Husband.
My husband.
My husband who’s looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever needed at this very moment.
Heat creeps over me as my stomach flutters.
More stupid, if not detrimental, wishful thinking. The only thing Tyson Masters needs me for is to be the wife so he can get custody of his son.
Don’t let your scrambled brain lead you astray.
I carefully pull out of his hold. “Okay. You get the drinks if it makes you feel better. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
His brow creases. “Where are you going?”
“Just to the bathroom. Relax, Florence.”
A sudden look of panic covers his face.
“Tyson. My name’s Tyson. Do you know who you are?” He leans around me. “Stevie, get the car! I think she’s having a stroke or something. She doesn’t know who I am.”
“Florence Nightingale, ball sack. She’s giving you shit. Quit freaking the fuck out.” She drapes herself across both sides of the chair as she throws her arm over her eyes.
I side-eye Ty. “She calls you ball sack now?”
He shrugs with a half-grin.
“You two must’ve really bonded in the waiting area.”
“What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”
I’ve answered about thirty random questions in the last hour.
It’s getting ridiculous.
I pull the blanket to my chin. “I need sleep, Ty. Go to bed.”
He goes around to the other side of the bed, yanking the corner of the sheet down. “I am.”
I sit up. “No. You should go to your own bed. I don’t want to bump you in my sleep and make your collarbone hurt.”
He settles in as though I haven’t even spoken. “East coast destination?”
I sigh. “The Lincoln Memorial.”
“You like history, or that era in particular?”
I shrug. “In general, I suppose.”
“Then why only Lincoln? Why not just say D.C. and that covers all of it?”
“I once traveled there for a design conference. On one of our afternoons off, a few of us visited a couple of the Smithsonian museums and walked quite a lot of the mall. But it started pouring rain before we made it to the Lincoln Memorial. The group wanted to head to the hotel. I never made it back there before I had to fly out. Always kinda felt like I missed something. Stupid, I know.”
“No. It’s not. I get that.”
I flop backward.
“Ever break any other bones, besides your arm and foot when you fell out of the tree?”
I roll over and prop my head on my hand. “What’s with all the weird questions?”
Tyson hands me his pain medicine bottle. “You’re my wife. I should know things.”
I push the top down and twist. “You need to know what the worst food I ever ate was because…?”
I drop two tablets into his palm.
He downs them with a sip from his water bottle. “Because you’re my wife. I should know things.”
“Fine. That’s a non-answer, but whatever. You can know more things tomorrow. I’m exhausted and going to sleep now.” I flip off my bedside lamp.
“What about surgeries—ever had any? Or hospital stays? Anything like that?”
“Goodnight, Florence.”
“But—”
I raise my voice. “Shut up, or I’m going to go sleep in your bed.”
He groans when he turns onto his good side, facing me. “At least tell me if you’re an organ donor.”
I turn the light on again and sit up. “Are you in the market for a new clavicle? Or maybe you need a new heart? No. Wait. It’s your brain. It was obviously injured worse than mine during the accident.”
Ty shuts his eyes and rolls to his back with a grunt. “I’m sorry. I—look, at the hospital, they gave me a bunch of forms asking questions about you. I couldn’t answer any of them. I married you, and I don’t know anything about you. I need to know at least some things. I should know things.”
“So you keep saying.” I turn the light off for a second time and lie down.
“Jo, please.”
A warmth curls in my chest. It could be that he wants to know about me. Or, it could be the heat coming off the radioactive toxicity of this relationship and my inability to hold him at bay, even though I know it can’t end well—especially if he has no intention of allowing himself to love me.
But, I’ll go with it for the moment, because he’s hurt, and whether or not I’m important to him, he’s important to me.
I pull in a deep breath and let it out by increments. “Yes, I’m a donor. O positive. No surgeries. I don’t want to be kept on life support if I’m brain dead. And I’ve only had those two breaks. I don’t know anything about family history—answers to those questions will have to remain blank.”