Fight From The Heart: a small town romance (Heart Collection Book 4)

by L. B. Dunbar

  “What are you doing here?” I question, staring up at him as my brain slowly processes—I’m in Jacob’s bed.

  “Seeing as it’s my home, it makes sense for me to be here,” he jokes as he removes the glasses and sets them behind him. I’ve been in Jacob’s room before but never when he’s been present. Hell no. I’ve been up here to instruct the cleaning lady or snoop around when he’s out of town. A low bookcase placed behind his bed acts as a headboard of sorts. The bed stands in the middle of his room, near the large floor-to-ceiling window facing west. There’s a little reading-writing area with an overstuffed chair, ottoman, and floor lamp on the other side of the bookcase. The bathroom is located behind that section. It’s an unusual setup for an unusual man.

  “A better question is what are you doing here, Goldilocks?” Of all the nicknames Jacob calls me, he’s never called me this one before. I might resemble the errant child with my chin-length straw-blond hair, styled in loose curls on occasion, but presently, my hair is greasy and plastered to my head. If I’m Goldilocks, he’s one grizzly bear, and this bed is just right, but I’m still wondering what I’m doing in it of all places.

  “I let the house cleaner in. You weren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow.” My tone is defensive. I was to get in and get out, not under his directive, but my own. I’m upset he took a two-week vacation with his girlfriend, which reminds me . . . I’m in Jacob’s bed.

  As I attempt to push my body upward again, my quaking limbs cause me to struggle. “I need to go home.” Tears fill my eyes at the possibility of moving as well as the reminder Jacob has a love life that does not include me. It normally doesn’t matter. I understand our positions. He’s the boss, and I’m the assistant. Only, I’m not in the proper headspace to deal with my emotions.

  “Hey,” he softly says, moving his laptop and turning to me. “You aren’t going anywhere.” His hand moves forward as though he intends to touch me. As if he’ll cup my jaw and tell me he’s always wanted me in his bed.

  That would be a fantasy—which he’s good at writing, and I’m good at reading—but it’s one neither of us lives.

  “How did I get up here?” I ask, looking around the room while his hand retracts. I’m hoping to hide my disappointment, and then I remember I’m a sweaty, shaky mess. I’m sick.

  “I carried you. What do you need? Water? Some food? Tea?”

  I turn back to him, startled by his suggestions and overall kindness. It isn’t that Jacob’s particularly mean to me. He just acts indifferent. He teases me, and he flirts sometimes, but it’s just his personality. He likes me as his assistant, but we aren’t anything more to each other.

  Ignoring all his questions, I ask one more important than the others. “Why am I in your bed?”

  “With the way you’ve phrased that, I’d think you don’t want to be in my bed. And here, I’ve been wanting to get you in my bed forever.” He winks at me. The smug bastard winks.

  This is not happening. I’m hallucinating because I have the flu, and my temperature has made me delirious. On that note, I glance down at myself and realize I’m not wearing what I came to his house in. Instead, I’m wearing a large T-shirt that smells very much like Jacob. The clove fragrance is intoxicating, and I shouldn’t be thinking of his scent or anything else about him—like how close he is to me, or how he’s looking at me right now, or the fact . . . I’m in Jacob’s bed.

  “Did you undress me?”

  Jacob holds a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re upset that I took your clothes off.” He slowly smiles, finding humor in his own words. “You know I’ve been dying to do that for years as well.”

  He’s a liar. He’s a lying liar who lies. Jacob Vincent has never once wanted to remove my clothes or take me to his bed, and I don’t even know why we’re having this discussion. I glance down. I’m not wearing a bra, only my underwear and his T-shirt. My head pops up, eyes widening. Oh my God, Jacob has seen me naked—all large-breasted, curvy-hipped, not quite flat belly of me.

  I’m mortified. Like dear God, come and take me because I can never look at this man again.

  “Relax, Lilac,” he says, his lips slowly curling. “I didn’t check out the goods.” However, as he speaks, his eyes lower, more like a flick downward before flashing back up to my face, which heats the rest of my body. I’m suddenly warm everywhere, only I can’t kick off the covers because I’m hardly wearing anything.

