Great. That's all she needed was to take her uncle's fishing buddy out of action. "Can someone call me after he's seen?" She didn't regret defending herself, but she didn't like to hurt people.
"Not unless you're listed as his emergency contact."
She sighed. Red tape sucked.
The gurney went out the front door and a moment later she heard the ambulance pull out of the driveway.
Patterson looked around the mess of the kitchen. "Uh, can I start cleaning up this mess?" she asked one of the officers. She really, really needed something to do. Sitting still too long made her twitchy.
The officer nodded.
Patterson slid off the stool, her wet backside coming unstuck painfully from the stool, and went to find a broom. The officer helped her move the grill back to the patio and once she started sweeping up the glass, she saw the blood. Oh shit. He'd been cut, too. Probably when he'd fallen on the broken glass.
Just then the phone rang.
She cocked an eyebrow at the officer, who was still scribbling down information.
"OK if I get that?"
He looked up and nodded once.
Patterson reached across the island and grabbed the cordless phone from the cradle. She glanced at the caller ID and recognized her uncle's cell number.
"Patterson?" Her uncle said as soon as she answered. "I just got a call saying Trent had some sort of accident at my house and is at Vandy with a concussion and stitches to his head. What the hell happened?" He sounded a little desperate, overly worried about a fishing buddy in Patterson's opinion. And apparently Uncle Hank was Trent's emergency contact. Swell.
Patterson cleared her throat. "Um, yes, actually." She looked around at the mess of her uncle's kitchen and grimaced. "I hit him. And then he crashed through the sliding glass doors."
There was silence for a moment and Patterson wondered if the call had dropped. "Jesus." He said finally, under his breath. "You hit him?"
"Uh, yeah. I was on the deck and saw him peeping thought he fence at me and then he started yelling at me to leave. I thought he was some sort of homeless guy or perv or something."
"Oh, Patterson. Today of all days."
"Why? What's today?"
"Never mind. Just do me a favor, OK? Go down to the hospital and wait for him. He's awake and doing OK. Mild concussion and a few stitches. They will be releasing him later today. He's going to need a ride home."
"Uh, I'm not sure he'll want to see me. After all, I'm the one who put him in the ER. Isn't there someone else? His wife, maybe?"
"There isn't anyone else. No wife."
Patterson had seen the wedding ring. Maybe he was recently divorced or something.
"He's a good guy. He's just been going through some stuff. When I heard he was in the hospital, I thought...well, just be nice to him. Look out for him until he's back on his feet, OK?"
"Sure thing. And thanks again for letting me stay here, Uncle Hank. I just needed to get away from things. Clear my head, you know?"
"Yeah, I know. And you're welcome. Oh, and call my handyman, Dan, about the door. His number is on the fridge. In fact, maybe you ought to stay at Trent's tonight since my house won't lock with the door all busted out."
"You think I'd be safer staying with a strange man than staying in your house?"
"Generally, no. But with Trent, hell yeah. He's a good man, Patterson. And he's going to need looking after, too, with that concussion. Just promise me you'll stay over there tonight so I don’t have to worry. Or I can park this rig and catch a flight home."
"No, don't cancel your trip," Patterson said. She wasn't sure why Uncle Hank had suddenly decided to buy an RV and drive halfway across the country, but she knew he'd been excited about it and didn't want him to have to give it up just because of her blunder. "I'll stay over. If Mr. Trent will let me, that is. He might take one look at me and refuse to allow me in his house. I'm not even sure he'll be willing to get in my car, concussed or not."
Her uncle laughed huskily. "I imagine he’ll give you a bit of trouble. He's got a stubborn streak a mile wide."
"Great."
"But then so do you." Patterson could hear the smile in her favorite uncle's voice. "It makes me feel better knowing you're there, Patsy."
She sighed. "I'll do what I can for your friend."
"Thanks, Honey. Call me later and let me know how it's going. I'm sure you'll have patched things up by dinner time.”
