Page 61 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
“It’s a good job you fell in near Australia, then,” I called, “and not the North Pole!”
“Yes, yes, very funny!”
I turned away from the window now that it was safe to look back in the room again and sat down on the bed. I thought about what had happened tonight. Sean had been lucky; the accident could have been much more serious. He should probably put something cold on his head, or he’d have a huge bump in the morning.
I picked up the phone and called down to reception, asking if we could have either an ice pack or a bowl of ice. The receptionist said she’d see what she could do.
“Calling us some room service?” Sean asked, emerging from the bathroom. This time he had only a white towel wrapped around his middle and his damp skin glistened with tiny droplets of water.
I swallowed hard.
Sean opened up his wardrobe and pulled out a white shirt and blue jeans.
“Well?” he asked, turning to face me.
“Oh…er, no…I was just asking if they had an ice pack we could use. You should put something cold on your head—where you banged it.”
“Are you worried about me, then?” he asked, grinning.
My stomach had long ago given up its gymnastic routine. It had now moved up a gear—to another Olympic sport—and was currently involved in a thrill-providing, super-fast bobsled race.
“You did bang your head pretty hard.”
Sean gently touched the back of his head. “Ouch.” He winced. “Yep, it’s still there.”
“Let me take a look. You didn’t cut it open, did you? I haven’t seen any blood. But you never know.”
I wished I’d waited until after he got dressed to ask him that, as Sean sat down beside me on the bed, still wearing only the towel.
I stood up and very gently moved his damp hair about on the back of his head. A small moan escaped from Sean’s mouth.
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No…no, not at all.” Sean tilted his head back to look up at me. He had that look in his eyes again—the same one he had on the first day we met and sat on the park bench in Notting Hill. The same one he had when he came to ask me to go to the opera with him and found me in my bathrobe. And the same one he had outside Bill’s house, just before he was going to tell me something.
My hand still rested on the top of his head. But it was now stroking, rather than just moving Sean’s hair around.
Sean took hold of my hand—he looked at it for a moment before he gently began to trace the lines along my palm with his finger.
“Scarlett,” he whispered, his voice husky and low. “Oh,Scarlett,” he sighed. Then he looked up at me again, his eyes telling me everything his voice could not.
There was a knock at the door and we both jumped. “That will be your ice!” I said in an overly bright voice, quickly pulling my hand away.
I don’t think the night porter had ever seen anyone quite so pleased to hear him knocking at their door, as I grinned inanely at him like a bizarre mix of Jack Nicholson inBatmanand the Cheshire Cat on speed.
“Your ice pack, madam,” he said.
“Thank you…” I looked at Sean; he was already up and producing a note from his wallet.
“Much obliged, Joseph,” he said, handing the porter the money.
“If there’s anything else, sir…madam, don’t hesitate to call, will you?” He glanced briefly at the bed, and I realized Goofy’s head was still lying there. Quickly I moved in front of it.
“We will,” Sean said. “Thank you again, Joseph. Good night.”
“Good evening, Sir.”
Sean closed the door and turned to look at me. “I guess I’d better use this,” he said, holding up the ice pack. “It’s suddenly got extremely hot in here—I could do with cooling off a bit.”
