Can't Take the Heat (5 page)

Retrieving his jeans and boxers from the floor, he shoved his legs into them and pulled them up just as a second, more insistent knock sounded. He cast a regretful glance over his shoulder. Delaney still slept in the same position he remembered, her tall body curled up on one side, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other dangling off the edge of the bed. The center of his chest ached at the sight. This might be the last time he ever saw her this way. He wanted to bottle the moment and keep it on a shelf somewhere, to pull out and open whenever he wanted to relive it.

In an odd way, he envied her. He would give just about anything to spend these stolen moments with her in blissful ignorance of the truth. As it was, he felt the proverbial sword of Damocles poised over his head, ready to drop at a moment’s notice.

And speaking of impending doom…

He was halfway to the door when the lock clicked and it swung inward. “Remind me to get the front desk to change the key code as soon as possible,” he said caustically as Chelsea strolled into his apartment.

His sister shrugged. “I’ll just get them to give me a card with the new code. I have the new clerk wrapped around my finger, you know.”

He did know. In fact, Chelsea had pretty much every male employee of the entire Barrows empire wrapped around her finger, and it wasn’t hard to understand why. He might be her brother, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see that his baby sister had grown into an exceptionally attractive woman. Even if he hadn’t been able to see it, he would have known, thanks to the number of times he’d had to play the overprotective older brother to discourage some guy from pressing his unwanted attentions on her. Dark-haired, tall, and leggy, she could have given many topflight models a run for their money if she’d been so inclined. Instead, she’d chosen the family business, holding the position of general manager at the smaller Barrows South casino located near the airport.

“Maybe I should invest in an actual lockset, then,” he remarked dryly. Glancing toward the hall that led to the bedroom, he added, “And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your voice down. Delaney’s sleeping.”

Chelsea eyed him sharply, seeming to notice for the first time that he was shirtless. “Shit,” she murmured. “You already slept with her, didn’t you?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He stalked toward the kitchen.

“It’s my business because you’re my brother and Delaney’s my friend.” Chelsea threaded her fingers through the hair at her temples, shaking her head. “I
knew
this was a bad idea from the beginning, but damn, I thought you’d be able to control yourself for more than ten minutes.”

Wes yanked the refrigerator door open and pulled out a beer. He was going to need it. “She started it.”

“But
you
finished it.” She leveled a scowl of rebuke at him.

Grabbing the magnetized bottle opener from its place on the side of the fridge, he cracked the cap on his brew and took a deep pull on the bottle before responding. “Believe me, I know perfectly well what I’ve done and why I shouldn’t have. But damn it, Chelsea, I also know this is between Delaney and me. You need to keep your oar out.”

She puffed up her cheeks before heaving out a gusty sigh. “I just wish you’d refused to go along with this.” She lowered her voice to something approaching a whisper. “For God’s sake, Wes, she thinks you’re
married
. What’s going to happen when she remembers what really happened?”

Good question.
He wished he knew. On second thought, maybe he didn’t.

“This was her decision and you know it. She wanted to follow the doctor’s recommendation. I think I’d be a pretty shitty person to deny her that option.” He fixed his sister with a hard stare. “And so would you, on the off chance you’re considering it.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again, as though realizing she’d stepped in quicksand but unsure how to get out of it. “It’s hard, Wes. I can’t help wondering how I’d feel if I were in her shoes. I’d want to know.”

“And then you’d never be sure the memories you got back were really your own. We could tell her everything, but we’d be telling her what we remember, not what she does. Not what she
feels
. I don’t want to take that away from her. Do you?”

Chelsea couldn’t meet his gaze. She turned to look out the window. At this altitude, on the penultimate floor of the high-rise casino, the city of Las Vegas spread out below like a patchwork quilt all the way to mountains. The afternoon sun pounded the rooftops and pavements, the latent heat transforming into a visible haze that hovered in the air. Brutal and beautiful. Those words described Sin City to a T.

“You’re right,” she said at last. “This is Delaney’s decision to make, and I’ll respect that. But you might consider that it’s not her I’m worried about.”

Wes and I aren’t together anymore.

I’ve suspected this since I woke up the second time, but I kept dismissing the evidence because I didn’t want to accept it. And at first, that was pretty easy because I could explain away the signs.

True, I wasn’t wearing my engagement or wedding rings when I woke up in the hospital, but I wouldn’t have expected to be. I don’t wear rings when I’m working because they can rip through surgical gloves. But that has become harder to ignore since it’s been three days since I woke up in the hospital and no one has produced those rings.

Then, there’s the lack of wedding pictures in the apartment. I told myself Wes must have taken them down because he didn’t want to influence my memory with pictures of events I’ve forgotten, but it’s not just the wedding pictures that are missing. It’s
any
pictures of Wes and me together.