  My thoughts race. Have I shaved my legs recently? When was the last time I trimmed the privates? Did he notice the roll of my belly? My eyes close. My throbbing headache pulses faster than my heart.

  “Lilac, could you please lie back down? You need rest, angel.”

  The softness of his voice could break me if I wasn’t already weak and wondering what was happening. He twists again for the top of his low bookcase and hands me a glass of water, then holds out two pills.

  “Nurse’s orders. Every four hours.”

  I stare at him. He doesn’t know any nurses. He’s more of a recluse, so he hardly knows anyone here. He’s a writer-in-the-woods kind of guy. I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement after we met and he asked me to work for him, so I wouldn’t reveal who he was or where he lived. I don’t dare ask him who he knows that’s a nurse because I’m certain I’ll hear about some skank he was with when he was on a break with his on-again, off-again girlfriend. They’ve been together as long as I’ve known him.

  Willingly taking the two pain pills, I sip the water, hoping the fever reducer will kick in quickly so I can dress and get the heck out of Dodge.

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” he warns me as if reading my thoughts.

  “You know I have another job.” I remind him of my work at Mae’s Flower Shop, but Jacob only shakes his head.

  “And you aren’t going to your other job anytime soon. You’re sick, and you’re not leaving me.” His head pops up. “I mean, here. You aren’t leaving my bed.” His voice drops on the last statement, and the heat of my body alleviates. How I’ve longed to hear those words said with such intention, but he’s only making the demand because of my condition.

  “Which brings me back to why am I in your bed?” His stepsister has a room on the opposite end of the house. She isn’t using it, and I could be in there. He also has a guest bedroom on the first floor behind the kitchen. I could be in that room as well.

  “Because I want you close to me. I can take care of you better in here.” He looks away from me, reaching for his laptop as if signaling the end of this conversation. I’m dismissed. Taking a moment, I observe his profile. Those etched cheeks. The slight crook to his nose. The pout of his lips. The line of stubble along his jaw. He has a sexy, fighting Irish vibe about him. However, he’s hurting while he’s hunting for gold at the end of some unforeseeable rainbow. Jacob never seems truly happy. He smiles, and he jokes, but he also drinks a lot to take off the edge or maybe keep something at bay. He’s almost full of as much pretend in his personal life as the fictional situations he puts on the pages of his incredible books.

  His head turns back to me. “Lie down, Lilac.” His voice commands, but his tone is tender. I do as he says although I remain confused by his orders and my position. While I’m still watching him, he returns to his laptop. My lids slowly lower at the sound of furious keyword clicking.

  What world is he creating so he can lose himself and escape me beside him?

  + + +

  I wake coated in a layer of sweat. The lamp dimly illuminating the room earlier this evening, or morning, or whatever time it was, is off, and the bedroom is enveloped in darkness. Something warm and heavy rests around my middle and the largest heating blanket lays along my back and against my legs. I wiggle my toes and touch the tops of bare feet which do not belong to me. A subtle shift behind me rustles the sheets and I stiffen.

  “You okay, angel?” Jacob’s sleepy voice twists my insides. His breath tickles the back of my neck, and I shiver.
<
br />   “I’m warm,” I whisper, despite the cool trickle down my spine. I’m almost afraid to speak. He must be dreaming. He doesn’t know he’s holding me. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  “That’s a good sign, right? Fever’s breaking.” My body has been struggling between chills and heat for nearly two days.

  “I think,” I say, hoping he releases me and moves away. Instead, his arm tightens over my middle, and my back rests against his chest. Through the thin T-shirt I’m wearing, his chest feels firm and bare. Warmth radiates from him to me. My legs twitch, feeling the coarse hairs of his against mine.

  Holy Count Dracula. Is he only wearing boxer briefs behind me?

  Jacob is not ashamed of his body. In fact, he’s rather proud of it. He works out religiously in his home gym, equipped with weights and boxing equipment. His physique is that of a fighter, and he’s merciless once he gets going on the punching bag. The muscle of his arm flexes around me, and he nuzzles deeper into my neck, inhaling my skin.

