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

by L. B. Dunbar

  “Would you mind if I shower?” she asks sheepishly, and I smile at the guilty look on her face. See, I’m a sick man because I’m thrilled to set her up in my bathroom. My shower is this amazing hexagon shape with only one side against the tile and the other five sides glass. A rain showerhead streams into the middle. Thinking of her naked body under the drenching spray with soap sliding down her lush curves makes me a mess of hormones I shouldn’t even have at forty. But damn, I want her in ways I should not.

  “How about a bath?” I state, seeing as she can hardly hold herself upright without leaning against the entrance to my writing space. She chews at her lip. She wants to say yes. Without giving her a second to hesitate, I step up to her, scoop her into my arms, and head back up the stairs.

  She shrieks before she speaks. “Jacob, you don’t need to carry me. I’m too heavy.”

  “You’re as light as an angel’s wings,” I tell her.

  “Oh, my God.” She laughs, loosely wrapping her arms around my shoulders. I want her to hold onto me—really tighten those limbs around me and hold me—but she doesn’t. “That’s sweet but false.”

  She’s self-deprecating, and while I sometimes let it slide by continuing to tease her, I don’t want to hear it today.

  “Don’t think about yourself like that,” I command as I climb the stairs. Once we enter the bathroom, I lower her to the closed toilet seat while I start the tub. It’s an air tub with jets because sometimes I work out harder than I should and need the muscle relief. The thought of those jets going off and pulsing at parts of Pam causes my entire body to vibrate.

  Crystal snowflakes. Frozen eyelashes. A tongue stuck on a cold pole.

  I need to get myself together.

  Testing the water, I stopper the tub and stand back. Pam watches me, her head leaning back, face upward like she wants to tell me a secret. She’s worn that expression many times in the past, and I’ve always wondered what her thoughts are. What won’t she tell me?

  “When was the last time you ate?” I question instead, noticing her pale coloring. She shrugs. “What would you like to eat?”

  She chuckles, shaking her head.

  “You don’t think I can cook?” I question.

  “I know you can’t, remember? Mrs. White and then Ethan.”

  Ah, Ethan Scott, my former in-home chef who fell in love with my stepsister. It was kind of nice having another man around the house, even if I was only present for a week, and he was here for five before Ella ran off. I shake my head at the thought of my sister and Ethan. It’s not that I don’t like the idea of them as a couple. I hate how they haven’t found their way back to one another yet. For her sake, and I suppose his, I hope it happens soon.

  As for Mrs. White, that cougar-driven hussy hit on me more times than a desperate housewife on a vacation in Vegas. Ella, my stepsister, did everything she could to chase her away, and even though Mrs. White was a good cook, I’d been grateful. A woman nearly fifteen years my senior serving me dinner in her sheer lingerie was too much for me. It might be another guy’s thing, going for the older woman, but not mine. It’s almost laughable that I’d been cougared at forty. Isn’t it supposed to be a forty-year-old woman going for a younger man, not someone fifty-five, reminding me of my mother hitting on me? Like my mother, the woman who ran off and left her kid so she could screw half of Los Angeles before I was even ten. Oh wait, she did that while she was still living in our home.

  I realize the hypocrisy of my statement as Mandi is some thirteen years younger than me.

  “Yeah, well, I can cook,” I defend, wiping away thoughts of my wayward mother and my equally frustrating former girlfriend.

  “Frozen pizza.” Pam snorts.

  “It encompasses the four food groups. Whole grains, vegetables, protein, and dairy.” I tick off the categories on my fingers while she skeptically looks at me.

  “Except the kind you eat is made from enriched white flour, has processed cheese, probably uses a tomato-paste substitute, and the meat product is questionable.” Her eyes roam down my body, doing nothing to calm its already stiff status, and adds, “I don’t know how you look like you do when you eat that shit . . . I mean, stuff.”

  Let it be noted, Pam Carter just swore, and she complimented me. I’m not making that up.

  “You think I have a nice body?” I tease. Her face heats to this pretty pink shade I’ve seen a few times on those cheeks.

