The VIP wing of Lenox Hill Hospital smelled less like antiseptic and more like lavender and money. Imogen walked into Room 402, smoothing down the scrubs she had borrowed from the locker room.
"Who's there?" A sharp, imperious voice snapped from the bed.
Beatrice Fuller sat propped up against a mountain of pillows. Her eyes were bandaged. She looked small, frail, and incredibly angry.
"I'm Imogen," she said softly. "I'm your night nurse."
"I don't want a nurse. I want a scotch. And I want my grandson to answer his damn phone."
Imogen checked the chart. "No scotch, Mrs. Fuller. But I can get you tea."
"I hate tea. It tastes like dishwater."
Imogen smiled. She liked this woman already. She had fire.
"How about I make you a deal?" Imogen walked closer. "I'll read to you. If you don't like my voice, I'll leave and get you the tea. If you like it, you eat your dinner."
Beatrice huffed. "What are you reading?"
"Architectural Digest?" Imogen offered, pulling a magazine from the waiting room stack.
Beatrice paused. "Fine. Read me the article on the brutalist revival."
Imogen read. Her voice was calm, melodic. She described the photos Beatrice couldn't see, adding her own commentary on the use of light and concrete.
Beatrice listened, her scowl slowly softening.
"You know about buildings," Beatrice said after an hour.
"I... I study them. A little."
"You have a good eye. I can tell by how you describe the lines." Beatrice shifted. "My grandson builds things. Big, ugly glass things. No soul."
"Maybe he just needs the right inspiration," Imogen said, thinking of her own sketches.
"He needs a wife," Beatrice grumbled. "He's well past thirty and married to his laptop. I told him if he doesn't bring a girl to see me before my surgery next week, I'm writing him out of the will."
Imogen laughed. "You sound like my mother. Except she wants to sell me, not marry me off."
Beatrice turned her head toward the sound of Imogen's voice. "Parents can be fools, my dear. You sound like you've had it rough."
"I'm managing."
"Come here," Beatrice patted the bed. "Sit. Tell me about this boy you're managing with."
Imogen hesitated, then sat. She found herself talking about Gael-the "IT guy." She talked about how he defended her in the coffee shop. How he had kind eyes behind those glasses.
"He sounds... adequate," Beatrice sniffed. "But does he have money?"
"No," Imogen said. "And that's the best part. He's just... normal."
Beatrice made a noncommittal noise. "Normal is overrated."
By midnight, Beatrice was asleep. Imogen curled up in the chair beside the bed, pulling a thin blanket over herself. She watched the rhythm of the old woman's breathing. It was peaceful here. For the first time in days, she felt safe.
She drifted off.
She woke to the sound of the door opening.
"Grandma?" A deep, familiar voice whispered.
Imogen sat up, blinking in the dim light. A tall figure stood in the doorway. He was wearing a suit now, tie loosened, jacket over his arm.
He stepped into the light.
It was Gael.
He wasn't wearing his glasses. And he wasn't wearing a hoodie. He looked... expensive.
Imogen gasped. "Gael?"
Gael froze. He looked at Imogen, curled up in the chair in scrubs. He looked at his grandmother sleeping in the bed.
His eyes went wide. The color drained from his face.
"Imogen?" he hissed. "What are you doing here?"
"I work here! I told you!" She stood up, confused. "What are you doing here? How did you get past security?"
"I..." Gael looked at Beatrice.
"Gael?" Beatrice stirred, waking up. "Is that you?"
"Yes, Grandma," Gael said, his voice strained.
"Grandma?" Imogen whispered, her mouth falling open. She looked from Gael to Beatrice. "She's your... but you said..."
"Who is that with you?" Beatrice asked, sitting up. "Is that the nurse? Imogen?"
Gael's mind raced. This was a disaster. Or...
He looked at Imogen. She was staring at him with betrayal dawning in her eyes. She was about to blow his cover. She was about to tell Beatrice he was an IT guy who lived in Queens.
He crossed the room in two strides. He grabbed Imogen's hand and pulled her to his side, squeezing her fingers in a silent plea.
"Grandma," Gael said, his voice steadying. "I brought someone to meet you."
Beatrice tilted her head. "Who?"
"This isn't just the nurse," Gael said. He looked down at Imogen, his eyes begging her to play along. "This is Imogen. My fiancée."
