His Baby Bombshell

The curtain swooshed and a young man carrying a phlebotomy tray walked in. “Oh, my,” she said in a too-bright tone that hinted at her eagerness for the interruption, “Lab’s here. It’s Dracula time.”

Seizing the opportunity to gain much-needed breathing space, she walked out of the trauma room while the technician drew Adrian’s blood samples. Unfortunately, physical distance didn’t settle her thoughts, as she’d hoped.

Wishing she hadn’t sliced the ball like a novice and landed in her present position, Sabrina idled away the hours while he was poked, prodded, and CT-scanned. From time to time, like any good nurse, she exchanged his magazines from the waiting room’s well-thumbed collection, brought ice chips when he complained about being thirsty, and covered him with a warm blanket when she found him huddled under the sheet, half-asleep. Although she’d like to leave him to his own devices, Dr Mosby would ask Adrian about the care and personal attention he’d received, so she simply gritted her teeth and treated her nemesis as if he truly were a VIP.

Although, she decided with wicked glee, in his case the “I” stood for “irritating” rather than “important.”

Through it all, and somewhat to her surprise because Adrian didn’t accept defeat easily, he dropped the subject and stared impatiently at the clock. His gloomy mood didn’t improve until Dr Beth Iverson returned with his results.

“Do you want me to stay or leave you two alone?” Sabrina asked before the doctor could share anything that Adrian might consider a violation of his privacy.

“You may as well hear the verdict for yourself,” he grudgingly offered. “Go ahead, Doctor. Tell me what I already know—I’m fine. No cracks, no nerve damage, nothing!”

“At the risk of making your head swell more than it has,” Beth said cheerfully, “you’re right. Lab work looks great and no skull fractures or hematomas appeared on the scan. Your cut bled a lot and you can get by without stitches, although I’d like to put in a few to prevent the edges from separating too easily.”

Adrian looked quite smug as he met Sabrina’s gaze. “What did I tell you? I have a hard head.”

In more ways than one, Sabrina silently agreed.

Beth continued. “You’ll probably have a headache and some nausea for awhile—concussions will do that, you know, and as yours is mild, those symptoms shouldn’t last long. Continue with the ice packs and acetaminophen for the pain.”

“Will do. Now, if someone will give me my clothes, I’m going to my home away from home.”

Beth shook her head, her eyes apologetic. “Sorry. John wants to keep you overnight. As a precaution.”

“You don’t need someone as healthy as I am taking up bed space,” he coaxed in the charming manner that allowed him to get his own way more often than not.

Beth smiled. “I have my orders. There’s a bed upstairs with your name on it.”

His smile turned into a frown. “This is so unnecessary,” he groused.

“Take it up with the boss,” the doctor advised. “I’m just the hired help. After I stitch up your head, Sabrina will see you’re settled in your room. If you need anything, call me. I’m on duty until seven.”

She quickly closed the gash with neat sutures. After pronouncing her work finished, she breezed out of the room and left Sabrina to deal with an unhappy Adrian.

“Wheelchair or gurney for the next leg of your trip?” she asked, relieved to know her golf ball hadn’t done lasting damage. She wouldn’t admit it either, but she was privately glad he’d be under close observation for awhile. Problems weren’t always detected immediately and could develop over time. It would be far better for him, and for her peace of mind, to spend his first night in Pinehaven under a nurse’s watchful eye.

“I’ll walk.”

She shook her head. “Not on my watch, buster. Physician or not, you’re a patient, which means I’m in charge for the moment. Nor will I let it be said that I don’t abide by the rules. So what’ll it be? A wheelchair or a gurney?”

He glared. “Wheelchair.”

“Then sit tight and I’ll be right back.”

Transferring him to the medical floor went smoothly and silently, which came as a relief. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk and clearly he wasn’t either. However, once she’d braked his wheelchair and pointed to the hospital gown on the edge of the bed, he shook his head and crossed his arms.

“I may have to stay here unnecessarily, but I’ll do it in my own clothes,” he stated regally.

“And how do you propose they get here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Need you ask?”

She held up her hands to object, but he didn’t give her the opportunity.

“You landed me in these spacious accommodations with your wicked slice,” he reminded her. “In my books, that’s a debt you have to pay.”

“If every other patient can wear the stylish apparel we so thoughtfully provide, so can you. And if you’re worried about your hiney showing, stay in bed.”

“Hiney? My, my,” he said dryly, “your professional vocabulary is amazing.”

“That’s what continuing education is for.”

“Whatever you call my hiney, buns, or posterior, there’s the matter of you being responsible for my VIP care. As a VIP, I want my own shorts and T-shirt, not a flimsy, see-through, doesn’t-close-in-the-back hospital gown.”

No question about it—the “I” definitely meant irritating.

“But you don’t sleep in anything except your boxers,” she blurted out.

“At home, I don’t. Does this…” he waved his arms in an all-encompassing motion“…even remotely look like home?”

Sensing the futility in arguing—apparently he’d decided that if cajolery wouldn’t get what he wanted, arrogance and his rank would—she heaved a sigh. “OK, fine. I presume you also want a change of clothes for tomorrow and your toothbrush?”

“Yeah. Don’t forget my electric razor either.” He dug in his trouser pocket and tossed a keyring at her before he sank gingerly into the bed. “Thanks. I’d be grateful if you’d bring them within the hour.”

She caught it in mid-air, irritated by his demand. She couldn’t possibly meet his hour deadline even if she’d wanted to because she was due to pick up Jeremy from the hospital’s day care. Chafing under his order, she chose not to warn him she’d be late. Better to ask forgiveness after the fact than to beg permission beforehand.

“I’d also like a pizza,” he informed her.

“Our cafeteria has good food. The patients all agree.”

He eyed her loftily. “If I can’t sleep in a real bed, then I want to eat real food. Sausage, Canadian bacon and mushrooms.”

She ground her teeth. “Pizza it is. Anything else for our most illustrious personage?”

With that detail apparently settled to his satisfaction and apparently not put off by her disrespect, he closed his eyes. “No, but if I think of something, I’ll call you. You do still have a cellphone?”

“Yes, I do. Who doesn’t these days?”

“I’d like the number, please.”

She didn’t want to give it to him, but she really didn’t have a choice. A notepad wasn’t in sight and she didn’t have a pen, so she recited the seven digits from memory.

He listened intently before satisfaction showed on his face. “Same as before.”

His comment caught her off-guard. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“I remember a lot of things.”