  “You know you do,” she says, her voice lowering as her gaze drops to her lap.

  “Maybe, but I’d like to hear more about it from you. What exactly do you think is nice on my body?” Placing my hands on my hips, I turn my head, giving her the side of my face, and wait. A minute passes. When I glance back at her, a hand covers her mouth.

  “Are you laughing at me?” She looks like she wants to burst out in giggles.

  What’s wrong with me? I work out hard. I have a six-pack that could quench your thirst. I’ve got the little hip dip that narrows over my pelvis and points at my dick. She can’t see that part of me, but still.

  “You look ridiculous like that,” she states, taking in my pose. “Don’t do that again.” She’s teasing, but my hands fall to fists at my sides. I get it. She isn’t attracted to me. Despite the hard core of my body, it’s not a body she wants.

  “Whatever,” I say, blowing off the hurt inside. I’m not a sensitive guy. Over the years, I’ve made my skin tough enough you could bounce a penny off me. Nothing penetrates me like it did when I was a kid.

  Her shoulders fall, and I note the tub is almost full.

  “Your forearms are your best feature,” she says, surprising me. I glance at my arms, one covered in tattoos, the other clean. “You’re strong, but you’re also gentle, even if you don’t want to admit it. You have serious arm porn.”

  “Arm porn?” I choke out when I peer over at her. Her gaze leaps to my eyes.

  “And your eyes. They’re this deep, rich dark color like the sky at midnight, and when you laugh, pinpricks dance in them like shining stars.”

  I . . . what?

  “They also look like they hold a great secret. Like something is locked behind the dungeon door, and I’ve often wondered what’s beyond them besides the creativity of your stories.”

  Holy . . . nope. Not going there. There is no way Pam can ever know my secrets. The horrors in my memories. The scenes that torture me.

  “That sounds a bit too romantic,” I mock, my voice rougher than necessary.

  “Well, I’m not a poet.” Pam sits straighter, her fingers curling at the hem of my tee which she’s already tugged over her thighs. She knows I despise romance novels. Give me blood and guts, strange creatures and gore, and hate, anger, and demons and I’m all in.

  When I don’t say anything else in response, Pam speaks again. “Never mind.” Crestfallen, she slumps her shoulders, and I sense I’ve hurt her feelings. She couldn’t mean any of it, though. Does she think the darkness is beautiful? Has she actually noticed my eyes that in-depth? Does she really see me as trapped inside myself?

  One can only hope, but hope is also a romantic notion, and something I don’t subscribe to. I learned early on it’s dangerous to hope. You’ll be disappointed every time.

  “Bath’s ready,” I mutter, stepping toward the door, needing to distance myself from her and the burning sensation of hope in my chest.

  + + +

  Setting a clean T-shirt and the smallest pair of sweats I can find outside the bathroom door, I leave Pam alone. I’d love to ask her if she needs anything else. Me in the tub with her. Someone to dry off her body. A person to have sex with against the sink. But I decide against all those things, trying to wrap my head around what she said about me.

  Is she attracted to my arms and my eyes? She hadn’t actually said that, just admitted that both body parts were attractive. And I’m being ridiculous. I have other things to do than analyze Pam’s comments.

  Returning to my office, I read back what I wrote this
morning. Time passes slowly, and I consider checking on Pam for the hundredth time. Suddenly, I hear a clatter from the other side of the house.

  After quickly standing, I pace to the bottom of the staircase, which is right outside my office.

  “Lilac,” I call out, thinking she’s still upstairs. When silence follows, I conclude the noise, whatever it was, was nothing. Turning back for my office, I hear another clattering sound coming from the kitchen, and I race across the great room, through the swinging door to the state-of-the-art kitchen, and stop short. Pam isn’t wrong. I don’t cook in here despite the top-of-the-line appliances.

  A pot sits on the stove, and an unopened can of soup rests on the counter. Rounding the large island centering the cabinets, I discover Pam curled up on the floor. Her back leans against the cabinets while her knees are drawn up to her chest, and her head rests on her knees.

