Bad Case of Loving You Read online

  Crosby’s eyes grew wide with clear wonder. “Shift? Shut. Up. I shift? You mean like in-the-movies shift, where I morph and snarl all drooly? I can really do that?”

  “I just told you that.”

  “Sorry. Guess I must’ve missed it. Amnesia brain and all.”

  Ella’s response was purposely dry even though his childlike joy was hard to resist. “Right. Anyway, yes, you can really do that.”

  He grinned, apparently pleased by this turn of events. “Then this is way more like Twilight than you’re letting on.”

  “Did you actually see Twilight, Crosby?” Ella couldn’t stop herself from asking or keep the astonishment from her tone. If he had seen the movie, he hadn’t gone willingly. Getting Crosby to watch anything that didn’t involve a ball, big or small, was like asking the Pope to move out of the Vatican and into a one-bedroom walkup.

  He scratched his head, wincing when he hit the lump with his fingers. “I think I did…is that something I’d do?”

  Hah! “Let’s not worry about what you would or wouldn’t do. Let’s focus on the moment at hand.”

  “Right. And the focus is on going home with you.” Crosby, as an amnesiac, was handing out smiles like they were Halloween candy. He grinned yet again. That was more than two times in less than fifteen minutes and, on the whole, probably more than he’d grinned in the last six months.

  But she maintained the effort to divert him and winked. “You’re in luck, too. I have a spare bedroom. It’s a little lavender for such a manly man, but the mint-green ruffles on the bedspread are very tasteful. Promise.”

  His groan rang in her ears when she tossed his T-shirt to him and shut the bathroom door behind her.

  Ella took a shaky breath before turning to grab her purse from the lone chair in his hospital room. She hadn’t seen Crosby in nearly three months. Seeing him now, like this, was a sharp pain in her heart she could have done without.

  As an amnesiac, he was more like the Crosby she’d fallen in love with years ago. Quick to smile, easygoing and funny.

  The Crosby she’d left three months ago had made the words “uncommunicative and sulky” seem light and frolicky.

  And she didn’t want to learn to like Crosby the Amnesiac, because Crosby the Asshat was sure to reappear when his memory returned.

  Boo-hiss.

  Then he’d surely remember she’d called him a stupidhead. But that had only been after she’d thrown all his things out the door of their house and into their small koi pond, and just before she’d set his favorite set of golf clubs on fire—bag and all.

  Like a big, four-alarm kind of fire. Impressive and blazingly colorful, with lots of blues and greens.

  Pressing her cheek to the cool hospital room wall, Ella fought for another breath and sent up a silent prayer she’d navigate this pack demand unscathed.

  But then she smiled.

  If not, she’d just set his shit on fire again.

  It really had been an awesome fire.

  * * * *

  “Ella?”

  She’d been pondering her new circumstances while Crosby changed and freshened up when a familiar voice roused her. Without turning around, she responded, “Morton.” She didn’t need to ask why her pack elder and friend was skulking in the shadows of Crosby’s room. The pack wanted answers. They’d sent him to find out if she’d gotten any.

  Morton placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm. “How’s Crosby?”

  She shrugged him off, pivoting on her booted heel to gaze up into his sweet moon-shaped face. “Oh, I dunno, Mort. He has amnesia. He doesn’t know who he is, much less who I am. He’s got a lump the size of a basketball on his fat head and he’s just been told he’s a werewolf. How do you suppose he is?”

  Morton leaned into her, his eyes warm, his words hushed to keep Crosby from hearing them. “Save your pissed off for the people you should be pissed off with. I told the pack they shouldn’t drag you into this. We could have found someone else to look after him while he recuperates. I was unequivocally shot down. But you could have said no.”

  Her shoulders slumped in regret. Morton was right. It wasn’t his fault. “Sorry. This whole thing has me on edge. Do you have any idea how utterly screwed up it is to have Crosby look at me with anything other than bulging-eyed rage? I’m a little disturbed by it.”

  Morton’s gray gaze softened. “It’s a little like starting over again. Isn’t it romantic?”