  “You smell sweet,” he whispers.

  “You mean like sweat,” I correct with a huff.

  “Nope, sweet, like your namesake, Lilac.” That isn’t my name. I’m Pam Carter, but Jacob has taken to calling me Lilac almost twenty-four seven as if no other name exists. Then again, when he’s angry, my given name comes out. It’s rare that he’s angry with me, though. I’ve heard his fights with Mandi. Yes, Mandi with an “i”.

  Mandi, sweet as candy, she’s known to say during interviews. She’s a model or something, and thirteen years younger than Jacob. I’m actually not certain what she does. She’s more like a bored heiress with too much money and a serious lack of body fat.

  My legs shuffle as they ache, rubbing against Jacob’s, and he adjusts behind me. Something pokes me in the backside, and I still.

  Is he? . . . He can’t be . . . Not with me.

  “Jacob,” I whisper, wanting to wake him from his slumber and remind him I’m the one he has his arm around. Not his girlfriend but me, his assistant. The woman he claims saved his life. “It’s me, Pam.”

  My voice speaks louder, but at the same time, my fingers stroke down his forearm over my midsection. Without thinking, I scratch back up the length, tenderly dragging my nails over the coarse hair. Back and forth, I stroke from wrist to elbow, and repeat.

  “Hmm. That feels nice, angel.” Something brushes my shoulder. Did he . . . did he kiss me?

  Maybe I’m the one dreaming. Maybe I’m the one unconscious and slipping into an abyss of pure wannabe. I want to be Jacob’s girlfriend. I want to be his lover. I want to be his best friend.

  And all of these wants make me ridiculous.

  I still and pat his arm with a short, sharp slap. His fingers curl into a fist, knuckles brushing over my breast before clutching the fabric of his tee at my chest.

  “What did you do that for?” he grumbles into the back of my neck.

  “Just want to make sure you’re awake and realize you have your arm around me. Pam.” I emphasize my name again.

  “Don’t know a Pam,” he teases. “Only know my Lilac, who is typically sweet and lets me sleep. Now, can we please go back to that?” He chuckles, rubbing his nose along my skin and then slipping his arm off me. He rolls to his back behind me and the loss of his body leaves mine instantly cold. I curse myself for suggesting he pull away, but the rational side of me screams it’s for the best.

  Jacob Vincent would never truly be interested in a woman like me.

  Chapter 3

  For The Record

  [Jacob]

  I’m so hot for her, and I’m fucking hard as a hammer. With her back to me and my head turned in her direction, I sweep a hand down my abs and into my boxers to adjust myself. Nothing I do gets my dick to go down. She’s sick, but still so sweet and her curves—damn. I jolt in my shorts, turn to face the ceiling, and scrub both hands over my day-old stubble.

  I shouldn’t be in bed with her. I shouldn’t be near her, touching her, or thinking of her, but for the past two-plus years, Pam Carter has consumed me. My Lilac. An angel in the night who saved my life when she should have let me die. I’ve had a death wish more than once although I’ve never acted upon it. I’m reckless, not stupid, yet some say they go hand in hand.

  Lying next to Pam is both reckless and stupid.

  Especially after a ten-day trip with Mandi. It was hell. Mandi Hamilton and I have had one of the most tumultuous relationships in the history of relationships. We fuck. We fight. We break up. We get drunk. Then we see one another at a party, and the cycle starts all over again. I used to think it was almost fun because I’m a sick fuck like that. The hate fucking. The heated arguments that shifted to aggressive make-out sessions. The thrill of taking her at a moment’s notice. However, the excitement of Mandi came to a screeching halt when I looked up into the eyes of a vision of innocence one night.

  Lost. High. Crashed.

  And there she was.

  “Don’t you dare die on me,” she’d said. I took those words to heart. I would not leave her. I wouldn’t dream of dying ever again.

  I also didn’t think I’d see her after that night. That night when an angel looked me in the eyes.

