The smell is the first thing assaulting me. Bleach and staleness. My eyelids feel heavy when I try to open them. I instantly regret it once I manage to open my eyes because the light is glaringly bright. When my eyes finally adjust, I take in my surroundings only to realize I’m not in my bed—nor Foster’s. I’m in a hospital.
Slowly turning my head, I find the reason for the warmth engulfing my left hand. Foster’s holding it, his fingers linked with mine, his head lying on the edge of the bed beside our joined hands, his warm breath washing against my fingertips. Asleep he looks so peaceful, so handsome.
Straightening my index finger, I lightly trace over the bridge of his nose, feeling the tiny notch where it must’ve been broken in the past. His eyes instantly open, fixing his whiskey brown gaze on me.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he says softly, his thumb caressing my hand.
“What happened?”
Raising, he tips his head from side to side as if working out kinks from his sleeping position. “You passed out. Likely from shock.” Reaching out a hand, smoothing some hair back from my forehead, he adds, “They’re keeping you overnight for observation, just to be safe.”
I can’t resist a frown, and he smirks. “I know how you feel, but it’s protocol.”
Flashing him a dubious look, I challenge, “And you’d let them keep you for observation if it were you?”
He makes a face. “Not a chance.” Just when I’m about to protest, he stops me. “Unless I really knew it was necessary.” He raises our hands and presses a kiss to my hand. “In this case, it’s necessary because we all want to be sure you’re okay.”
“What happened with Brad and everything?”
“He’s been booked on a handful of charges. My main concern was making sure you were going to be all right.” He lowers his voice. “You won’t have to worry about him any longer, Noelle. I’ll make sure of it.”
“But—”
“What did I say?” Foster cuts off my protest, flashing me a smirk.
“You have enough to worry about.” I lower my gaze, shaking my head. “I don’t want to be another burden.”
“Hey.” His firm tone makes me look up. His eyes are serious, conveying sincerity. “You’re not—nor have you ever been—a burden to me.” He holds my gaze as if he’s willing me to believe him. Just when my lips part to respond, we hear voices from the hallway.
“With all due respect, young lady, I knew you when you were in diapers. I know your mother would be horrified to learn you didn’t let another mother visit her daughter in the hospital.”
“Mrs. Kavanaugh,” an exasperated female voice says, “you and I both know that patient isn’t your daughter.”
“Why, of course she’s my daughter. Maybe not legally, right this minute, but mark my words, she’s going to marry my son soon.”
My eyes fly to Foster’s, and I see his eyes fall closed with a tired groan. “Christ.” He releases my hand, and I miss him—his touch—already.
“I heard that, Foster Bryant.” Momma K. is in the doorway, entering with what appears to be a large, insulated tote bag on her arm. As soon as she catches sight of me, she sets the bag down onto an empty chair and rushes to my other side with a worried expression. Pressing a kiss to my cheek, she lightly grasps my other hand, mindful of the IV affixed to my arm.
“Sweetie, we’ve all been so worried. How are you feeling? I’ve brought some prosciutto wrapped mozzarella and some lasagna rolls for you because the hospital food is absolute garbage.”
“Geez, Ma. Take a breath,” Foster remarks with dry amusement.
Momma K.’s hands fly to her hips, and she gives her son a squinty-eyed look. “You’d better watch yourself, young man. I’m not too old to put you over my knee.”
He flashes a mischievous grin. “Why you dirty talker, you.”
His mother’s cheeks flush, and she rolls her eyes, muttering, “You and that mouth, Foster Bryant. I’d better light some extra candles for you at church.”
As the two of them bicker affectionately, I allow myself to recall her words right before she entered my hospital room. Mark my words, she’s going to marry my son soon. And I can’t help but wonder which one of us is more delusional.
Her for actually believing it will ever happen or … the small part of me that wishes it would actually happen someday.
Chapter Forty-Three
Foster
“So. Can we talk about the fact that you actually carry around zip ties in your pocket?”
I shrug. “What about it?”
Tossing up her hands, Noelle’s tone has an edge of exasperation. “Who does that?” Before I can respond, she answers for me. “I’ll tell you who. No one normal.”
“You mean no one prepared.”
“I mean no one normal.”