Thanks for checking out this story! It's a slow-build type romance, so if you're anxious for the sex, skip to about halfway through. This is my first longer story and I welcome all constructive feedback to help me improve my writing skills for the next one. Thank you to Ed and the others who have reviewed it and contributed to making it better.
**
Samuel sat in the rigid plastic chair waiting for his number to be called and the acetaminophen to take effect.
It was too slow.
His head pounded and focusing his eyes felt like hard work. It was lucky he hadn't caused an accident driving himself to the city.
The emergency room at Saint-Luc Hospital in Montreal was busy, more than half the waiting chairs were filled with people of all ages, from children with their parents all the way up to the elderly.
Samuel felt fortunate to have found a seat in a corner where he could only be assaulted by noise from one side. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall to block out the rest, but then couldn't stop replaying the suddenness of the attack in his head.
It was one thing to admit to his village GP he'd been surprised by a surly bull, but the city doctor? Embarrassing. It was the kind of accident that only happened to a country bumpkin. Or maybe to thrill seekers in Spain.
Samuel didn't consider himself the former, and he'd never been to Europe.
"Do you know what this place needs?"
A husky female voice cut into his ruminations from the chair next to him. When had she taken it? And was she speaking to him? Samuel opened his eyes to the glare of harsh white fluorescence. "Pardon?"
"A string quartet."
"Excuse me?"
"It's hard to be stressed out when there's a cello playing. Plus, I'm guessing some of the crowd here could use a little 'chamber music', get it? We don't have enough beds but we have chamber..." She shrugged at his confusion. "A string quartet would be soothing
and
educational."
A young woman with straight dark blonde hair had taken the seat next to him, and now gazed out at the small crowd. She looked like she was in her late twenties and sat with her left hand held up by her shoulder as if she was about to wave to hello. It was completely bound up in gauze.
"It's just an idea," she said, filling his silence. "They say it helped on the Titanic. I'm not one for boats myself. I once went on a deep-sea salmon fishing trip in a misguided effort to impress a boyfriend, and those were the worst eight hours of my life." Earnest green eyes met his. "It's surprisingly hard to empty one's stomach cleanly over the railing of a rocking boat."
"They didn't offer you a bucket?"
"The buckets all smelled of fish," she said wanly.
Samuel laughed. "That wouldn't help matters."
"Not a bit." Her eyebrows, slightly darker than her hair, pulled together just before she turned her attention back to her bound hand, then the waiting room.
He wondered how bad her injury was.
"Trains are more my speed," she continued. "There's only one plane of motion. I like watching the scenery pass and being able to get up and move. The rocking and thumping of the wheels on the tracks are relaxing." She turned back to Samuel. "Are you waiting for someone? You don't look like you belong here."
"What makes you say that?"
"I don't see any blood or gauze," she said, waving her bandaged hand.
"It's a concussion," he admitted.
"And you're waiting for a scan?"
Samuel nodded. "My village GP sent me for a more in-depth workup." He hoped to God she wouldn't ask what had happened.
You could make something up
. Could, but he wouldn't. It wasn't worth being dishonest just to protect his ego. It
could
be a funny story, just not so soon afterward.
"Were you unconscious at any point?" she asked expectantly. Probably trying to distract herself with grisly details. He'd happily give those up as there weren't any.
"For a few seconds, I think. It's hard to say for sure. No one was around." No one but the damn bull who'd done the damage.
"I almost passed out when I saw all the blood from this." She waved her hand again. "I know people say knives are safer when they're very sharp, but I only manage to cut myself on very sharp knives, so I'm not sure who they're meant to be safer
for
. Trained chefs? Butchers? I am neither." She sighed in resignation and Samuel laughed again.
Everyone knew sharper knives were more precise.
Her expression was bleak when she turned back to him. "I'm sorry, I'm babbling. You probably have a headache."
Samuel was surprised to notice it had gone. Only a low throb remained at the back of his head where it had impacted with the metal railing in the barn.
Stupid me.
"It's not so bad."
She examined him in his chair. "Concussions can be tricky, but at least they don't involve needles. I
loathe
needles, and there's no way this doesn't need stitches. Christ, just thinking about it makes my heart race."
"I'm sorry," he said, at a loss for what else to say. He was a bit out of practice consoling beautiful women, and she certainly qualified as that. Wide eyes over a straight nose, high cheekbones and plump lips, she had a natural beauty that was only marred by a small silvery scar running into the right side of her upper lip. Makeup probably would have made it invisible.
She continued, "It's a phobia. Phobias aren't rational, so there really isn't anything to apologize for. It's not like I had a bad experience with a needle once. I just hate the idea of..." She shuddered. "Sorry, can't even say it." She wiped the palm of her right hand on her jeans then shook it out. "I guess we're all afraid of something."
Samuel surveyed the waiting room as he considered. What
was
he afraid of? Not many things. Fears weren't something he dwelt on, but the few he had were of a personal nature. Not for sharing with a stranger in a hospital waiting room.
"I'm afraid of the weather," he finally said.
A short burst of laughter left her. "Are you serious? As in,
sunshine scares you
?"
He grinned back. "Not
scares
, precisely, but I live on a farm, and when the wrong kind of weather comes at the wrong time, it can be quite devastating to the crops, which is devastating to
me
. The weather forecast can be ominous."
"Huh," she said. "I think that's the most rational fear I've ever heard. Also one of the most futile. Not much you can do about the weather."
