The weather had cooled considerably over the last couple of days, thank goodness. Maybe fall had finally set in. I slipped out the front gates and crossed the road, then ducked down a flight of stone steps partially hidden by an overgrown bush. The steps led to the beach. I’d discovered them a couple of weeks ago when Upton had pissed me off and I’d needed to cool down before I throttled him. In front of him, I maintained a cool persona. To act any other way would hand victory to him, and Hell would freeze over first. But my ability to stay calm under pressure didn’t mean I was a robot. I just refused to give Upton the satisfaction of knowing he’d annoyed me. He’d revel in that, and I’d deny him the chance to do so if it was the last thing I did.
Apart from a few surfers riding the white-topped waves, the beach was fairly quiet. I unclipped Bandit’s lead, and he took off running. A whistle brought him scurrying back to my side, and I smiled, gave him a treat, then set him on his way again. I’d wanted to test his recall, and from what I could see, Upton’s training sessions were working. Not that he ever walked Bandit outside of the grounds of his house. As soon as he recovered from this operation, I’d make getting Upton to leave his house more often my next goal. He was a young man with decades ahead of him. He couldn’t spend his life locked behind the walls of his home, no matter how big or luxurious it was. I’d promised Sebastian I’d do my best to help him, and now that he’d given up trying to force me to quit, it was time to move on to the next phase of his recuperation—whether he wanted to or not.
I stayed out about an hour, but when Bandit lay on the sand and refused to budge, I got the message. Luckily, he was only small and light, and easily fit into the crook of my arm. The second I put him down when we returned to Upton’s place, he meandered toward Upton’s office—his other favorite hideaway. He liked to sleep beneath the desk, and Upton—despite his ‘I don’t care about the damn dog’ pretense—had purchased another dog bed and placed it there for him so he’d be comfortable.
The kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread, but there was no sign of Barbara. My stomach grumbled, and I made a quick sandwich and took it outside to eat in the shade.
I didn’t like being in this house without Upton.
It didn’t feel right.
I put my plate in the dishwasher and wandered upstairs. My room was on the same level as Upton’s, just a few doors down, but as I passed by his bedroom, I poked my head around the door and then, without permission, my legs took me inside. The memory of the last time I’d entered this room uninvited came flooding back. The sight of Upton’s scarred back, the flash of anger in his eyes when he’d caught sight of me, the way he’d thrown the lamp, narrowly missing my head. A normal person might’ve run at that point, but he and I… we were connected by our joint pain. He had no clue—because I hadn’t shared my guilt with him—but I knew. Complete strangers but such similar painful, life-changing experiences.
It helped me connect to him in a way those other ‘companions’ couldn’t have hoped to. It guided me when he was being particularly difficult because I could empathize.
I sat on the edge of his bed, and then I lay down, my head on his pillow, breathing in his masculine scent. Fifteen months ago, my life had ended, but applying for this job had kick-started my heart into beating again.
Into hoping again.
I’d seen flickers of the same hope in Upton, more so over the last couple of weeks. The kiss we’d shared three days ago, one I’d reciprocated this time, had meant something. He might have avoided me for the rest of that day and taken himself off to the hospital before I arrived the following morning, but he didn’t fool me.
He’d started off treating me with disdain and antipathy.
Then he’d tried silence.
Followed by anger.
Was the next step acceptance that we were both ready to move on with our lives? To forget the past and embrace the future?
Only time would tell.
“Can you drive?” Upton’s gruff voice came down the line.
“Yes,” I said. “What do you need?”
He paused, then let out a long, resigned sigh. “Apparently the drugs they’ve given me for the discomfort means I’m not allowed to get behind the wheel for another twenty-four hours. Can you jump in a cab, come to the hospital, and then drive me home in my car?”
My heart pinched at the despair in his tone. He didn’t want to ask for my help, or anyone else’s. It had cost him dearly to reach out for support.
Damn frustrating, stubborn male.
“I’m on my way.”
The cab driver dropped me off outside the main entrance to the hospital, and I paid him and jumped out. I looked around, searching for Upton. No sign. He must have decided to wait inside, avoiding the midday sun.
I entered through a set of sliding doors, immediately spotting him standing with his shoulder against the wall next to a huge potted plant. He straightened as I approached, but when he took a step, he winced and hissed through his teeth.
“Didn’t they give you any painkillers to take home with you?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Have you taken them?”
“No.”
“Upton,” I chastised.
“Here are the keys,” he said, handing them over. “Car’s parked in the lot across the street. Fourth row back, about halfway down. It’s the SUV we went to the vet’s appointment in, so you should recognize it.”
I could have started an argument right there, but it was more important to get him home and settled, and then I’d force the damn painkillers down his throat whether he wanted to take them or not.
By the time I arrived in his car, he’d made his way outside. I jumped out and opened the door, but as I tried to help him get in, he growled at me.
“Stop fucking fussing.”
“Suit yourself.”
Men. Stubborn assholes, the bunch of them. Zak had been the same, wanting to do everything himself, despite the pain it’d caused.