CHAPTER TWO
"You."
From the hospital-issue wheel chair, Trent glared through the dirty window of the Toyota Corolla at the woman behind the wheel. The woman who had given him the God-awful headache, sent him to the hospital and caused him to have six stitches in the back of his head. Not to mention she'd totally and completely ruined his plans to spend the day alone and wallowing in his own misery.
"Me," she confirmed, leaning across the passenger seat and smiling up at him. She was like a ray of sunshine with her white teeth, pink lips and bright yellow top. The kind of sunshine that sent daggers of pain arrowing through his aching head.
"Hank said he was sending his niece." Of course it was her. Even through his broken skull, it all made sense now—what she was doing at the house hanging around the pool in barely there swimwear, why she'd freaked out when he tried to make her to leave. Why she'd beaned him with glassware—ok maybe not that part.
There was an uncomfortable pause, though her smile didn't waver. "That's me."
It would have been nice of Hank had told him she was going to be there. But then Hank had seemed preoccupied with his trip. Somehow Trent got the impression it was more than just a road trip to visit an old friend. But the best thing about their friendship was that they didn't pry. If Hank wanted to explain himself, he would. Otherwise Trent would keep out of his business, just like Hank kept out of his. Usually.
"Are you getting in?"
"I'm thinking."
"Oh." She straightened and looked straight ahead for a moment, biting her lip. Her bright smile faded a bit. "Would it help if I said I'm sorry?"
"No."
The sun was hot, beating down on him, making his head pound even more. He just wanted to get back home to the cool, dark interior of his house. Take some of that Aleve and lay on the couch.
"Dude, I got to go," the burly male nurse who had wheeled him outside said. "She looks nice enough. Or I can call you a cab."
He thought about the cab seriously for a moment, he really did. But in the end, there really wasn't a choice. He didn't even have his wallet so cab fare was out of the question. And she was Hank's niece. And it was only 15 minutes or so from the hospital to his driveway. If he didn't make any sudden moves, maybe she could go all of 20 minutes without inflicting further head trauma.
"Fine," he said finally.
"Cool." The nurse flipped up the foot rests and opened the car door for him.
"Here you go, dude," he said, handing him a bag with his t-shirt, which had been cut off in the ER. Currently he wore a pink breast cancer awareness shirt stamped with the hospital logo on one side. The shirt that now wasn't more than a dust rage had been his favorite. One Amy had bought for him.
"Thanks," he said, climbing in.
At his feet were empty fast food cups, napkins, a couple of crumpled road maps, a phone charger and the ugliest handbag he'd ever seen. It was a patchwork of loud colors and textures, as if the woman who owned it couldn't decide on just one so color so had picked them all.
"Buckle up," she said too cheerily.
At least she was dressed. Trent pulled the seat belt across his torso and buckled it. It was much easier to hate her when her breasts were covered, even if the way her tight t-shirt stretched across her plump breasts made her look like a Hooters girl. She still wore the sunglasses and her hair was dry now, too, the heavy bangs curling perfectly over her forehead to just brush the top of her sun glasses. The rest of her dark hair, almost black, really, hung straight a few inches past her shoulders.
"I really am sorry," she said, merging into traffic. "Uncle Hank told me a neighbor was keeping an eye out. I just never thought a neighbor would take his duties so seriously. I thought you were..." her glaze slid sideways to him for a moment. "A transient."
"Thanks."
"Well, can you blame me? You're rocking the scruffy look pretty hard, you know."
He grunted and didn't look at her. It was probably true. But damn. He hardly left the house anymore except to go down to the lake and the fish sure didn't care about his grooming. As for everyone else, well, it was just easier if they didn't recognize who he had once been. He scratched at his beard then dropped his hand and looked out the window.
"Do you need anything from the store? Chicken soup, Tylenol? Anything?"
"No." He just wanted to get home and be by himself again. And he wanted her to quit talking. Her honey-whiskey-lace voice is what had gotten him into trouble in the first place.
