Page 40 of Enemies to French Kisses
“I mean you have to stay with him to surveille his condition. With a concussion such as he experienced, he will need to be woken every few hours, and you must be conscious of his movements during the night.”
“So I have to stay in the same room with him.”
“Whereelsewould you be?” He gawks as I move from disappointing to shocking in his estimation.
I try to smile. “Of course I will be in the room with him. I think some things get lost in translation.”
“Like marital bliss.”
Ouch.
“Here is a booklet.” He shoves it in my direction. “I printed it inEnglishso that there is no misunderstanding of yourresponsibilities. Clear?”
“As day.”
“Laura?”
The doctor and I turn our heads to Marc who has lifted himself to a seated position and removed the top of his hospital gown, revealing a perfectly sculpted upper body. “Where are my clothes?”
The doctor slaps his clipboard closed. “I’ll leave you two alone.” Thanks, doc.
Marc lifts the sheets and looks underneath. “I am sure I was wearing underwear when I came in here.”
The logical place for his clothes, the closet, is empty. “You were knocked out when you came in here.”
“Are you saying I wasn’t wearing underwear?”
“No, no. I’m sure you were wearing underwear, but it’s normal if you don’t remember what happened is what I’m saying.”
“Let me help you look.” He tosses the hospital gown aside.
“HOLD UP.” I lift my hand and he freezes in place. Without the hospital gown, he’s about to emerge from the bed in the buck, and despite our recent marriage, I am NOT ready to know my colleague-nemesis-husband that well. “You stay right there.”
He points to a pile of clothes on a chair by the door.
“I’ll let you dress while I sort out the paperwork.”
I pull the curtains shut as an afterthought, given the giant window into the hallway and Marc’s apparent lack of inhibition. Is that a French thing or a concussion thing?
“Is there anything that we need to do before heading out?” I ask at the nurse’s station.
She puts a small stack on the countertop and in a very thick accent says, “Ze wife can sign here, please.”
“Oh, I see. Well, maybe it’s better if the husband signs.”
“Ooh la la,” she mutters under her breath.
“Is that not okay?” I ask, but quickly realize she’s looking over my shoulder with a drooly-puppy face. I turn to follow her gaze.
Marc is standing in the doorway, jeans on and button up shirt hanging open. The lines of muscle running along him are worthy of the Louvre, and blood is for sure rushing into my cheeks.
Marc scratches the back of his neck, which shouldn’t be sexy and somehow really, really is.
“Laura,” he says, an adorably quizzical look on his face. “Have you seen my scarf?”
CHAPTER16
Laura
