wouldn’t be out of place in a period drama movie.
“May I help you?” he asks, glancing at me over those damn glasses. His brow creases. “Ms…?”
“Green. Layla Green. I’m here to see Hawk.” I blink when he gives me a blank look. “Mr. Jamie Fleming.”
“Oh right, Mr. Fleming. Mr. Carter said you’d drop by.” He waves at an orderly who’s coming down the hall. “Sarah, please escort Ms. Green to Mr. Fleming’s room.”
Nodding at him, I follow the orderly down a long corridor, then we ride up two floors in the elevator and come out in another spotless passage.
“This way, please,” the orderly says, and I follow her quiet steps past numbered doors, my mind numb.
We stop at number 2, and she knocks on the door. “Mr. Fleming.” She pokes her head inside, although I haven’t heard an answer. “Ms. Green here to see you.”
She steps back and I enter the room. It’s big, as expected, with glass doors opening to a balcony. There’s a table and leather-padded chairs, and a double bed.
Hawk is sitting on it, his back propped on a mountain of pillows, hands resting on his legs. He’s dressed in pale gray pajamas and a white sweater. His scruff has grown into a beard, and his hair is so long he’s peering through it at me.
His gray eyes look a bit too wide at finding me there.
“Hot Body?” he asks, and that breaks me out of my trance.
I close the door behind me and walk toward him. “Hi.”
He looks strangely small and fragile slumped on the bed, his face pale, dark smudges under his eyes. Of course, the moment I sit beside him, making the mattress dip, I find that’s not true. He’s not small at all.
His mouth pulls into a tight smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“And how did you know where I was?”
“Rook called me.” I lift his hand from where it’s resting on his leg, turn it over. It’s bruised and scratched, the gashes taped. “Said he’s your friend?”
Hawk nods. Swallows hard. “He is.”
“Said he borrowed your phone.”
The ghost of another smile touches his lips. “Rook’s just cross I didn’t call immediately to tell him about the accident.”
Okay. Right. “But your parents have been here, I bet, as you recovered?”
He stares down at his hand in my hand. “They dropped by once.”
“Once?” I’m horrified, and I try to regain control. “Why?”
“They’re busy people.”
Are all millionaires’ lives like that? I want to ask him, but his face is blank, and it looks like a façade of sadness.
“Well, you could have told me. I’d have come.”
The corners of his full mouth lift. “Thanks.”
“What happened?”
“Took a tight corner. Lost control of the bike.”
God. “And you hit your head?”
“Rook said that?” He chuckles, although I fail to see what’s so funny about that. “It wasn’t so bad.” He turns so that I can now see a small shaved patch on the side of his head and a neat line of dark stitches. “I’ve taken quite a few hits to the head in my life. I’m fine.”
“Crap. I’m sorry.” I lift my other hand to touch, and he leans just out of reach. “Sorry you’re hurt. What do the docs say?”
“That I’m good to go. Tomorrow.”
I let my hand drop. “Were you going to tell me?”
He shakes his head.
And why am I asking? Haven’t we established already that he’s not my boyfriend and feels no obligation whatsoever to keep me in the loop of his activities?
“I shouldn’t have come,” I whisper, and stand up. I turn away and tug on my coat. “I’ll leave you to rest.”
“No, wait.” He comes after me, throwing his legs off the bed and staggering across the floor to reach me by the time I turn back around. “Just fucking wait.”
He pulls me into his arms, and I’m shocked by how thin he feels under the
“May I help you?” he asks, glancing at me over those damn glasses. His brow creases. “Ms…?”
“Green. Layla Green. I’m here to see Hawk.” I blink when he gives me a blank look. “Mr. Jamie Fleming.”
“Oh right, Mr. Fleming. Mr. Carter said you’d drop by.” He waves at an orderly who’s coming down the hall. “Sarah, please escort Ms. Green to Mr. Fleming’s room.”
Nodding at him, I follow the orderly down a long corridor, then we ride up two floors in the elevator and come out in another spotless passage.
“This way, please,” the orderly says, and I follow her quiet steps past numbered doors, my mind numb.
We stop at number 2, and she knocks on the door. “Mr. Fleming.” She pokes her head inside, although I haven’t heard an answer. “Ms. Green here to see you.”
She steps back and I enter the room. It’s big, as expected, with glass doors opening to a balcony. There’s a table and leather-padded chairs, and a double bed.
Hawk is sitting on it, his back propped on a mountain of pillows, hands resting on his legs. He’s dressed in pale gray pajamas and a white sweater. His scruff has grown into a beard, and his hair is so long he’s peering through it at me.
His gray eyes look a bit too wide at finding me there.
“Hot Body?” he asks, and that breaks me out of my trance.
I close the door behind me and walk toward him. “Hi.”
He looks strangely small and fragile slumped on the bed, his face pale, dark smudges under his eyes. Of course, the moment I sit beside him, making the mattress dip, I find that’s not true. He’s not small at all.
His mouth pulls into a tight smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“And how did you know where I was?”
“Rook called me.” I lift his hand from where it’s resting on his leg, turn it over. It’s bruised and scratched, the gashes taped. “Said he’s your friend?”
Hawk nods. Swallows hard. “He is.”
“Said he borrowed your phone.”
The ghost of another smile touches his lips. “Rook’s just cross I didn’t call immediately to tell him about the accident.”
Okay. Right. “But your parents have been here, I bet, as you recovered?”
He stares down at his hand in my hand. “They dropped by once.”
“Once?” I’m horrified, and I try to regain control. “Why?”
“They’re busy people.”
Are all millionaires’ lives like that? I want to ask him, but his face is blank, and it looks like a façade of sadness.
“Well, you could have told me. I’d have come.”
The corners of his full mouth lift. “Thanks.”
“What happened?”
“Took a tight corner. Lost control of the bike.”
God. “And you hit your head?”
“Rook said that?” He chuckles, although I fail to see what’s so funny about that. “It wasn’t so bad.” He turns so that I can now see a small shaved patch on the side of his head and a neat line of dark stitches. “I’ve taken quite a few hits to the head in my life. I’m fine.”
“Crap. I’m sorry.” I lift my other hand to touch, and he leans just out of reach. “Sorry you’re hurt. What do the docs say?”
“That I’m good to go. Tomorrow.”
I let my hand drop. “Were you going to tell me?”
He shakes his head.
And why am I asking? Haven’t we established already that he’s not my boyfriend and feels no obligation whatsoever to keep me in the loop of his activities?
“I shouldn’t have come,” I whisper, and stand up. I turn away and tug on my coat. “I’ll leave you to rest.”
“No, wait.” He comes after me, throwing his legs off the bed and staggering across the floor to reach me by the time I turn back around. “Just fucking wait.”
He pulls me into his arms, and I’m shocked by how thin he feels under the
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