It was the kind you made with all the love you hadn't expressed and might well not have the voice or the chance to speak of.
"I won't remember anything?" she asked roughly.
He added a little more powder and circled the spoon, watching the swirl of chocolate get absorbed in the milk. He couldn't reply, just couldn't say it.
"Nothing?" she prompted.
"From what I understand, you might get feelings once in a while that are triggered by an object or a scent, but you won't be able to place them." He stuck his forefinger in to test for temperature, sucked it clean, and kept stirring. "You're more likely to have vague dreams, though, because your mind is so strong."
"What about the missing weekend?"
"You won't feel as if you missed it at all."
"How's that possible?"
"Because I'm going to give you a weekend to replace it."
When she didn't say anything further, he glanced over his shoulder. She was standing against the refrigerator, arms wrapped around herself, eyes shimmering.
Fuck. Okay, he changed his mind. He didn't want her to feel as bad as he did. He'd do anything to keep her from being this heartbroken.
And he had it in his power to fix her, didn't he.
He tested what he was warming, approved of the temp, and killed the flame. As he filled the mug, the gentle gurgle promised the relaxation and satisfaction he wanted for his female. He brought the mug over to her, and when she didn't take it, he reached out and unhinged one of her forearms. She palmed the hot chocolate only because he made her, and she didn't drink it. She cradled it to her collarbone, curling her wrist in, twisting her arm around the thing.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered, tears in the achy pitch of her voice.
He put his bare hand to her cheek and felt the softness and warmth of her face. He knew that when he pulled out of here, he was leaving his stupid f**king heart with her. Sure, something would beat behind his ribs and keep his blood moving around, but it would just be a mechanical function from now on.
Oh, wait. It had been like that before. She'd just given the thing flesh and life for a short time.
He pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head. Holy hell, he was never again going to smell chocolate and not think of her, not pine for her.
Just as he closed his eyes a tingle ran up his spine, trembling along the back of his neck and shooting to the anchor of his jaw. The sun was coming up, and that was his body telling him the time to go was no longer a future thing, but a now thing... an urgent now thing.
He pulled back and pressed his lips to hers. "I love you. And I'm going to keep loving you even after you don't know I exist."
Her lashes flickered, catching her tears until there were too many to hold. He brushed his thumbs over her face.
"V... I..."
He waited for a heartbeat. When she didn't finish, he took her chin in his palm and looked into her eyes.
"Oh, God, you're going to do it," she said. "You're going to - "
Chapter Thirty-one
Jane blinked and looked down at the hot chocolate she was holding. Something was dripping into it.
Jesus... Tears were pouring down her face, falling into the mug, getting her button-down shirt wet. Her whole body was shaking, her knees weak, her chest screaming in pain. For some crazy reason she wanted to fall to the floor and wail.
Wiping her cheeks off, she glanced around her kitchen. There was milk and cocoa mix and a spoon on the counter. The pan on the stove still had a little steam rising up from it. The cabinet to the left wasn't shut all the way. She couldn't remember taking the stuff out or making what was in her mug, but then, that was often the case with repetitive, habitual actions. You space-shotted them -
What the hell? Through the windows on the other side of the breakfast nook, she saw someone standing in front of her condo. A man. A huge man. He was just outside the glowing pool of a street lamp, so she couldn't see his face, but she knew he was staring at her.
For no evident reason her tears ran harder and faster. And the outpouring got worse as the stranger turned away and walked off down the street.
Jane all but threw the mug onto the counter and bolted out of her kitchen. She had to catch him. She had to stop him.
Just as she came to her front door, a vicious headache took her down to the floor sure as if she'd been tripped off her feet. She sprawled out on the foyer's cold white tile, then twisted onto her side, grinding her fingers into her temples and gasping.
She lay there for God only knew how long, just breathing and praying for the pain to back off. When it finally did she eased her upper body off the floor and leaned against her front door. She wondered if she'd had a stroke, but there had been no cognitive interruptions or visual disturbances. Just one hell of a quick-onset headache.
Must be remnants of the flu she'd had all weekend. That virus that had been around the hospital for weeks had taken her out like a dead rosebush. Which made sense. She hadn't been sick in a long time, so she'd been overdue.
Speaking of overdue... Shit, had she even called to reschedule her interview at Columbia? She had no clue... which meant she probably hadn't. Hell, she didn't even remember leaving the hospital on Thursday night.
She wasn't sure how long she made like a doorstop, but at some point the clock on the mantel started to chime. It was the one that had been in her father's study in Greenwich, an old-fashioned Hamilton made of solid brass that she'd always sworn rang the hours in with a British accent. She'd always hated the damn thing, but it kept good time.
Six o'clock in the morning. Time to go to work.
Good plan, but when she stood up, she knew without a doubt she wasn't going into the hospital. She was lightheaded, weak, exhausted. There was no way she could administer care in her condition; she was still sick as a dog.
Damn it... she had to call in. Where were her pager and her phone... ?
She frowned. Her coat and the bag she'd packed to go down to Manhattan were sitting next to the front hall closet.
No cell, though. No pager.
She dragged her sorry ass upstairs and checked by her bed, but the pair weren't there. Back down on the first floor she went through the kitchen. Nothing. And her shoulder bag, the one she always took to work, was missing, too. Could she have left the thing in the car all weekend?
She opened the door into the garage and the automatic light came on.
Weird. Her car was parked headfirst. Usually she backed it in.
Which just proved how out-of-it she'd been.
Sure enough her bag was in the front seat, and she cursed herself as she went back into the condo while dialing. How could she have gone for so long without calling in? Even though she was covered by other attendings, she was never out of touch for more than five hours.
Her service had a number of messages, but luckily none of them were urgent. The important ones concerning patient care had been turfed to whoever was on call, so the rest of it was stuff she could handle later.
She was heading out of the kitchen, making a beeline for her bedroom, when she looked at the mug of chocolate. She didn't have to touch it to know it had gone cold, so she might as well ditch the thing. She went and picked it up, but paused over the sink. For some reason she couldn't bear to throw it out. She left it right where it was on the counter, though she did return the milk to the refrigerator.
Upstairs in her bedroom she ditched her clothes, letting them land where they did, pulled on a T-shirt, and got in bed.
She was settling between her sheets when she realized her body was stiff, especially her inner thighs and lower back. Under different circumstances she would have said she'd had a lot of terrific sex... either that or climbed a mountain. But instead it was just the flu.
Shit. Columbia. The interview.
She'd call Ken Falcheck later this morning, apologize for what she hoped was the second time, and reschedule. They were hungry for her to come onboard, but not showing for an interview with the chairman of the department was insulting as hell. Even if you were sick.
Rearranging herself against her pillows, she couldn't get comfortable. Her neck was tight, and she reached up to massage it, only to frown. There was a sore spot on the right side in front, a real... What the hell? She had a pattern there, some raised bumps.
Whatever. Rashes were not unheard-of with the flu. Or maybe a spider had done her in.
She closed her eyes and told herself to rest. Resting was good. Resting would get rid of this bug faster. Resting would bring her back to normal, a reboot for her body.