Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 23750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“I don’t remember.” I sigh, breathing him in. His smell is comforting.
“How are you feeling? Does your head hurt? Your sides?” I pull back and bring my hand to my head. When I touch the sore spot, I tense, and he curses in frustration.
“Here.” He reaches for something on the side table and hands me two pills and a glass of water. I gulp them down.
“I didn't know I was so thirsty.” I hand him the empty glass. He sets it on the nightstand.
“Are you hungry?” I nod, and my stomach growls as if in confirmation.
“Should I be worried? I can’t remember anything but you…a little.” He stands, taking me with him.
“Test your legs,” he tells me as he lowers my feet to the floor. I stand easily. “I’m sure it will come back. You didn't have a concussion. Give it time, little one.” He kisses me on top of my head, making me smile up at him. I instantly feel better for some reason.
“Bathroom?” I ask. He points over toward some double doors. “Is it silly I’m asking for the bathroom in our home?” I laugh, and he tenses for a moment.
“No, sweetheart. Go. I’ll wait for you here,” he tells me. I walk towards the bathroom, somewhat unsteadily, and step inside. I pause when I look in the mirror. I’m not shocked by what I see. I recognize myself. I touch the cut on my forehead. It doesn't hurt as much as it looks. I look a hot mess.
I use the bathroom before I start opening drawers, trying to find my toothbrush and a brush for my hair. What I really need is a shower, but I want food first. There is a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I call out. Orlando hesitantly steps in, looking unsure.
“I can’t find my toothbrush. Or my hairbrush.” I sigh, turning to look at him. With the bathroom lights on, I can see him better now. His dark hair is cut short. My fingers itch to rub it. His face is all hard lines and angles. Paired with the scars on one side and his sheer size that doubles mine, he reminds me of a fierce warrior. He’s ruggedly handsome. Maybe that should be scary, but I find it comforting. He wasn't lying. He can keep me safe, and some small nagging part in the back of my head tells me I need that.
“Let me get them for you.” He picks me up by the hips, and my hands go to his shoulders as he sets me down on the bathroom counter. He opens one of the cabinets beside the double sinks and produces a hairbrush and a toothbrush still in its packaging.
“Why don’t I have a toothbrush already?” I ask as I start to brush my hair out. He takes the brush from me and does it for me. My eyes fall closed at how relaxing it feels.
“We’re newly married. You haven't fully moved in yet.” I open my eyes to look at him. He sets the brush down, grabs the toothbrush and applies some paste to it. I turn to the mirror and start brushing my teeth. When I’m done he puts my toothbrush in a holder, beside his—well, I’m assuming it’s his. I slide off the counter. If we are newly married, maybe that’s why he seems a little hesitant around me. He’s not used to living together.
“Should I change?” I ask, looking down at the big shirt I’m wearing. It says Ranger over the chest. I touch the letters.
“You were a Ranger.” I smile. I’m happy I put something together. Hey, it might have been right there for me, but I’ll take it.
“I was.” He gives me a smile in return, but it looks forced. I wonder if he got the scars from his time in the service. I don’t ask, feeling guilty that I don't know that myself. It’s something I should know. He’s my freaking husband. “And this is fine. Let me get you some socks. The wood floor can get cold.” He grabs my hand, locking his fingers with mine as we enter a giant closet. I look around. It’s as big as a bedroom, maybe bigger, but I notice there is a lot of empty space.
“That side for me?” I ask. He nods.
“Your stuff will be arriving soon. There’s a delay because of the storms.”
He kneels before me. I put my hands on his shoulders as he puts socks on my feet. I bring one hand up and do what I’ve been itching to do. I run my fingers across his buzzed hair. He freezes, and I pull my hand back.
“Sorry. I…” I trail off. Is it weird to touch my husband?
“No, it’s fine.” His voice is gruff when he says it. “I just don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to. If you don’t remember and all.”