  Ella flipped him the bird before she could stop herself, catching a glimpse of her now ring-less finger. “The. Hell. There’ll be no starting anything, over or otherwise, Morton. So if that’s the pack’s hope by asking me to do this, they can blow me. The second Crosby remembers who I am, shit will surely fly. I can promise you that, and it’ll be loud, loud shit. I’m doing my duty to the pack because for the most part, they’ve let me be lately, and they said if I did this they’d return the favor by letting me move on.”

  His chuckle was deep and amused, making his barrel chest bounce beneath his suit. “Your duty… So it has nothing to do with the fact that when you heard Crosby was in a coma, you were here in five seconds flat, the hair from your haphazard shift still poking out of your cotton nightgown and pink bunny slippers?”

  She rolled her tongue in her cheek, her eyes shifting to the shiny floor to avoid Morton’s gaze. “The pack—especially Hector, God love his sweet soul—made it sound like he was going to die, for Christ’s sake. Crosby has been in the past, and still can be, a complete and utter douche, but I don’t want him to die because of it. Well, not today anyway. Besides, at the very least, I wanted to punch him in his egomaniacal head one last time before he hit the great beyond. Just so he’d always have something to remember me by. You didn’t think I’d pass up a shot at that, did you?”

  He chucked her under the chin with thick fingers. “You go right ahead and soothe yourself with whatever lie works. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m worried about the close quarters you’ll be in together while Crosby remembers who the hell he is.”

  “Look. The fact is, Crosby needs a babysitter. I’m the logical choice because I know him best, and I am a nurse—or was, until I took a leave of absence. I know how to deal with the potential for flashbacks and nightmares and all the stuff associated with an amnesiac paranormal. If I can help him return to his former arrogant, assaholic ways so the women of the world won’t be out one crusty, overconfident alpha male, I’m down.”

  Mort cocked his silver-dusted head to the left. “You know, Crosby wasn’t the only one involved in that little misunderstanding.”

  Ella’s spine stiffened at the memory. “I wasn’t the one who classified it as a ‘misunderstanding’. He was. I personally classified it as bullshit. So moving on. Forget about the close-quarters thing. Forget about the fact that Crosby Nash is a jerk like no other. Let’s just focus on getting his memory back so he can remember whatever it is the pack so desperately needs to know.” She whipped a hand up, palm forward. “And no. I don’t want to know what pack business he’s got locked up tighter than Fort Knox in his head. It’s probably the longitude and latitude of Jimmy Hoffa’s resting place.”

  Morton chuckled with that deep, indulgent warmth she was so familiar with. “Just remember I warned you this wasn’t a good idea. You’ll only be dredging up your own painful memories right along with his. You know; the ones you clearly like better left buried?”

  Ella’s lips thinned and her head pounded out a beat she could dance to. “If doing this means the pack will grant me this one last wish, then I’m all in.”

  “This magical thing you call a pack grants wishes?” Crosby asked, poking his head out of the bathroom door before strutting to stand beside her, tall, muscled and lean. “Badass… So how do I get in on that gig, and what do you want the pack to grant you?”

  A guarantee there’d be no jail time for Crosby-slaughter?

  “The chance to spend every spare moment I have with you,” she said sweetly then shot Morton a gla
re to quiet his blustering cough. “C’mon, Forgetful One. Group therapy awaits.” Ella pointed to the door and Crosby obediently loped out.

  Mort grabbed her by the arm just as she was about to follow suit. His face had concern written into the wrinkles of his forehead and etched in his warm, sympathetic gaze. “I don’t like this, Ella. I’m worried you’ll kill Crosby before he has the chance to get his memory back. Or that you’ll end up hurt again. Why did you agree to this?”

  Ella shook her head. “Because Max and Brock asked me to, Mort—because the pack needs me and they’ve always been there for me. You know how strongly they feel about the whole life mate deal and working things out, and yet, they didn’t pressure me to do this. They just asked.”

  “They shouldn’t have asked,” he responded with a narrowed gaze.