"OK," she said in a small voice and he felt a little bad for being so gruff. He crossed his arms over his chest.
He was silent the rest of the trip, trying to pretend the last three hours had never happened. But the scent of the woman beside him—kind of like cotton candy with a hint of flowers, would not let him ignore her presence altogether. And the image of what she had looked like, all sleek curves and wet skin when he'd come out of the water was burned into his long-term memory. And then she'd tried to beat his brains in. Yeah, remembering that part made it easier to forget her, alright.
After a tense silence punctuated by Trent's one syllable replies to her attempts at small talk—how hot it was in Nashville, the lake, Hank's trip, how hot it was in Nashville, they finally pulled into Trent's driveway. He was out the door before she'd even put the rattle trap in park and was halfway up the walk to the front door when he realized that a) he didn't have his keys and b) the woman hadn't left, but seemed to be planning to follow him inside the house.
He stopped and turned to look at her. "Can I help you?" She was a little bit of a thing, but she pulled herself up to her full height and stared up at him. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and stared up at him with her big China-doll blue eyes. He didn’t know whether she belonged in a playpen or a pin-up.
"I told Uncle Hank I'd make sure you were OK."
"I'm fine." He'd have to go around to the back. Hopefully the French doors were still unlocked.
"Oh! Keys!" she dug through her ugly bag and pulled out the spare set of keys Trent had given Hank a few years back.
"I'm fine," he said, plucking them from her fingers, but she didn't take the hint. "You can go."
"Actually, I can't."
He cocked an eyebrow, waiting.
"I don't know how much you remember, but the sliding door is pretty much pulverized."
"I remember." Just thinking about it made his head ache even more.
"Well, since the house isn't secure, Uncle Hank though maybe you'd let me stay here?"
Trent forced the emphatic "no" to stay lodged behind his tongue. This was Hank's niece and he owed Hank a lot. More than he could ever repay. Was it too much to keep an eye on his niece for a day or so until the sliding door was repaired?
"Fine."
Her face brightened and she followed him up the walk, right on his heels, her scent swimming around him, even outside where he would have thought it would have gotten all mixed up with the scents of the azaleas and the freshly-cut lawn and a thousand other spring scents. But it didn’t.
"Thanks. I really appreciate this. I'll make you some soup and maybe we can watch some TV later and..."
"I'm not good company."
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing the door once she'd followed him in.
"Oh, right. You're one of those manly guys who just wants to be left alone when he's sick, right?"
"I'm pretty much always like that sick or well." There. Sublt warning, frim but not too mean.
She paused, and switched her bag from one shoulder to the other, then pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and looked around the foyer, whcih was open to the larger living room. "Wow, nice place."
Nothing had changed in the foyer or the living room in ten years, other than emptying out the awards case and mounting a flat screen over fireplace. The drapes, the pictures on the walls, the fake plants had all been his wife's doing and hsi opinion om interior design was whatever made the wife happy was fine by him. He shrugged and headed for the fridge. His throat felt like sandpaper.
She followed him into the kitchen. "Wow. That's some collection," she said, circling to the far side of the island.
Shit. He'd forgotten about all the liquor. It felt like a violation of his privacy for her to see it and for some reason he didn't want her to know that his plan had been to drink himself to oblivion. He shifted on his flip-flops. "Just cleaned out the fridge."
"You shouldn't keep wine in the fridge, you know," she said, picking up a bottle of the wine and examining the label. "It's about 20 degrees too cold and the constant rumble of the motor stirs it up too much."
"You're an expert?" She looked too young to be an expert in anything. Hell, she looked too young to drink legally at all.
She shrugged and set the bottle back on the counter. "I took a class."
He grunted and pulled out a bottle of water, then sighed internally and pulled out a second, handing it to Chatty Cathy.
"Thanks," she smiled at him as if he'd just given her diamond ring.
