Forgetting You

He looked like an angry papa bear.

“Nu-uh,” he growled as he crossed the room with my boot tucked under his arm. “We aren’t kids any more, ye don’t get away with things by smilin’ at me.”

I clicked my tongue. “You’ve gone and grown up on me . . . old man.”

The corners of his eyes creased in amusement.

“Old man? I’m two weeks older than you.”

“Technically, yes, but mentally I’m still twenty-four and you’re pushing thirty, so like I said . . . old man.”

I squealed when his fingers suddenly pressed into my sides, over and over. He made sure to grab me when I fell, and hauled me up against his hard body.

“Mercy,” I pleaded. “Mercy, Irish.”

He righted me, then nudged me backwards until I sat back down on my bed. Then he got to work putting my boot on and securing the straps.

“Don’t call me Irish.”

“Huh?” I looked at him as he stood up. “Why not?”

“Me friends call me Irish, and you’re not me friend. You’re more.”

My heart clenched at his words.

“Eli then.”

“Nope, ye never called me that either,” he mused. “I kind of miss ye always callin’ me ‘paddy’ and ‘ocean blue’, if I’m bein’ honest.”

I burst into giggles. “You are my paddy with those big ocean blues. Always will be.”

I held my breath when Elliot’s eyes dropped to my mouth. For a moment, I thought he was going to abandon his morals and kiss me. I desperately wanted him to, but I knew what I wanted didn’t matter right now. I had to think of the bigger picture and that picture included Anderson. I had to respect him, if not as my husband then at the very least as a person. Until I figured out who I would walk my path with in life, I had to keep my lips to myself.

Elliot’s thoughts seemed to mirror my own because he licked his lips and, at the last moment, jerked back.

“Pyjamas,” he blurted. “Underwear. Ye need those.”

“I want to brush my hair first.”

He grabbed my hairbrush and didn’t hand it to me, but brushed out my hair instead.

“Ye know,” he murmured. “The half-shaved-head thing on you is sexy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Rubbish.”

He placed a kiss on my now-buzzed scalp and whispered, “Sexy.”

I shuddered as he detangled my shorter locks until the brush ran from root to tip with ease. Then he grabbed the hair dryer my mum had packed for me and proceeded to dry my hair. I felt like a pampered princess. Sooner than I would have liked, my hair was dry. I ran my hand through the soft, thick strands.

“When I leave here, I’ll need to get a new style so the regrowth doesn’t look ridiculous.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Elliot moved to the wardrobe and grabbed a set of black pyjamas and a white pair of knickers.

“Are those granny knickers?” I asked, horrified.

He held them up with a grin on his face, enjoying my obvious distress.

“Give me those.” I scowled as I reached forward and snatched them out of his hand. “I thought you were a gentleman, and here you are, waving my delicates around for all the world to see.”

Thoroughly amused, Elliot moved the chair until it was in front of me, and stared at my knickers without blinking.

“Elliot!”

He laughed when I hid them from his view.

“I love how ye say me name like that.”

“I know,” I grumbled. “You’ve told me once or twice. I sound all prim and proper, blah blah blah.”

He winked. “Come on, ye have to get dressed. A doctor or nurse could come in.”

“You locked the door.”

“They can be opened from the outside for a patient’s safety.”

I made him stand in front of me just in case someone came into the room. Elliot made a show of helping me get my knickers over my injured leg. I slapped his hands, making him laugh as he tried to tug them up my other leg like I was a toddler. I grumbled about how hairy my legs were but a glance from Elliot had me clamping my lips together. By the time I got my underwear on, I felt about ninety years old.

“This should be considered exercise,” I said as I reached for my pyjamas. “I’m knackered.”

We got my shorts on, and just as I picked up my top, I caught sight of the tag and nearly died.

“A sixteen.” I blanched as I tugged it on over my head. “Elliot, I’m a size sixteen . . . and it’s a snug fit!”

“I know,” he answered. “I heard your ma tell your da what size pyjamas to get ye yesterday, she made a guess by lookin’ at ye.”

He looked completely unbothered and unaware that I was having an internal crisis.

“Elliot!” I stressed. “I’ve always been a size ten, even an eight in some jeans! A sixteen is plus-size!”