigerator.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
“Tired, but I think she’s doing well. We put her clothes in the closet and put all her new toiletries away. Then we did some light stretching. Tomorrow we’ll get started in the gym. She really wants to work on her leg strength. She set a goal for herself to be able to go up and down the stairs without difficulty.”
I close the fridge door. “Is she happy? Do you think she likes it here?”
“She wants to. I imagine she feels like I do right now—a guest in someone else’s house.”
“I want you both to be comfortable here.”
She smiles. “You’ve made me feel very welcome. Soon Ember will feel at home. She needs time and lots of patience, which I know she’ll get. If you don’t need me for anything, I’ll retire to my room for the night.”
“I’m good. Thanks for everything you’re doing. Help yourself to anything you need. If we don’t have anything you need or want, let me know, and I’ll make sure we get it.”
After I set the house alarm, I head upstairs, my heart hammering faster with each step.
She’s home.
She’s home.
The words are on repeat in my brain.
I’ve prayed and begged and bartered with every god and devil to have Ember back home. Now I don’t know what to do with myself or how to act around her.
Should I check in on her?
Should I say goodnight?
Send her a text message from my room?
Call her on the intercom?
Does she want to see me?
At the end of the hall, her door is open a few inches, the glow from her television visible. I tap my knuckles lightly on the door.
“You can come in.”
She’s sitting up against a pile of pillows, dwarfed in the middle of the king-sized bed. I can’t help but smile at how cute she looks with her hair in a ponytail, wearing a pink T-shirt and gray sweat shorts. She looks comfy and at home.
“I like Sarah,” she says.
“Me too.” I gesture to the space next to her. “Can I sit with you?”
Nodding, she moves the television remote and her book over to the nightstand.
“Thank you for the flowers.” She smiles. “It made me happy to see them here.”
“You keep killin’ them, and I’ll keep buyin’ them,” I tease.
“Maybe I’ll do better with them here. I think there’s more sunlight in this room.”
“You saw all the flowers in the backyard you planted. There’s a green thumb in you somewhere.”
“Tomorrow can I go out in the yard and look around?”
“You don’t have to ask permission, babe. This is your home. Everything is yours.”
“Ours,” she mimics my usual correction and flashes me a teasing smile.
“Damn straight.”
I lean back against the headboard next to her and stretch my legs out. She turns to face me and slowly reaches across the bed to touch my hand.
She has no idea how her simple touch makes my entire body come to life—every cell aching for her. I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her into next week.
“Thank you for everything. I—I don’t think I could’ve gotten better this fast without you and your help.”
I entwine my fingers through hers. “Yes, you would. You’re doing all the hard work. Not me.”
“You’re doing work too. I see it even if I don’t show it.”
“I know you do.”
She moves her finger over my wedding band. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“I want you to ask me only personal questions.”
“Were you…with someone?”
I almost fall off the bed. Of all the questions she could ask, I’m shocked this is the one she’s asking her first night home.
“With someone?” I repeat.
“Yes. Another girl.”
I look her straight in the eye. “No. Never.”
“Ever?”
“Never. Not once. Not even a kiss.”
“The entire time she—I was gone?”
“Before, during, and after. You’re the only woman I’ve ever made love to or touched in any kind of intimate way. You’re the only woman I�
��ve ever loved.”
Her eyebrows arch up. “So, for all those years, you were alone here in this big house?”
“Yeah. Except for Kenzi.”
“Didn’t you want to start over?”
I’m doing that now.
“No. I only wanted you. Us.”
She looks down at our hands and takes a deep breath. “Some of the nurses at the hospital said someone like you would have hidden women. One of the other patients said you were taking advantage of my memory to lie about affairs. Her husband has a girlfriend.”
“Hidden women? That’s a total lie. I’ve never had a hidden anything. Or any kind of affair. I won’t even pose with women for album art or music videos.”
“Don’t be mad. I just—”
“I’m not mad at you, babe. I’m pissed people would say something like that to you. Especially in a hospital. To someone with amnesia. What the hell were they thinking?”
I feel sick and disgusted. How long has she been thinking about this, wondering if it’s true? No wonder she’s so leery of me all the time.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess most men wouldn’t wait.”
“I’m not most men.”
“I’m learning that,” she says quietly.
Why do people assume a man can’t have patience or live without sex? Is it really so friggin’ bizarre that a man could love his wife so much that he wouldn’t want to touch another woman?
I can’t be the only guy on the damn planet who values commitment when life gets rough, and if I am, that’s pretty twisted and disappointing.
“To me, marriage isn’t for now, it’s forever.”
“Even with us…this way?”
“Especially with us this way.”
Her eyes droop, and her grip on my hand loosens as exhaustion pulls her in.
I raise her hand to my lips for a moment, and she watches me with drowsy eyes.
“You should go to sleep,” I whisper. “We can talk about all this tomorrow.”
She tugs my hand as I move to climb off the bed. “Asher? Will you play the songs for me while I fall asleep? I feel a little scared here.”
Hope blasts through me.
