Page 66 of Love What's Left
Sydney snickers and leans forward. By the time I get to the part of the story where the staff was prepping me for surgery, Sydney has eaten half her slice of pizza without a hitch.
“How are you making this funny? It’s awful,” she says.
“It’s a gift. Now, remember you had zero idea how I actually felt about you. And, at some point, the hospital staff decides you aren’t coming back to my room or getting an update on my condition.”
She scowls. “They kept you from me?”
“Have you met yourself? You told them you were my stepsister, and the bodyguard we had with us lied to their faces and backed you up. So”—I gesture widely—“I wake from surgery in this recovery area, and, apparently, I start hollering for my wife.”
“You weren’t married,” she accuses.
My lips twitch, and I shake my head. “I was confused. I thought you were my wife. Wishful anesthesia-ing, I guess.”
“Oh.”
“They told me my wife wasn’t there. So I described you in detail, including yourperfect titsthat were exactly the right size for my hands. And I told them you were with me when I arrived. They thought I was having some sick surgery-fueled fantasy about my stepsister because, by that point, both members of our security team were there and had well and truly convinced them we were siblings.”
Her mouth falls open, and her hand drifts up to cover it. “Stop. No. I can’t.”
“They finally wheeled me back to the room where you were waiting for me, but you were afraid I’d blow your cover. So, as soon as you saw me, you grabbed my hand, and—you’re a shitty actress. It’s really important you remember that—so, you grabbed my hand and said, ‘Oh, stepbrother, I’m so glad you’re okay.’” I speak in a high-pitched breathy tone.
Sydney’s eyes widen, then narrow. “I didn’t say it like that.”
“Yes you did. Exactly like a low-budget porn video. And my brains were still scrambled thinking you were my wife. My heart monitor went crazy. People came running into the room. I yelled, ‘Clear the set. We’re not performing for an audience.’”
She slaps her hand over her face and peeks through her fingers. “That’s a terrible story,” she says, sounding gleefully horrified.
“That’s where all our inside jokes about role-play originated. We kind of rolled with it after that. When I woke up a second time, I told them you were my fiancée, but you were afraid they wouldn’t let you in or give you information, so you and the team lied.”
Smiling, she sits back in her chair.
“You ended up staying with me to keep up the ruse, holding my hand and plumping my pillows. And that damn monitor told on me every time you got close until they disconnected it. You asked them to check me for a heart condition. The doctor said, ‘You’rehis heart condition, Ms. Walsh.’”
Her eyes go soft. “Aww.”
“When we got back to New York, you came up to my place to check on me every night for a month. I’d have broken bones a hundred times over for those moments with you.” I glance at her plate. “Do you want another slice of pizza?”
She looks down.
“I did it,” she says, surprise in her voice.
“Yeahyou did.”
She fidgets. “Dave took me shopping.”
I nod. Henry thought he’d have to tackle me to prevent me from following. But, for her sake, I kept it together and smiled when she waved goodbye.
Sydney straightens in her chair, glances at my name tag, then back into my eyes. “It went pretty well. I bought a new dress. It’s yellow. And, I . . .”
“What’s wrong?”
She twists her napkin. “Nothing. Just . . . Would you be interested in going out with me? On a date, I mean,” she blurts.
A slow smile floods my soul and spreads to my face. Leaning forward, I take her hand. “A date, huh?”
“Yes.”
Worry about the two of us appearing together in public tries to worm itself into this moment. I push it back, too elated to give even a sliver of a doubt any weight.We’re in Hawai’i, not New York . . . or London . . . or Blackwater.The odds of anyone intruding on her peace or rubbing my past in her facehereare so low, they’re practically nonexistent.