Upton struggled to fasten his seat belt. On his third attempt, he finally shot me an irritated glare. I suppressed a grin, clipped it into place, and put the car in drive. He stared out the window the entire journey home, the only sound an odd hiss whenever the car hit a bump in the road, followed by my mumbled apology, which he didn’t respond to.
When we arrived at his house, I stopped the car as close to the entrance as I could get and cut the engine, then ran around to his side to open his door. He climbed out, his face creased in pain.
“Does it hurt very much?” I asked.
“No, Izabelle. It’s like being kissed by butterflies,” he replied sarcastically.
“Jackass,” I muttered, heading inside with him trailing behind.
Bandit must have smelled his owner because he came skidding over the marble floor at a hundred miles an hour, yipping and jumping up at Upton the second he stepped one foot inside the house. Upton tried to bend down to pet him but couldn’t quite manage it. I scooped Bandit into my arms and held him up so he could say hello properly. There were those who thought the idea of smiling dogs was fantasyland, but anyone who saw Bandit’s face when Upton scratched behind his ear and said a few words couldn’t help being converted.
“Can you keep him with you for a while?” Upton asked. “I’m going upstairs to rest.”
“Sure,” I said.
As Upton walked away, Bandit started barking and struggled to escape from my arms. I had to hold on tight, my throat thick with emotion while Upton painfully, one very slow stair at a time, went upstairs. By now, Barbara had joined me, but when I made a move to try to help him, she stopped me, shaking her head.
“Leave him,” she said. “He won’t thank you. Trust me on that.”
12
Upton
“How are you feeling today?”
Izabelle breezed in carrying a tray. She set it on my nightstand then floated across the thick carpeting of my bedroom to fling open the heavy drapes. I blinked, my retinas protesting at
the brilliant sunlight.
“Fuck’s sake, are you trying to blind me?” I grabbed a spare pillow and slammed it over my face, sinking me back into darkness.
“I see your mood hasn’t improved since yesterday.”
Her voice was muffled, but I heard her tone well enough. It reeked of tolerance to my exasperation, which only served to increase my irritation further. The woman had the patience of a fucking saint. No matter how many times I snapped at her, or railed on her as a way to distract myself from the post-operative pain—and the sheer humiliation of her witnessing my incapacitation—she simply smiled and continued bustling about as if I hadn’t behaved insufferably.
She whipped the pillow off my face and tossed it to one side. “I’ve brought you some breakfast. Do you want me to help you sit up?”
Not fucking likely.
“I’m not helpless, Izabelle.”
I proved that statement completely false when I struggled to shift myself upright without searing pain in my back making me hiss loudly. She made a move to help. I shot her a glare and held up a finger.
“Do not touch me. I can manage.”
She let out a soft sigh but left me to labor on alone while she poured strong-smelling coffee into a cup. I eventually got myself into a semi-upright position, but the effort left me panting as if I’d run up a hill at full tilt. I waited for her to make a comment, and I had a sharp retort ready, but one thing I’d begun to learn about Izabelle was that she often did the opposite of what I expected.
I sank back against the pillows and took the cup of coffee from her outstretched hand. “Thanks,” I muttered, sounding anything but grateful.
“I brought your painkillers, too.”
She held out her palm, two white pills nestling there.
“I’m not taking them.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I don’t like the way they make me feel.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You mean pain free? You’d rather suffer?”
I made a frustrated noise and snatched the damn pills from her hand, washing them down with a mouthful of coffee. “Happy?” I snapped.
“Delighted.”
She shot me a grin. I responded with a growl.
I ate the omelet she’d brought while she sat on the edge of my bed and rabbited on about something and nothing in that uncanny way she had to fill uncomfortable silences. I thought about telling her to shut the fuck up but swallowed the words instead. She didn’t deserve my wrath, no matter how patiently she put up with my snappy attitude. Sure, I was in pain from the operation, and I despised her seeing me in such a vulnerable state, but that didn’t excuse me treating her horribly.
My father once said to me—at a time when he’d bothered to acknowledge I existed—that my prideful attitude was my kryptonite, and I didn’t disagree. But Izabelle wasn’t the hired help. Not any longer. The kiss we’d shared the day before I went into the hospital had shifted the ground on which we stood, changing the dynamics of our relationship. Once I’d fully recovered, I’d make it up to her, somehow.
I handed her my empty plate, and she set it down on the tray, then got to her feet.
“Do you need help getting to the bathroom?” she asked and then, with a quirk to her lips, added, “or maybe I should just bring you a bedpan.”
The growl deep in my chest reminded me of a grizzly bear, but instead of heeding the warning and shifting into retreat, she grinned even wider.
“I’ll take that as a no.” She picked up the tray. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I groused at her retreating back.
I waited until she’d closed the door then gingerly folded back the covers. This wouldn’t be easy, but I’d crawl into the bathroom before I’d accept help from Izabelle. Call me a stubborn ass—it was the truth—but there were occasions when holding on to my pride was far more important than any pain my arrogance caused.
And this was one of them.
Something’s different.
I lay in bed with my eyes closed, trying to figure out what it was.
And then I did.
My back no longer hurt. Three days of painful spasms and finally, I felt almost normal. Exactly as my surgeon promised. I really must send that man a good bottle of single malt.