He uncapped the water and took a long pull. It cooled his throat but didn't ease any of the ache in his head.
"You should take something for the pain," she said, looking at him.
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I'm fine."
"Fine."
He finished the water and tossed the bottle in the recycling bin. "I'm going to lie down."
"Uh, OK. I guess I'll just call someone about the sliding door and pack a few things. Think I should put up plastic or something over the door way?"
"Dan can take care of it. Number's on the fridge."
"Uncle Hank recommended him, too. Or do you think maybe he doesn't want a call, today being a holiday and all? I don't want to bother—"
"Just call." Jesus, she never quit talking. If there was one breath of silence, she felt like she had to fill it up with gibberish. Hank knew the value of saying nothing. Obviously that gene had skipped a couple of generations.
Trent nodded and headed up the stairs, his head feeling like it was ballooned out to twice its normal size. He headed down the darkened hallway to the master suite and closed the door behind him.
It was almost completely dark, the black-out curtains he'd had installed making the room feel cool and cave-like. A ceiling fan moved the air a tiny bit so it didn't feel stagnant, but otherwise the room was as still and silent as an isolation chamber. You could lose yourself in here for days, not knowing whether it was night or day and not really caring—Trent knew that from experience. Which was why he sometimes just slept on the couch in the living room. He was afraid if he'd let himself, he'd come in here one day and never leave.
But he could hardly take off his pants and sprawl on the couch when he had a house guest, so he undressed down to his boxer-briefs and sprawled out on the unmade bed, too tired to even pull up a sheet.
*****
"So what's his deal?" Patterson asked, gesturing towards the Trent's house as Dan took some measurements of the doorway a couple hours later. Dan had, indeed been taking the day off, but as soon as Patterson had explained who she was and who the job was for and a little bit about the incident, Dan had dropped whatever he was doing and come straight over. He’d been grilling and swimming, by the looks of it—he still wore a pair of Hawaiian print board shorts, flip flops and a wife beater tank top that showed the bulky muscles of his arms and shoulders earned from hard physi
cal labor. "Have you known him for a long time?"
"Kev? Sure." Dan stretched to put the tape measure at the top corner of the doorway and Patterson observed the way the shirt stretched over flat abs. Usually that would have been quite a distraction, but now she was more interested in learning about her reluctant patient. "We went to school together."
"Kev?"
"Kevin Trent is his real name. Trent Ryder is the stage name his manager came up with back when he was starting out. His family and mine were neighbors back in the day.”
"Oh. You look so much younger."
"We're both closer to 40 than 30." Dan grinned at her, his dimples making him look 10 years younger. "But I'm actually a few months older." He really was a handsome man, one Patterson totally would have been flirting with on a normal day. But today was anything but normal.
"Maybe it's the beard."
"Kev's had a hard time the past few years. I don't doubt it's put a few lines on his face." He put the tape measure back into his tool box and straightened, leaning against the brick exterior of the house. "What about you? You're the first girl I've seen him with in years. How long have you known him?"
"Oh, a couple of hours. But we're not together. I don't even know him. I’m just crashing at Uncle Hank's until I... figure some things out."
Dan grinned at her, letting his eyes drop just enough to let her know he admired the package in front of him. "Good to know. You planning on staying in Nashville long?"
Patterson smiled back. Light flirtation was her specialty. "Maybe. I'm not sure. A few weeks?"
"Well, if you'd like a tour guide, I'm your man," Dan said. He plucked a business card from his wallet and handed it to her. "Just give me a call. We could go check out the Bluebird or something."
She took the offered card. "Thanks."
"My pleasure." He held her gaze for a moment. "I'll order the replacement glass tomorrow. It'll take a couple weeks to come in, but I'll put up some plywood for now."
A couple weeks? Trent was going to love that. But there was no help for it. "Alright. Well, I'd better go check on my patient. Thanks so much for coming out on a holiday and all to do this."
Nashville Crush Page 2