  “Lilac,” I cry, squatting down next to her. She slowly lifts her head to look at me.

  “The bath took all my energy. I should eat, but I can’t even open the can of soup.” Her voice trembles as if she might cry, and I swear if she does, I’m a goner. Despite the endless tears and drama of Mandi over the years, to see my strong Lilac fall apart would break me.

  “Okay, angel,” I say, scooting forward for her and scooping her up again. “I’ll make the soup. Let’s get you back in bed.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep,” she mutters, curling into me for the first time out of the three that I’ve carried her. Her arms wrap tightly around my neck, keeping her securely against my body. The sensation of her holding onto me does something funny to my insides, and my heart hammers at my ribs.

  “You don’t need to sleep. But you do need to rest, though, and eat.”

  “Can you handle soup?” she weakly teases, and I twist my neck. It’s the wrong thing to do. With her face only an inch from mine, and her body in my arms, I want to lay her out on my couch and have my way with her. I want to kiss those lips usually covered in hot pink or bright red. I want to touch every inch of her and enter her, repeatedly.

  I shudder at the thought, and Pam’s arms loosen.

  “You should really put me down. Let me walk. I need to stretch my legs.”

  I don’t want to let her go, but I do as she asks, setting her back on her feet. Pam stumbles, and I catch her around the waist. Those innocent eyes look up at me, questioning why I’m touching her.

  Isn’t it written on my face how I feel about her?

  “I need to get you upstairs and back in my bed,” I give as my explanation. She stiffens under my arm, and I realize what I’ve said.

  “I mean, back in bed.” Period. That little round dot that ends a sentence. Not emphasizing mine, with me, holding onto her. Just back to my room. End of.

  “Okay.” The word catches in her throat as my arms slips tighter around her waist, still looking at me in this funny way. One day, she’s going to open her eyes, though, and slip from my hands when she finally discovers what’s in the dungeon of my head.

  As I assist her back up the stairs, her leaning into me, I remind myself I’ll do everything I can to make certain she never sees the darkness in me. We’ll keep living this fantasy, where she works for me and I pine for her, and the conflict in my soul will not harm the brightness of her heart.

  Chapter 4

  Mom Calling

  [Pam]

  Once I’ve crawled back into Jacob’s bed, I lie on my side, angling myself in such a way so I can stare out the window. It’s strange that he has the bed positioned so the glass is at the foot of the bed. Then again, it’s peaceful lying here, looking out at the cold lake and the dormant trees. It’s a morbid view, and I wonder if visions like this help Jacob with his storytelling. He writes some dark, twisted stuff, and I’ve loved it and hated it over the years. I wouldn’t say I was a super fan, but I am. I blog under the disguise of Blood and Blossoms, incorporating the two halves of myself.

  When I started blogging, I was an EMT for the local Elk Lake City fire department. Blogging was a stress reliever from the day job. I was reading books anyway, so why not discuss them? After a dozen years, two simultaneous accidents ripped me apart. I couldn’t recover from that night, and I stepped away from a job I loved to pursue another avenue of my life that I adore—flowers.

  Mae’s Flowers is a garden center north of my small town just off the highway, and I’d put in hours there as extra income when I was still an EMT. Over time, Mae and I became good friends, and she offered me a full-time manager position when I needed a change in life. I still blog as a stress reliever although the only stress in my life is Jacob.

  Thinking of the devil, he enters the room with the soup on a bed tray, a glass of water, and more fever medication. A single flower sits in a tiny vase that looks strangely like a pepper shaker.

  “Where did you find that?” I laugh, noting the purple crocus.

  “It was peeking up in the yard.” He offers this information as if the early spring flower litters his yard, which it doesn’t. The flower can actually bloom through snow, and it’s a striking contrast to find something so bold against a cold backdrop. I smile to myself at the small gesture, and he sets the tray over my lap as I sit upright. My short hair is still damp from the shower, and the sweats he gave me are too large for my short legs. He also left me another T-shirt of his that smells divine.

