Kiss Your Prince Charming. Jennifer Greene

You’ll probably have to beat the women off with a stick.”

      “Not that. Not a fate worse than death. And how come I had to reach the vast age of thirty-two before I heard this interesting fact of life? Maybe you’d better explain some more about that biker fantasy—”

      There was a hint of devil in his eyes, enough to make her chuckle. “Forget it. Women only tell those fantasies on a need-to-know basis. And you don’t need to know anything else from me—particularly since I couldn’t care less what you look like one way or another—but now you’ve got me thinking about this. Hey. You get a whole new face out of this deal? Where do I sign up?”

      “Sheesh. Bite your tongue. You’re cuter than Meg Ryan now. No way you ever need to touch that face.”

      “If you feel good enough to flirt, you can’t be too bad off, Stoner. But we have to get serious, because any second now some nurse is bound to walk in and kick me out. I’m trying to think of what you need done.” Rachel foraged in her purse for her checkbook—since she didn’t have a pad of paper—and a pen. “All right. Now you know I have a key to your house, so I can do the obvious stuff—close the windows, take care of perishables in the fridge, get your mail—”

      “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

      “Don’t be a goose. Look at all the stuff you did for me over the last two years.” She ripped off a deposit slip, clicked on her pen and started to make a to-do list.

      “Yeah, well, you didn’t know a screwdriver from a hammer two years ago. But...if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate your calling my work. Monica.”

      Monica Kaufman was the CEO where Greg worked as a comptroller, Rachel already knew. “Sure thing. And how about your parents? I don’t know if you can make a long-distance call from a hospital room like this. You want me to call them?”

      His eyes closed, as if he’d suddenly dropped off, just like that. But then he spoke again. “No. I need to contact them, if only so they know where I am. But they’re both getting older, and I don’t want to give them a shock or a scare if I don’t have to. I’ll find a way to call them myself—but not until I know from the docs exactly what’s going to happen.”

      He still hadn’t opened his eyes. She hesitated. “Greg, I don’t want to stay, even another minute, if there’s any chance you could fall asleep and really rest—”

      “I’m not sleeping. It’s just the drugs. I seem to keep zoning out and then somehow my mind starts replaying the accident....”

      “You want to talk about it, get it off your chest?”

      Outside the door, carts wheeled by, nurses called, the loudspeakers kept snapping out codes. But inside Greg’s room it was another world, a quiet, private world that only included the two of them. Their fingers had been loosely threaded together, but now his grip tightened until the heat of his palm nested in the heart-bed of hers. “I was in the old MG, not the Volvo. On I-94 in the middle lane, just driving back to work after lunch. That’s all. Nothing weird. Only this truck ahead suddenly blew a front tire and he was swerving everywhere, all over the road.. and so was everyone behind him, trying to clear out of his way. I was the peanut butter between a Cadillac and an Explorer. My MG squished like a pancake. Lucky.”

      He wasn’t through talking, but his voice was losing power, sounding increasingly syrup-thick and slow. She leaned forward, clasping his hand more snugly. She’d never held hands with Greg—there’d never been even a teensy problem with male-female chemistry between them—and she felt embarrassed at her sudden awareness of his big fingers and maleness and the electric feeling of connection. Naturally, though, her emotions were nerves-sharpened. He was painfully describing how lucky he was to even be alive.

      “Three other cars were in the same smash-up. At least nobody was killed. Took the Jaws of Life to get two of us out of our cars. I don’t even know where all the glass came from. The back of the one truck, maybe. But it was the glass that cut up my face—could have my eyes so easily. And I kept hearing this little girl—she was crying. Rach? Will you find out how she is for me?”

      “I’ll ask, Greg. I promise.”

      “She was crying so hard, I told myself she had to be okay. I mean, nobody could bawl that loud if they weren’t basically pretty strong. But find out, okay? She was so little.”

      It was so typical of Stoner, worrying about others. “I’ll get an answer. But in the meantime, I think I should leave and you should rest. Only, before I come back tomorrow, can you think of some things you need me to bring? I assume you want your own toothbrush, but I don’t know if you can use one if your jaw’s all wired up—”

      “Believe me, I’ll find a way to use one. If I can’t brush my teeth, I’d have to commit hara-kiri. So yeah, I really would appreciate that.”

      “And you probably want your own pajamas—”

      “Um, Rach. I don’t do pajamas.”

      “Oh. Well.” She could feel a flush blooming on her cheeks and wanted to kick herself. At twenty-nine years old—and having been both married and divorced—it was downright ridiculous to fluster up at the idea of a man sleeping naked. Particularly when Greg was just a friend. “Well, with all those bandages on your face, I don’t think you’ll be needing a razor for a while. I’ll bring some books and magazines, but there must be something else I can do.” Abruptly she snapped her fingers. “I know what.”

      “What?”

      “Your sacred lawn. All life would end if it didn’t get mowed by Saturday, wouldn’t it? So I’ll get your grass cut. I won’t manicure it like you do, but consider this is an offer I wouldn’t make to even Mel Gibson. Even Brad Pitt. We’re talking a true test of how much I love you, neighbor. Now...what else could be worrying you?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Well, something else may cross your mind, but I’ll come back and visit tomorrow after work. You can make a list if you think of anything else.”

      His hand clutched hers just for a second longer, and then loosened. “Rach—thanks for coming.”

      “No sweat.” But once she stood up, Rachel couldn’t just leave. He looked so alone in that bed, so isolated behind the wall of bandages. And though he had dozens of friends, right then she felt like the only family he had. There was simply no way that she could walk out of that room without expressing support and caring in some concrete, physical way.

      So she bent down, but finding a spot to kiss him was almost a humorous challenge. His face and brow—and really, most of his head—were wrapped in white gauze. The only uncovered spot was his mouth.

      His lips were naked, warm, soft. She snapped her head back up. Instantly. Not because she suddenly, inappropriately, felt her pulse buck and bolt—but because all she intended was a kiss lighter than the stroke of silk. Anything else risked hurting him. Anything else risked...well, this was Greg. Not just a good man, but a true hero of a friend. Rach would die if he misunderstood any gesture from her.

      “All right, you,” she said firmly. “I’m outa here. But I want you to behave yourself until I come back tomorrow—no seducing the nurses, no playing football in the hall, no wild drinking parties, you hear me? And I’ll be in tomorrow right after work.”

      She made it outside in the hall, out of Greg’s sight, before abandoning the cheerful smile and leaning weakly, sickly, against the wall. God. All those tubes. All those bandages. Sure, it could have been worse, but there was no question in her aching heart that he was lucky to be alive.

      Without talking to a doctor, she had no idea what his prognosis really was. Or what be had to face ahead. The only thing Rachel felt sure of was fiercely wanting to be there for him.

      Whatever it took to get him on his feet again, she was more than willing to do.

      Two

      “And