Page 17 of The Fine Art of Faking It
“It was eggs,” he said dreamily. Davis looked beyond her to the full-sized bed dressed in a frilly duvet and tasseled pillows. “I think I’ll go to sleep,” he decided. With two long strides, he face-planted onto the mattress.
“Shit,” Eden muttered. “Are you allowed to sleep when you’re concussed?”
He didn’t answer, just burrowed further under the mound of pillows. Eden swallowed hard and tried to ignore the perfect ass that was currently filling out her yoga pants better than her own ever had.
The Davis Gates that had returned to Blue Moon after college and several years on the West Coast was still the town golden boy. Only he’d traded his hand-woven ponchos for tailored suits, and his hair no longer did the adorable flip of his high school days. He was friendly, organized, and incredibly professional. Essentially, he was obnoxiously perfect.
It annoyed the living crap out of Eden.
Seeing him like this? Disheveled and confused? Well, it was the tiniest bit entertaining.
With a sigh, Eden pulled her phone from her apron pocket and dialed.
“’Lo?” Sammy Ames, Blue Moon’s large animal vet, and Eden’s best friend answered.
“Sammy, I know you’re probably elbow-deep in a cow vagina right now, but I need medical advice.” Sammy and Eden had been best friends since the third grade when they were both put in charge of the class hamster for the week. Mr. Flufferbottom hadn’t survived the week, but their friendship had endured.
There was a weird slooshing noise on Sammy’s end, and Eden had no desire to know exactly what she was interrupting. “The dogs okay?” her friend asked.
“They’re fine. It’s a human patient. A concussion.”
“You know I’m a vet, right?” Sammy quipped dryly.
“Medicine is medicine. Can he sleep with a concussion?”
She could hear Sammy’s wheels turning. “Can he carry on a conversation?”
Eden stared at Davis’s prone form. “Yeah, he’s talking.”
“How long ago did it happen?”
“I’m not sure. About two hours?”
“The sleeping thing is basically a myth when it comes to concussions. You want to keep him awake for four-ish hours after the trauma just to make sure symptoms aren’t worsening. You’ll want to watch for vomiting, the inability to recognize familiar people or places, seizures, and weak limbs.”
“Holy crap. Well, he already barfed in my shower.”
“In your shower?” Sammy repeated. “Who is this concussed Lothario?”
Eden paused, wrinkling her nose. “Davis Gates,” she sighed.
“WHAT?” Sammy’s shout had Eden yanking the phone away from her ear.
“Keep it down, will you?” Davis mumbled through his mound of pillows.
“Stay focused for a second. Do I need to take him to the hospital?” Eden asked Sammy.
“Puking is normal after a concussion. Just watch for excessive puking.”
“Why is this happening to me?” Eden lamented. “I was having a nice day. I was going to bake a pie.”
“Ooh! What kind? Also, why is Davis Gates puking in your shower?”
“Rhubarb. And at this point, I’m not really sure. I think the universe is punking me. His house caught fire, and Bruce Oakleigh and Ellery show up with him wrapped in a blanket smelling horrible. And then they were talking about Business of the Year award. And now I’m stuck with my mortal enemy who’s wearing my yoga pants and trying to build himself a pillow igloo in my guest room.”
“Oh, babe,” Sammy said sympathetically.
Eden shoved a hand into her hair. “They played me like a damn banjo.”
