Rescued By Mr. Wrong. Cynthia Thomason

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       CHAPTER THREE

      “I’M SORRY,” a man’s voice said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

      She tried to erase the fog in her brain by taking deep breaths and sitting up. Unfortunately, nothing in her body seemed to be working. She heard herself moan.

      “I figured you’d be sore,” the man said. “Usually takes a few hours after an accident for the muscles to tighten up.”

      The past hours were slowly coming back to her. And the fact that she was in a cabin with a man she’d only just met. “Keegan?”

      “Who else did you think it would be?” he said. “Don’t try to get up. I’m just checking on you. I’m supposed to wake you through the night.”

      “I’m a little confused...”

      A small lamp burned in the corner of an unfamiliar room. In the dim light, she attempted to acclimate herself to the surroundings. The last she remembered, she’d been watching an orchestra perform at the White House on a huge flat-screen TV. She’d been on the sofa. Now she was definitely in a bed. The room was cool and quiet.

      “How did I get here?”

      “Not on those crutches.”

      “You carried me in here?”

      He responded with a nod and withdrew a small metal cylinder from his shirt pocket. A flashlight. Carrie realized he’d changed clothes, trading his long-sleeved Henley shirt for a warmer flannel one. Apparently he’d showered, too. A fresh pine scent drifted to her nose. She loved the smell of pine.

      “What time is it?” she asked.

      “One a.m. I’ve got to give you a pill and check your pupils.”

      “What for?”

      “I’m not sure.” He looked at the paper he’d held earlier. “One might be larger than the other, or they both might be big. Or, hopefully, they both will be normal-sized. I’ve got to ask you some questions, too.”

      He pushed a button, turning on the modern LED flashlight. She allowed him to hold up her eyelids and shine the light in her eyes.

      “They look okay to me. Do you think you’re going to throw up?”

      “What? No.”

      “What’s your name?”

      She frowned. “We don’t really have to do this, do we?” When he simply stared at her, she said, “Carrie.”

      “Do you remember how you got here to my place?”

      “Of course. I’m not confused anymore. My whole body hurts, and I’m tired. Can I go back to sleep now?”

      “I’m supposed to ask you when you were born and who the president of the United States is.”

      “I can put your mind at ease,” she said. “I was born thirty years ago, and the president is my boss. You can go because I’m quite fine, really.” She moved and pain sliced up her leg. “But not before you give me that pain pill.”

      He handed her the pill and a glass of water. She pushed herself up in the bed and leaned against a pillow. And noticed that she wasn’t wearing her clothes. A soft cotton T-shirt fell loosely around her torso. “This shirt is yours?”

      “It is.”

      “How did I end up wearing it?” she asked. “Tell me you didn’t...”

      “I did. But don’t get your princess panties in a twist.” He frowned. “Oops, sorry about the princess thing. You’re still wearing the underwear and socks you showed up in. There were blood stains on your sweater. I’ve washed it and hung it up to dry. You can reswaddle yourself appropriately in the morning.”

      “I will.” She didn’t know whether to be embarrassed, angry or grateful. Or resentful of the way Keegan talked about undressing her as if it were an everyday occurrence for him.

      He nodded toward the glass. “Drink up. My guess is the pain won’t be so bad in the morning, and we can cut down on the dosage.”

      She did as he instructed. The water was cold and refreshing and felt good going down her throat. “I don’t have a fever, do I?”

      “I don’t think so. I felt your forehead earlier.”

      He was taking his nursing duties seriously. She noticed a wooden armchair next to the bed. “Have you been sitting there all night?”

      “Pretty much.”

      “That chair looks very uncomfortable.”

      “It is, but don’t get carried away with gratitude. I remembered that you said you’d do the same for me, so I’m just paying it forward. I’ve got your phone number on speed dial for when I break a bone.”

      She smiled. There was no way he could know her phone number unless he’d gone through her purse. He didn’t seem the sneaky type. Suddenly alert and wanting to talk, she said, “Have you ever had one?”

      “One what?”

      “Broken bone.”

      He thought for a moment, a reaction she found strange. Either a person had suffered a broken bone or he hadn’t. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone would forget.

      “Oddly,” he said, “I haven’t. Sprains, pulled tendons, a bullet hole, that sort of thing, but no breaks.”

      She leaned forward. “Bullet hole?”

      “Only one. I consider myself lucky, and I think that if they ever take an X-ray of my skeleton, they’ll discover that I’m made of titanium.”

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