I expect the hotel alarm clock, not soft soothing fingers caressing my face and hairline. A bone chilling cold creeps along the sensitive skin of my cheekbone. My eyelids flicker open and gaze into sleepy, half-hooded, azure eyes. His features are different under the muted glow of the bedside lamp, more comforting, less intense. I could get used to seeing these bedroom eyes. He holds an icepack against my swollen cheek. The icy chill sends shivers through me. “Gillian, what’s my name?” he asks in a hushed voice. “Chase,” I say groggily. The pain medication makes my tongue feel thick and swollen. “Here, Baby, take these.” He puts two small white pills on the tip of my tongue and hands me a glass of water. When did he start calling me, Baby? “The doctor said it will help with the swelling and the pain from your stitches.” I swallow the pills and lay back down. He sets the glass down, brings the covers back up to my chin and puts the icepack on the bedside table. His gaze clocks every inch of my face, a mercurial look fastened to his features.
