"Elodie, I just want you to stay still. You're pretty hurt, but you're going to be okay. It's nothing that can't be fixed, and your headache is a concussion. You're gonna be in the hospital for a few days, but it's nothing more serious than some broken bones that'll heal right up, baby. No problems. You just go back to sleep, and I'll stay right here next to you."
She was asleep again before he finished his sentence, and he wasn't at all sure that she was going to remember anything of what he'd told her the next time she woke up.
That wasn't until after dawn, when he'd spent the entire night in an extremely uncomfortable chair. Nurses had been popping in and out for quite some time because they'd found her a room, and no sooner had she awakened than the transport team arrived to take her upstairs.
"Clay?" she asked, sounding like a worried little girl.
"I'm right here, Elodie. Right here."
*****
His soothing tones washed over her, taking her tension and fear with it. If Clay was here, everything was going to be all right.
She couldn't remember much about what had gone on yesterday—at least not after they'd made love—but she knew she was in a hospital; she recognized the airiness of the wardrobe. Her arm and one leg were immobilized by casts, and her head hurt like a bitch—worse than any migraine she'd ever had. She felt as if it was trying to split open, like some sort of alien from a sci-fi movie.
The ride up to a permanent room was uneventful, and Clay stayed in her line of vision the entire time, even crowding into the elevator and putting his hand on her elbow so that she could feel him there as well as see him. "You're going to be all right, honey."
She was learning not to nod her head. "I know." Her eyelids closed all by themselves, and the next time they opened, someone was putting a breakfast tray in front of her.
As soon as she opened her eyes, Clay was right there, standing beside her with a small smile on his face. "I took the liberty of ordering for you when they asked a couple hours ago. I hope you're hungry."
There was enough food on that tray to feed an army, and she had literally no interest in any of it. "You can eat it," she pronounced, her eyelids fluttering closed.
"I want you to eat something, Elodie. You need to feed your body in order for it to heal."
"I'm not hungry," she stated flatly.
Clay brought the tray closer to her, saying in a no nonsense tone, "I didn't ask you if you were hungry, Elodie. I want you to pick out at least three things from this tray that you're going to eat for me. I'll feed you, but you're going to eat every morsel."
She opened her eyes for the sole purpose of glaring at him, not that it did any good. It never did. Sighing in exasperation, she tried to sit up further in the bed, slow painful process that it was. The tray didn't look any better once she was sitting up than it had before. It was over laden with food: pancakes, waffles, syrup, butter, biscuits, yogurt, canned peaches, toast, orange juice, milk and coffee. "I'll have the yogurt, the juice and the milk," she croaked.
*****
It wasn't what he would have picked for her, but at least it got something into her stomach. She was on some high-powered pain relievers, and he didn't want her to have to contend with a sour stomach on top of everything else. Elodie was trying to reach for what she'd asked for, but he got there first—not that it was much of a contest—and opened everything for her, sticking a straw in the juice, then scooping up a spoonful of the creamy strawberry yogurt and holding it up to her mouth.
"You don't have to feed me you know."
Clay knew by the tone of her voice that she was trying to frown, but her face was too swollen to show it. "I know I don't. I want to." He put the spoon into her mouth as gently as he could, but firmly enough that she couldn't refuse it.
He wanted her to finish the whole thing, but she started to avoid the spoon when he was only half way through. She did finish the juice, however. Seconds later, she was back asleep.
Clay didn't want to leave her, but he did want her to have some of her own things around her. Those hospital johnnies weren't the most comfortable of things. At least he'd been able to get the hospital to give her a private room, but only by giving them his platinum card number first. He had no idea whether or not she had health insurance, but somehow he doubted it. Waitresses rarely did, in his experience.