jawline; the kind of masculine good
looks that might give Rhett Butler or Heathcliff a run for their money.
When he offered Darcy a smile, the skin around his eyes crinkled ever so slightly, and the light tan of his weathered-looking skin suggested time spent in the sun, or outside. He ran a quick
hand through the thick mop of hair and Darcy felt overcome by a desire to do the same.
To his hair, not her own.
She willed her hands to stay at their sides. How anyone could look so handsome and regal lying flat in a hospital gown and covered in white sheets was a mystery, and feeling unsettled by his
attractiveness, she snapped to in case it was obvious that she was ogling him. Not that she was an ogler. But rarely was she struck in a way that she would feel lost for words.
Darcy, who lived her life through words, suddenly had nothing to say. Aidan Harris looked a bit worried and she guessed he was probably wondering if she wasn’t just a little slow or
dim-witted. She felt a blush creeping up her neck and looked quickly at the ground; almost as bashful as she had been yesterday morning when Mr Darcy had populated her dreams, reminding herself
that this wasn’t Regency England and that Elizabeth Bennet would be frustrated by her tied tongue. Shrinking violet types in the twenty-first century were
so
not cool.
Clearing her throat, she said in her best Chaucer’s customer service voice, ‘Hello, Mr Harris. ‘I hope you’re feeling better after your accident.’
‘Not really,’ he replied simply, and there was a world of frustration behind those two words. Darcy once again felt desperately guilty for running him over and figured that if he
wasn’t aware of this before now, it possibly wasn’t the best time to reveal it. His voice was deep and gruff – surprising; she had expected someone a little more . . . refined.
And yet, she yearned to hear him speak again. ‘You told Reception you have my dog?’
This time she noticed the slight hint of an accent behind his words – an Irish accent perhaps? His name certainly suggested as much. Yet it was just that: a trace of a lilt beneath a
decidedly more recognisable New York twang. Darcy suspected that while Aidan Harris might well have been Irish by birth, he was an immigrant and had likely spent many years here in the city.
‘Bailey?’ she smiled. ‘Yes, he’s fine. My neighbour’s taking care of him at the moment. He’s a great dog. Really well behaved, and so intelligent.’
‘Bailey . . .’ Harris nodded absently, as if hearing the name for the first time.
‘Does the name mean something to you, Aidan?’ Dr Mandeville enquired. ‘Can you picture the dog in your mind, what he looks like, how long you’ve had him, where you were
walking him yesterday morning? Is there anything at all you can remember about him?’
As the doctor fired questions at him, the man gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles white with frustration.
Darcy’s heart went out to him, horrified that she had been the cause of all this.
‘No, the name doesn’t mean anything to me,’ he replied, his tone fraught with exasperation. ‘Like I said before, all I can remember is something about a dog – a
sort of grey dog that looks a bit like a wolf.’
‘That’s right; he’s a Husky,’ Darcy confirmed, somewhat relieved that he was remembering
something
at least. No doubt he’d piece together the rest once he
and Bailey were reunited, but of course as she already knew, dogs weren’t allowed in the hospital. She didn’t know how long Bailey’s owner would be here, but she supposed she
could always take a snapshot of him on her cell phone and show it to him.
Aidan Harris closed his eyes. ‘I can picture a dog in my mind, but that’s all; why the bloody hell can’t I remember anything else?’ He slammed an angry fist into the
mattress.
‘OK, Aidan, let’s not force things too much just yet. Why don’t you chat to Ms Archer about your dog for a little
looks that might give Rhett Butler or Heathcliff a run for their money.
When he offered Darcy a smile, the skin around his eyes crinkled ever so slightly, and the light tan of his weathered-looking skin suggested time spent in the sun, or outside. He ran a quick
hand through the thick mop of hair and Darcy felt overcome by a desire to do the same.
To his hair, not her own.
She willed her hands to stay at their sides. How anyone could look so handsome and regal lying flat in a hospital gown and covered in white sheets was a mystery, and feeling unsettled by his
attractiveness, she snapped to in case it was obvious that she was ogling him. Not that she was an ogler. But rarely was she struck in a way that she would feel lost for words.
Darcy, who lived her life through words, suddenly had nothing to say. Aidan Harris looked a bit worried and she guessed he was probably wondering if she wasn’t just a little slow or
dim-witted. She felt a blush creeping up her neck and looked quickly at the ground; almost as bashful as she had been yesterday morning when Mr Darcy had populated her dreams, reminding herself
that this wasn’t Regency England and that Elizabeth Bennet would be frustrated by her tied tongue. Shrinking violet types in the twenty-first century were
so
not cool.
Clearing her throat, she said in her best Chaucer’s customer service voice, ‘Hello, Mr Harris. ‘I hope you’re feeling better after your accident.’
‘Not really,’ he replied simply, and there was a world of frustration behind those two words. Darcy once again felt desperately guilty for running him over and figured that if he
wasn’t aware of this before now, it possibly wasn’t the best time to reveal it. His voice was deep and gruff – surprising; she had expected someone a little more . . . refined.
And yet, she yearned to hear him speak again. ‘You told Reception you have my dog?’
This time she noticed the slight hint of an accent behind his words – an Irish accent perhaps? His name certainly suggested as much. Yet it was just that: a trace of a lilt beneath a
decidedly more recognisable New York twang. Darcy suspected that while Aidan Harris might well have been Irish by birth, he was an immigrant and had likely spent many years here in the city.
‘Bailey?’ she smiled. ‘Yes, he’s fine. My neighbour’s taking care of him at the moment. He’s a great dog. Really well behaved, and so intelligent.’
‘Bailey . . .’ Harris nodded absently, as if hearing the name for the first time.
‘Does the name mean something to you, Aidan?’ Dr Mandeville enquired. ‘Can you picture the dog in your mind, what he looks like, how long you’ve had him, where you were
walking him yesterday morning? Is there anything at all you can remember about him?’
As the doctor fired questions at him, the man gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles white with frustration.
Darcy’s heart went out to him, horrified that she had been the cause of all this.
‘No, the name doesn’t mean anything to me,’ he replied, his tone fraught with exasperation. ‘Like I said before, all I can remember is something about a dog – a
sort of grey dog that looks a bit like a wolf.’
‘That’s right; he’s a Husky,’ Darcy confirmed, somewhat relieved that he was remembering
something
at least. No doubt he’d piece together the rest once he
and Bailey were reunited, but of course as she already knew, dogs weren’t allowed in the hospital. She didn’t know how long Bailey’s owner would be here, but she supposed she
could always take a snapshot of him on her cell phone and show it to him.
Aidan Harris closed his eyes. ‘I can picture a dog in my mind, but that’s all; why the bloody hell can’t I remember anything else?’ He slammed an angry fist into the
mattress.
‘OK, Aidan, let’s not force things too much just yet. Why don’t you chat to Ms Archer about your dog for a little
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