Page 5 of When Forever Stays

“So, you’re already taking me home? You haven’t even bought me dinner.”

Any playfulness in her expression vanishes. “I have antiseptic and bandages to treat your arm back at my cottage. It’ll hold you over until we go to the ER.”

“What if I don’t want to go to the ER? What if I’d rather just stay with you?” I wince as the pain in my sides protests.

“See?” She lifts an eyebrow, and something tells me that when I knew this little angel-siren, I liked her sass. “You need the ER. I’m not giving you a choice. Less than ten minutes ago, I thought you were a corpse.”

Her cavalier tone surprises me and I trip.

“Sorry.” She grimaces. “That came out a lot more insensitive than I meant it to.”

“It’s fine.”

We walk in uncomfortable silence. Well, she walks, and I limp. Seagulls fly above us as the waves lap at the shoreline.

“This is me,” Dana says as we approach a light purple bungalow.

She leads me up to the covered porch, and I sit on the wicker loveseat. She grabs an afghan from her porch swing and tucks it around my shoulders. When she enters the house, I assume it’s to grab medical supplies. I take in my surroundings, hoping that maybe something will look familiar. A half-empty mug of coffee sits on a small table next to an open Bible.

She’s made highlights and notes in the margins. Something inside me tells me that the Bible is important to me just like it appears to be important to her.

Before I can think more about it, Dana comes back out with a first aid kit and a towel. She kneels in front of me and sets out her supplies. After arranging the blanket so she has access to the cut on my bicep, she meticulously cleans and bandages it.

“This looks deep. You’re going to need stitches.”

“Great.” I grimace.

"This is all treatable. You’ll get back to yourself in no time. Hopefully, your amnesia is only temporary.” She brushes my hair away from my forehead and looks me over. Her face is mere inches from mine, and I have to ball my hands into fists on my lap as the overwhelming urge to touch her takes over me. I don’t know what our history together looks like, but I can’t deny the pull I have toward her now.

I close my eyes and try to concentrate on something else.

“I lost my surfboard,” I say suddenly as that memory returns to me.

“But you still have your life. Why did you go out alone? You could have been eaten by a shark with all this blood.” She winces again. This time when she speaks, there’s no accusation in her tone just a new gentleness. “Sorry, I keep sounding a lot more insensitive than I mean to. Do you remember anything else?”

“No.” It’s still frustrating not having many memories, but remembering losing my surfboard gives me hope that things are looking up.

“The waves have been rough the last couple of days,” she says. “More than likely, they got the better of you and took you into some rocks.” She runs the tip of her finger over a tattoo on my uninjured bicep. “I don’t remember you having this.”

Her touch on my skin ignites something primal. Instead of focusing on that, I try to recall anything about how or why I got the tattoo. As expected, no memories surface. “I wish I could tell you something about it. But I’m drawing a blank.”

Clearly, she used to care about me. There’s a pull deep inside me that says she was—is—someone important to me. Yet she’s acting guarded around me. “What were we?”

Her eyes snap to mine. She clenches her jaw and that same frigid attitude from before seeps into her expression. “A fling.” She makes a face as if it hurt to say those two words.

Even without my memories, I know there is no way what she’s saying is true. Emotion clogs my throat.

I grab her hands. “Dana.” The moment our skin connects, warmth spreads up my arms and through my chest. She pulls away, her eyes widen, and I know she felt the same spark of electricity I did.

Her eyes widen before those soft pink lips pinch closed and she goes back to tending to my injuries.

Dana carefully places a large bandage over the nasty cut on my bicep. I don’t miss how her hands tremble or the slow breath she releases as if she’s trying to regain control of her emotions. She has the same effect on me that I appear to have on her.

“Tell me the list,” she says, her voice shifting from shaky to professional in the span of four words.

I try not to dwell too much on the slight flush on her cheeks or how incredible she smells. Instead, I focus on my answer. My memories prior to twenty minutes ago may be gone, but thankfully, my brain has been sharp since laying eyes on this little siren.

“Your name is Dana, my name is Rhett, we are on Amber Island, and your favorite food is pineapple.”

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