  Of course, I hardly remember the moment, but she came to visit me the next day, and I put all the pieces together. I’ll never forget the woman with eyes that not only wanted to scorch me for driving under the influence but also forgave me for some reason. She was my penance, and I didn’t deserve her.

  Rolling my head back in her direction, I stare at the outline of her body. Despite the dark, the highlights are accentuated, like the hills and valleys of a map. The curve of her shoulder. The dip to her waist. The swell of her hip. My arm had been around her and my hand rested between her large breasts. My dick brushed against her firm ass, and I’m so freaking stiff.

  Ice Cream. Frozen lakes. Snowstorms.

  I need to concentrate on anything that will cool me off.

  Her legs rustle under the sheets, and she twists to face me. Thankfully, she’s slipped back to sleep, and I’m praying she didn’t notice how hard I am.

  I’m not really the nurturing type, but for reasons I can’t explain, I want to take care of her. I like having her this close to me and feeling like she needs me. She’s always doing everything for me, and I don’t always show her how much I appreciate her and how important she is to me. She’s not like anyone I’ve known before, except maybe my stepsister, Ella. It was such a shock to find Pam curled up on my couch—a bit delirious, definitely chilled, but as if she was waiting for me.

  What would it be like to come home to a woman waiting for me?

  Pam is so different from Mandi. She doesn’t want to pick a fight. She doesn’t want to criticize. She doesn’t complain.

  I also note the physical differences, starting with the softness of her golden hair. Even plastered to her head from days of sleeping and without a wash, she’s beautiful. She’s this contradiction of innocence and temptation. With big denim blue eyes and bouncy blond waves to her chin, she wears bright lipstick in shades of red or hot pink. Her clothing is either too vibrant or all black. And her interests lean to the dark and morbid. She loves the shit I write.

  Well, most of the time.

  Her hand lays flat on the sheet. There isn’t much distance between us, and I twist myself to face her sleeping form. My fingers hesitantly reach for hers, curling around them. She’s warm, exuding heat, and I hope this means the fever is breaking. I don’t like to see her weak. She’s strong every other day, but then again, there’s a vulnerability underneath her tough exterior with me.

  She’s too good for you, Jacob.

  It’s the main reason I’ve always kept my distance. I tease. I flirt. But then, I rein it in. I will not cross a line she does not want crossed. She’s never given a hint of interest in me, remaining standoffish even when I joke with her.

  I trust her implicitly, and trust isn’t something I give easily.

  Her fingers react
to mine over hers and grab onto them. Touching her sends a thrill through me, like lightning striking the damned or Frankenstein’s monster coming to life. Both concepts are similar. The monster was destined for a horrible life the moment he was born, and the same has happened to me.

  I close my eyes, holding her fingers in mine, and think back on the torture of the past two weeks. Thank God, Mandi and I have finally come to a firm agreement. No more. The trip was a test of wills. Will we be together forever, or will we finally end this suffocating relationship? She wanted marriage. I wanted out.

  Ten days to sort out feelings I already labeled as zero. It took a lot of alcohol to make it through the days and nights because I have absolutely no feelings left for Mandi. That makes me a coldhearted dick, but I don’t care. All my emotions are wrapped up in this woman across from me, holding my hand like I’m suddenly her saving grace in a storm, and I so want to be deserving of saving her. For all she’s done for me, I want to be something to her, but I also know I’m not worthy of someone like her. I’m a sick bastard for even thinking such a thing, but my heart doesn’t want to stop rattling in the cage of my chest, begging for release. My dick has its own struggles, unwilling to settle down when she’s around. I’m never going to sleep tonight.

  + + +

  In the early morning, I slip from the bed and head downstairs to my office for a few hours of work. I’m writing my next fantasy thriller and need to concentrate, which I cannot do with Pam next to me.

  “Good morning.” Her soft voice eventually startles me, and I look up from my computer, over my glasses, at her curvy frame leaning against the doorjamb of my office. She’s a vision, but she also looks like hell.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” I tell her, taking off my glasses and standing from the desk chair. I’m wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, but I’m barefoot. She’s wearing my tee, exposing most of her legs, and my dick struggles behind my zipper once again. I cannot get myself under control.