I climbed out of bed and practiced a stretch. A twinge, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I peeled off the square of gauze over my wound and checked it out in the mirror. Yeah, that looked much better. I scanned the aftercare sheet my surgeon had passed along. Good. I didn’t have to wear a covering any longer.
Flicking on the shower, I quickly washed, dabbed the skin around the dissolvable stitches, and then dressed in a loose T-shirt and jeans. I expected to find Bandit curled up outside my bedroom door, like Izabelle informed me he had every morning, but he wasn’t there. I padded downstairs, gaining more evidence I was well on the mend when nothing hurt, and entered the kitchen, my pulse jolting in anticipation of seeing Izabelle while standing on my own two feet and not in the prostrate position of the last few days.
She wasn’t there, and nor was Bandit. I poked my head outside. Nope, not out by the pool either. Damn. Where was she?
And why was I standing here with disappointment lowering my shoulders?
Somehow over the last few months, Izabelle had wormed her way inside the steel cage I’d built around myself since Jenna’s death and my father’s capitulation to Jenice’s demands that he cut me off at the knees.
I thought back to when I’d woken up in the hospital after the bomb exploded and learned that we’d lost Jenna and his platitudes of giving Jenice time, that she’d come around in the end, that he loved me. Words. Pointless words that he hadn’t followed up with actions. Jenice hadn’t forgiven me, and would never forgive me, and he’d chosen her over his own flesh and blood, his last remaining child.
I didn’t blame Jenice. She had every right to hate me—hell, she couldn’t hate me more than I did myself—but it hurt like a motherfucker that my father found it so easy to cut me out of his life. I hadn’t seen him in more than six months, and I didn’t expect that to change any time soon.
I flicked on the coffee machine and poured cream into a cup while I waited for it to brew. The sound of the front door closing reached me, and I craned my neck, a smile edging across my face as Izabelle came toward me with an over-excited Bandit straining on his lead, anxious to reach me.
“Hey, you’re up.”
I crouched and scooped him into my arms, scratched behind his ears, then set him back on the floor.
“Yeah. Finally, I can look down on you.”
She chuckled. “Glad to see you’ve found your sense of humor at last.”
“Who said I’m joking?”
“Jerk,” she said, edging me out of the way and making us both a coffee.
“I wondered where you were,” I said, my voice low and husky. “When I came downstairs and you weren’t here, I thought I’d finally succeeded in chasing you away, especially given how awful I’ve behaved the last few days.”
She stopped what she was doing and turned to face me. “You should know by now that you can’t get rid of me that easily.”
Reaching out, I clutched a lock of her hair and twisted it around my fingers. “Good.”
She swallowed, and her tongue slid along her bottom lip. “Are you still in pain?”
“No.” I gave her a wry smile. “Maybe a little.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Yeah.” I bent my head. “There is.”
I captured her mouth, my tongue easing her lips apart. She smelled of peaches and lemons, and I breathed her in, gathering her in my arms. I expected her to push me away, to somehow want to punish me for my appalling treatment of her ever since I’d been released from the hospital.
Except she didn’t push me away.
Instead, her arms came up around my neck, and she knitted her fingers into my hair and pl
astered herself against my body. Her tits flattened on contact, but her nipples hardened, delicious points made for my mouth.
I burrowed underneath her T-shirt and closed my hand over her breast, encased in a lace bra I wanted to rip off of her. I refrained. We weren’t there yet. But damn, she felt so good. Soft and warm and fucking perfect.
When I brushed the pad of my thumb over her nipple, she groaned and arched her back, pressing closer.
Footsteps approached, and we broke apart right before Barbara bustled into the kitchen, her arms full of groceries. We must have both looked guilty because she switched her gaze from Izabelle to me and then back to Izabelle. She set bags full of groceries on top of the kitchen table, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Ten bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, four reception rooms, a large pool house, a library, and a backyard filled with hidey-holes, and you two kids decide to make out in my domain.” She tutted and shook her head. “Dear oh dear.”
Heat flooded Izabelle’s face, and she ducked her head.
I narrowed my eyes at Barbara. “Hardly kids, and this is my house, so technically you’re in my domain.”
Barbara nudged me out of the way and plucked a pineapple from one of the bags. “I’ll concede the first point, but not the second. Now both of you scoot. Out of my kitchen. I have a lot to do today.”
“Like what?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. “You’re hardly cooking for ten.”
“Never you mind,” Barbara said, but her eyes when she looked at me were filled with hope. “You’re not too old to put over my knee, Upton Barrick.”
I chuckled. “Fine.”
Izabelle gratefully took the hand I offered, and we left Barbara to whatever she had planned. As soon as we were out of earshot, I whispered in Izabelle’s ear, “Anytime you want me to put you over my knee, just say the word.”
Izabelle chuckled. “Gettin’ ahead of yourself there, Mr. Billionaire.” And then she groaned. “How embarrassing.”
“If you think that’s embarrassing, you’ve led a sheltered life.”
Enchanted: A Billionaire Romance (The ROGUES Series Book 4) Page 8