  She loved Max and his entire family. She loved that Cedar Glen was full of misfits who’d have nowhere to go if not for the Adams family. Their history was rich and full of peril, but they’d all survived by sticking together.

  The least she could do was help when it was needed—even if she didn’t understand what she was helping with. It was all so mysterious, filled with whispers and frowns. But both Max and his father Brock had been through far worse than dealing with an amnesiac werewolf. She could handle this. She would handle this.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Morton. I promise.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’ll worry less, Ella.”

  She shrugged, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “I’m going to be fine—I’m doing this for a reason, Mort, and one reason only. The pack and I have an agreement. Besides, I’ve already begun to move on. Nothing Crosby does will change that.”

  “By moving on, do you mean your little Twitter romance?”

  It wasn’t little. It was just in the early stages. Though it had cooled a bit this week because her Twitter hottie had informed her he’d be away on a business trip with spotty Internet. “How do you know about my Twitter page?”

  “You asked me to follow you, silly.”

  Her grin was sheepish. “I only had three followers. I needed an even number or my OCD kicks in.”

  Morton chuckled, pulling her into a tight hug. “I see all that flirting you’re doing with Hairofthedog.”

  Ella grinned, her cheeks going hot. Yeah, thank God for the Twitter app for paranormals—it came in very handy when a paranormal wanted to filter out humans.

  Morton looked down at her phone. “You don’t know a lot about him. How could you, in one hundred forty characters or less? Yet I can almost hear your girlish giggles when he tweets you.”

  Ella blushed then frowned, tugging on the ends of her jacket. “Well, I knew plenty about Crosby, and look how that turned out? Our relationship was like Chernobyl and the Titanic mated and had evil twins. I figure it’s time to be less cautious and have some fun. My Twitter romance, as you call it, is fun.” And noncommittal. And, if she wished, easy to turn off with the click of her mouse. “And it’s not a romance,” she reminded. “It’s just a flirtation as it stands right now. You know, dipping my toes into the shallow end of the single pool to see if the water’s fine.”

  Pressing a kiss to her forehead, Morton chucked her under the chin once more. “I’m just asking you to be careful—on both the Crosby and the flirty-Twitter fronts.”

  Patting him on the back, Ella smiled, forcing her pending fears about Crosby coming home with her to STFU.

  She was taking one for the team because, if she did as they asked, the pack was going to give her what she needed to end this once and for all.

  Then she could Twitterpate to her heart’s desire.

  Because she’d be free and easy down whatever road she chose.

  And divorced—not a simple feat within all those pack rules.

  Her stomach clenched as she left to find Crosby while she forced herself to summon up the memories of the Crosby of old. Cranky, stressed-out and uncommunicative.

  That Crosby was going to be the end game after he recovered.

  She’d do well to keep that in mind.

  Chapter 2

  “Blood,” the pale, dark-haired man in the center of the Safe-Share Circle began on a shiver, his robust body shuddering with the ripple of his belly’s flesh, “makes me feel faint. I can’t even look at it. How am I supposed to live for an eternity if I can’t drink what keeps me alive?”

  “Technically you’re not alive, Bernie,” Dr. Ellicott, a rare mixed species of vampire and werewolf, pointed out, calm and serene.

  The scrape of chair legs resounded in Ella’s ears, alerting her to trouble.

  “Yeah. And you blow chunks as a vampire, Bernie! I swear to God, one more session with the whine about sparkling in the sunlight and I’m takin’ you on your own personal Jesus trip,” a group member who was struggling with ogre anger management warned with a stubby finger, his enormous body full of palpable tension.

  Dr. Ellicott whipped a warning paddle upward—the word “Caution” in bold black letters on a red background—making a whizzing noise of air. “Giuseppe,” he admonished, his sharp yet kind gaze darting in the ogre’s direction. “Everyone should feel safe when we’re in the circle. That includes Bernie. If you need to step outside the circle and go to the Contemplation Corner to direct your rage toward the punching bag, that’s certainly acceptable. However, I will warn you, pillaging the nurses’ station ever again while bellowing, ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of Nurse No-Fun’ is absolutely unacceptable, and will bring with it solitary repercussions.”