  “Did you change the sheets?” My hand spreads over the freshness of clean linens.

  “I thought fresh ones might feel better against your skin after being sweaty from when your fever broke.” He glances away for a second. “I also put your clothes in the washer.” It’s a sweet gesture—changing the sheets, washing my clothes—and it certainly explains where my things went. Then I consider it means Jacob saw my bra and underwear, the mismatched set I was wearing and the size of the comfy panties. He’s seen my breasts if he undressed me, although he swears he didn’t look.

  Why would he look? He just had Malibu Mandi days ago.

  Reaching for a spoon on the tray, I blow on the soup before scooping some of the broth and bringing it to my mouth. Jacob is watching me. He’s made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed, and his eyes follow the direction of the spoon entering my mouth and closing my lips around the warm liquid. Nothing tastes better than chicken noodle soup when you’re sick. I swallow, uncomfortable with his intense stare.

  “This is good,” I tease of the canned product that Jacob only had to open with the flick of a wrist and pour into a pan to heat. “You’re a great cook.”

  The corner of his lip crooks. “Now, you’re just being mean.” His eyes sparkle like I mentioned earlier—midnight with an array of stars. What constellations rest in those orbs? I’ve known Jacob for two and a half years, and I still can’t read him most days. I’ve never spent so much unstructured time with him.

  “Once I eat this, I should really change and go home.”

  “Lilac, quit trying to run away. Nurse’s orders are you stay put.”

  I tilt my head, hating the question I’m about to ask. “Jacob, do you even know any nurses?”

  “Yes. One. Her name is Mary.”

  I let the information settle in for a second, and then I nearly drop my spoon.

  “Mary?” I pause. Oh, my God. “Did you call my mother?!”

  “Yes, I did, and you know, I’m a little offended she had no idea who I was.”

  “Because you’re a famous author and who wouldn’t?” I mock.

  “Because she’s your mother, and she had no idea we were friends.”

  Friends. Are we friends? “I signed a non-disclosure agreement that I wouldn’t share any details about you, your whereabouts, or your writing,” I remind him.

  “Yes, but I would have thought you’d tell your mother.” He sounds aghast. Jacob knows I’m close with my family. We all live in the same small town within only a few miles of the home we grew up in. Our closeness as adult siblings has increased over the past two and a half years due to
our father’s death. As for our mother, well, she’s just a force, and you don’t mess with Mary.

  “There’s no one I trust more than my mother, but even she could have let it slip and told someone I work for you.” Another reminder that I’m your employee. We aren’t friends, not in the sense I want to consider friendship. I’m in love with him, but he’s not in love with me. Thus, we have a line we do not cross.

  “Well, she knows who I am now, and her orders were for you to stay in my bed for a week.”

  “My mother did not say that,” I drone, not missing the emphasis. Why must he torture me so much? Not to mention, I don’t have a week to rest and recuperate. I have another job I need to get to.

  “I need to call Mae,” I state, suddenly counting off the days in my head. Jacob was due back on Monday. I was here Sunday. I think it’s now Wednesday.

  “Handled.”

  My eyes leap to his. “You called Mae as well?”

  “I did. She was also rather surprised to hear from me. I thought she was your best friend.”

  How the hell does Jacob know that? I don’t talk much about Mae. Maybe I drop the occasional phrase I have plans when it comes to her, but again, I never give away too much personal information to him.

  “You know, people should really know where you are, Lilac.” His voice softens as his eyes drop to the black and white duvet on his bed. He speaks out of concern because of his sister. She was attacked, and Jacob beats himself up over it, as if any of it was his fault.

  “I’ve told my family and Mae I work for a man who has a job that I can’t discuss, but I’m safe working with him.”

  Jacob’s head pops back up, and his eyes focus on mine. “You feel safe with me?”

  The question startles me. Shouldn’t I? Jacob has never done anything to frighten me. He drinks too much. He works out intensely. I’ve learned from his sister, Ella, he has a temper, and it stems from his childhood, but I’ve never seen it. I’ve always assumed he works things out in boxing exercises or by writing his novels.