This afternoon, we got to the condoms. I didn’t give much thought to it at the time—I was otherwise occupied—but why would Wes have a nightstand full of condoms if we’ve been married for almost three years? Okay, I suppose we could have been considering having a baby. That would have meant me going off the Pill for a month or so before we started trying, so I guess we’d need them then, but I’m having a hard time swallowing that idea. I can’t believe I would have changed my mind about getting a place of our own first.

But there’s absolutely no way for me to rationalize or explain away what I’m looking at right now. Wrapped in a hotel-issue bath towel, I’m standing in the middle of spacious walk-in closet attached to the master bathroom. As always, Wes’s clothes hang on the right side and mine on the left.

We all have our tics, right? One of mine is that I’m meticulous about the organization of my clothes in the closet. I hang everything together by category. My work uniforms come first, followed by my street clothes by type—capris and shorts, short-sleeved tops, skirts, long pants and jeans, long-sleeved tops and sweatshirts, and finally dresses. That way, I can find the outfit I want in a few seconds.

I know, at a glance, that I did not hang my clothes in this closet. There’s no semblance of order at all. Dresses are mixed in with skirts, which are mixed in with sweatshirts that are jumbled up with jeans. Yes, I have a near-three-year gap in my memory, but there’s no way in hell I’ve changed that much.

My knees wobble under me, and I sit down hard on the floor with a thud, the white towel falling around me like a fluffy snowbank.

Shit, shit, shit.

Tears sting my eyelids and singe the back of my throat. What am I going to do?

Not panic, that’s what.

My stomach clenches in violent opposition to this directive. Panicking seems like a perfectly logical thing to do under these circumstances.

But in spite of the awful realization that I don’t know
anything
about my current life—and that I pretty much forced myself on Wes when, for all I know, he’s seeing someone else—my EMT training kicks in. First responders can’t afford to freak out, even in the face of the most horrifying events and injuries imaginable.

I focus on breathing.
Inhale. Exhale.
Only when my mind is completely clear and blank do I allow myself to think about anything else.

And then, I make a list of the things I
do
know, instead of the things I don’t.

1. Wes still loves me.

Evidence:
He came to the hospital when I was hurt, and from what the nurses told me, stayed with me every night when I was unconscious. He also didn’t blink an eye at the thought of bringing me back into his home until I get my memory back. And no man makes love to a woman he hates like Wes just made love to me. Whatever happened between us, he isn’t over me.

2. He also doesn’t have a new girlfriend.

Evidence:
All right, I can’t be absolutely sure about this, but if there is someone else, it isn’t serious and she definitely isn’t living with him. Because I’m here. Q.E.D.

3. I love Wes.

Evidence:
None needed. It’s how I feel. Maybe it’ll be different when my memory comes back. But until it does, I can’t beat myself up for acting on my emotions.

4.
I
don’t have a new boyfriend, either.

Evidence:
The hospital called Wes when I was injured. That means he’s still my emergency contact, and I’m sure I would have changed that if I had anything meaningful going on with someone else.

5. I don’t have anywhere else to go.

Okay, I suppose I could move in with Chelsea, but that’s just down the hall. Not exactly a major change of venue. Then there’s my best friend from high school, Jett, but she lives way out in Henderson, plus I can’t stand her husband. (She came by to visit me in the hospital, and unfortunately, she’s still married to the jerk. Why she loves him, I’ll never understand. He must be fantastic in bed because that’s the only explanation I can come up with.) Brody Granger, my partner in the ambulance, would probably let me sack out on his couch, but I think I’d probably put a pretty major crimp in his bachelor style.

More than that, though, this apartment is where my memories end. That means it’s probably also where they need to begin again.

During our first conversation after I came to, Jessica explained that she thought my amnesia was probably not the result of my injury, but of some traumatic event my subconscious was trying to protect me from remembering. At the time, I couldn’t imagine what the event could possibly be. In all honesty, I thought she was wrong, that there had to be some other explanation.

But now, I know she was right. I even know what it is I want to forget.

Breaking up with the man I love.

“I know we’re not married.”

Wes’s blood drained into his shoes. The interlude was over, then. Almost before it began.

Ignoring the leaden weight in his chest, he focused on the pan in which he was sautéing their dinner. The surest way to ruin shrimp scampi was to stop paying attention and overcook it.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Delaney pull out one of the stools on the opposite side of the counter and sit down. The late summer sunset cast a rainbow-sherbet-colored glow through the living room windows, accentuating the auburn highlights in her shower-dampened hair. She was so beautiful, sitting there for what might be the last time, he couldn’t bear to look at her head-on.