  Giuseppe grunted his displeasure, shrinking his at-least-seven-foot body down in his chair. “I’m just saying, not everything’s always about stupid Bernie. We all have problems, and if I don’t get a grip on my anger, I can’t go back home to my farm, and I really want to go—home!” he shouted, stomping his foot, making the floor quake beneath their feet. “I can’t get better if we don’t stop letting Bernie and his fear of blood be the center of attention at every dumb session we have,” he huffed, crossing his massive arms over his chest and planting a pout on his wrinkled ogre face.

  Crosby leaned into her during the disruption, the scent of the shower he’d taken with institutional soap wafting beneath her sensitive nostrils. His bare arm, sprinkled with dark hair, brushed hers. “There are ogres here,” he whispered, his tone laced with obvious awe. “This—this—is all kinds of awesome.”

  All kinds. Ella forced herself to remain still and ignore his boyish glee. “You’re up next. So prepare to share how frustrating it is to not remember who you are.”

  “I’d rather share how frustrating it is to sit so close to you and smell your perfume. I can smell everything. Everything. It’s niiiice.” He sniffed her to make his point and grinned, sprouting deep grooves on either side of his mouth.

  Ella lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with stern nurse eyes. “Would you like to also share with the group how frustrating it is when a woman kicks your butt because you can’t behave and show some courtesy to your fellow group members?”

  “How did I luck out and get the thug babysitter?”

  “Thugs R Us had an overstock sale. I was part of a twofer deal. The other thug was sent on a much more exciting thug mission, I hear. I knew I should have chosen scissors instead of paper. I could be in an opium den right now with a big, big gun. Instead, I’m in werewolf therapy with an amnesiac.”

  Crosby’s grin widened rather than waned when she chastised him. “You have a great sense of humor. I like. It’s pretty hot.”

  “You have amnesia, which I’m sure you don’t like. In fact, I’d bet it’s not so hot, either.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Yeah. Shitty, that. Hey. Who’s Hairofthedog?” He pointed to her cell phone and the tweets she’d been scrolling to see if anything new had come in from her budding Twitter wooer.

  How awkward to be looking at old tweets from your potential Twitter-fair while your soon-to-be ex-mate looked over your shoulder but had no clue he was looking at his
possible successor. “My OBGYN.”

  “Your gynecologist’s Twitter user ID is Hairofthedog? Worse, you actually tweet your gynecologist?”

  “You actually know what tweeting is?”

  His mouth fell open in a perfect O of adorable confusion she had to look away from for the adorableness of it. “I guess I do.”

  Dr. Ellicott’s voice thwarted further conversation when he called Crosby’s name. “Crosby Nash?”

  Ella watched him closely for any response to his name, but he was slow to realize the doctor meant him. She nudged him with an elbow, waving a finger in the direction of the doctor. “That’s you, werewolf.”

  Crosby instantly straightened in his chair, raising his eyes. “Um, yes. That’d be me—I think. I mean, that’s what they tell me. Everyone else seems to agree—so I’m going with the popular vote. Yes. I’m Crosby Nash.”

  Ella fought a giggle, sliding down in her chair to check her Twitter account once more for any sign of Hairofthedog. She needed a diversion from this uncomplicated, happy-go-lucky Crosby. He was too much like the man she’d once fallen in love with, and instead of all the renewed boyish charm he was oozing grating her last nerve, it was giving her that butterfly effect in the pit of her belly.

  Much like the ones she’d experienced when Hairofthedog had first tweeted her just a couple of weeks ago. Giggly, stupid, giddy, girlie butterflies.

  Note to self. Buy sledgehammer and beat those Crosby butterfly bitches down.

  * * * *

  Precisely one week later, Ella gasped for breath, clinging to the edge of her kitchen sink as she bit the inside of her cheek.

  She’d been quietly finishing the dishes from dinner, when out of nowhere, Crosby had looped an around her waist and hauled her close, molding her body to his every sharply defined muscle, and laid one on her.