Page 4 of Possessive Doctor

I know Andrew told me to be patient and not to try to force myself to remember, but I don’t think he understands what this feels like. That man at the hospital could have told me he was my brother and I would have had no choice but to believe him. Does anyone understand how vulnerable this makes me feel? Can anyone understand if they haven’t experienced it for themselves?

We arrive at a beautiful slate building with smoked glass entry doors. I look up and count thirteen floors of wrought-iron balconies. Wow.

“We live here?” I ask him.

“We do. We own the tenth floor.”

“Wow, that’s weird,” I whisper.

“What is, baby girl?”

“I feel like more of a suburban girl.”

“Well, you did grow up in the suburbs.”

“Maybe that’s it then.”

Andrew unloads the wheelchair he borrowed for me from the trunk and helps me out of the car. The doorman holds the door for us, and we enter the expansive marble foyer that leads to the glass elevator.

He rolls me in and places his key in the lock next to button #10. The bell dings and the doors open up to what I can only assume is our living room. It’s wide open and contemporary with sharp-edged furniture and white walls. Huh. It doesn’t feel like me at all.

“Was this your place before you and I got together?” I ask him.

“You could say that, yes,” he replies.

That explains it, I suppose. I haven’t even asked how long we’ve been married. I must not have had time to add a woman’s touch to the place.

“Would you like to lie on the sofa or the bed?” he asks.

The long, thin sofa doesn’t look like it’s made for resting on so I answer, “The bed, please.”

He rolls me down the hall and into the bedroom. The king-size bed is covered with black, satin linens and also feels very masculine. He opens the closet door and points to the women’s clothing hanging inside.

“If you want to change, your clothes are in here.”

“Okay, thank you. I think I’m alright for now,” I reply so he lifts me out of the chair and places me down on the bed with my head propped up on the pillows.

Watching him makes tears well in my eyes. He’s so sweet and caring. He always wants to make sure I’m okay and safe. I may not remember everything, but I know not all husbands are like this.

“Thank you for being patient with me. I’m sure that it’s frustrating for you, too,” I tell him.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and holds my hand, “No, it’s alright. I just want you to get better.” He leans in and, after a moment of hesitation, kisses my forehead, “I’m going to make you something for lunch.”

As he leaves the room, I wonder why he hasn’t kissed me on the lips. Why hasn’t he held me like a husband would? I see the way he looks at me and notice that flare of hunger in his eyes, so what is it that’s holding him back? Did we have a fight before the accident? Were we on the verge of divorce? Or does he think I’m way too fragile right now?

I don’t want to think like this, but I’m completely in the dark about my own life. Andrew is all I have in the world, and I hope he isn’t taking care of me out of some sense of obligation. I may not remember falling in love with him the first time, but I feel myself falling all over again—like my whole body feels warm whenever he touches me or the fluttering in my stomach when he’s near.

I don’t want to lose him, and I don’t want to be alone. Besides, I feel so safe with him around, like nothing and no one can harm me as long as he’s there.

He returns carrying a salad, a sandwich, and a glass of water. He sets the tray down on my lap and turns to leave.

“Wait, don’t go. I want to talk.” My tone surprises me. I seem to be pleading with him.

He notices too and stops in his tracks. “Did I do something wrong? Is your food okay?”

“No, it’s not that. There’s nothing wrong. I just… I just don’t want to be alone. I was hoping you would sit with me for a while, maybe tell me something about myself or something about us.”

“Like what?” He folds his arms, eyes darting to the windows.

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