“All day, if you want.”
He turned to look at her again, noticing the briefcase she’d dumped on her way in. “Sorry for getting you out of work.”
“It’s fine. Actually, I...” Her lips twisted into a kind of smile. Her plans for the afternoon hadn’t involved this scenario.
“Actually you what?”
She shrugged. “Well, I’d sort of hoped to spend the afternoon with you anyway.”
His lips curled up into a smirk. “Had you, now?”
“I texted you. And called.”
“Skiving off work for an afternoon in bed with your husband? You naughty girl.” He reached out and squeezed her thigh. “I must have corrupted you.”
“I admit this wasn’t the sort of bed I had in mind. It’s not designed for two people.” It was barely big enough for Emile.
“Tell me what you had in mind,” he said. “I could do with something less miserable to think about.”
“I’m not going to sit here entertaining you with my sexual fantasies!”
“I knew you were a prude,” he murmured.
Theresa shook her head, but she was smiling. “Do you really want me to get you aroused when there’s nothing you can do about it?”
“Chérie,” he said with another smirk. “It’s my foot that’s injured, not my hand.”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t! What if someone came in?”
He winked. “I’d carry on if you would.”
“We are not doing this.”
He sighed dramatically. “Pity. What are we going to do then?”
“I don’t suppose you play Scrabble?
They didn’t play Scrabble. Even in pain, and frustrated by his injury, Emile was good company, teasing her and flirting outrageously with all the nurses who came to check on him. He refused point blank to eat the hospital food. Theresa took one tentative forkful to test it and had to force herself not to gag.
“I’ll go and get takeaway. What do you want?”
“Moules frites.”
“Excellent. And what would you like that I’m likely to be able to find?”
“Nothing. Pass me my phone.”
She handed it over and he scrolled through the numbers until he found what he wanted.
“Gérard? C’est Emile.”
His French was rapid and incomprehensible to Theresa. But when he put the phone down, he was smiling. “Moules frites for two. It’ll be delivered in an hour.”
“Wow. Flown in from Paris?”
“From Le Terroir. It’s the only decent French restaurant in London. Gérard is a friend.”
“What if I don’t like mussels?”
He grinned. “Who said you were invited?”
“Funny. And fortunately for you, seafood is my favorite thing.”
The moules were deliciously garlicky and fragranced with wine and herbs. Emile ate with his fingers, using the frites to soak up the juices from the mussel shells. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry. He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand to wipe the drips. Theresa passed him a napkin.
“Better?”
“Ah,” he sighed happily. “Maman used to bring me moules frites whenever I was sick. It was how I knew I was going to be all right again.”
“More?” She offered him the other portion.
“Don’t you want it?” She must be hungry, too. She’d been here since lunchtime.
“I have food at home. I’ll eat a few of the chips to keep me going.”
They shared the second portion, laughing when the both reached for the same skinny frite. Emile picked up the final mussel and offered it to Theresa.
“No, you have it.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re not turning into a lettuce girl, are you?”
“Lettuce girl?”
“You know, the sort of woman who never eats anything but lettuce, in case she might go up a dress size.”
She glanced at the empty boxes of food. “That was not lettuce.”
“No, but you hardly ate any of it.” Guiltily, he realized he should have slowed down, let her share more of it.
“I told you, I have food at home. You looked hungry.”
“I was,” he said.
“And besides, it’s none of your business what I eat.”
He slumped back on his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “I forgot. Nothing’s my business, is it? Your clothes, your name, your food. You’re only my wife, after all.”
He heard her stacking up the boxes. “Not even that, most of the time.”
His eyes shot open. Was that what she thought? “You came to be at my bedside today. Isn’t that what wives do?”
She paused in her tidying up. “Yes. I suppose it is.” She dumped the boxes in the bin and sat down again.
“Why did you come?” She’d hated it, he could tell. Theresa wasn’t the kind of woman who instinctively knew how to care for someone in a crisis. She’d looked awkward every time the doctor had come in, and only by holding onto her wrist had he made sure she’d stay.
But she’d come when they called her, and surely that had to mean something? She couldn’t still be pretending that they didn’t have any feelings for each other.
“They phoned me.”
“Of course they phoned you,” he said patiently. “You’re listed as my next of kin.”
“Right, and you were unconscious. I had to come in case…in case.” Damn, her voice was shaking. She must have been terrified. “In case what, Thérèse?” He took hold of her hand and rubbed his thumb gently over her wrist.
“In case they needed someone to…make decisions.” She closed her eyes, and suddenly, he realized what she must have thought. They’d called her while he was still unconscious.
“Scary, huh?” Her fingers clutched at his. It was good to know that under all her bravado, she was as vulnerable as anyone else. But he wished she hadn’t been frightened like that.
“Yes.” Her voice was shaky. She cleared her throat and started again. “Yes. They said you were unconscious and in a stable condition. I thought… Well, I thought you were in a coma.”
“Head injuries are unpredictable.”
His thumb was still marking out patterns on her skin, reminding her that he was alive. Conscious. She didn’t have to be scared any more.
“I know.”
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “I wanted you here.” And if that was breaking her no emotions rule, he didn’t care. Et merde, there were tears making her eyes shimmer. Emotions were already involved. Hers as well as his, whatever she thought.
“I didn’t think about this when we got married. I mean, I thought it would just be on paper and then it would be over.” She blinked back her tears. He put a thumb up to wipe away a stray drop as it trailed over her cheek.
“But now you think it’s more?”
“It is more.” So earnest. So sweet with it. “What if your injuries were more serious? What if you had brain damage? What if you had been in a coma? I’m your next of kin, Emile. I’d be the one deciding what happened.”
He squeezed her hand. After a moment, he said, “I trust you. But it goes both ways, you know.” She looked at him, uncomprehending. He smiled softly. “I don’t want to get that phone call about you, either.”
He held her gaze. Her eyes were almost green in this light. He loved how their gold-green-brown changed constantly.