Can't Stand the Heat

by Peggy Jaeger

  In sleep, the harsh, haggard ravages of his persistent pain were eradicated from his face. His brow was unfurrowed, the lines branching out from the corners of his eyes, smoother. The grooves dropping from his nose down to his jaw were less etched and rigid, the line of his mouth plump and soft.

  Long, fat black eyelashes rested on the tops of his cheekbones. A fringe of hair had fallen across his forehead, sweeping across his brows to settle in the corner of one eye.

  Stacy’s fingers, throbbing from their exertions, itched with longing to brush the hair back in place.

  He looked so peaceful—for once—his face and body calm, she didn’t have the heart to wake him so he could move to his bed. A simple throw blanket was tossed over the back of the couch, so she gently placed it over him and tucked it under his feet.

  At the door, she flicked the light switch off, the room bathed only in the tiny glow of the desk lamp’s dim light, and closed the door without shutting it.

  Melora sat on the floor outside the room, her back up against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest. She shot up when Stacy moved from the room.

  “Is he…how is he?”

  She looked so tired and overwhelmed, Stacy wanted to pull her into her arms and hug all the pain and worry away. The girl had enough to deal with, with her own health, never mind being wrapped up in her father’s problems as well. Fifteen was too young to handle the adult issues she was being forced to.

  Stacy put the bucket down and gave in to her emotions. The moment she opened her arms, Melora fell into them.

  “He’s better,” Stacy told her, rubbing a hand down her back. She mentally winced at how frail and bony the girl’s spine was. “He actually fell asleep while I was working on his thigh.”

  Melora pulled back and swiped a hand under her nose. “Should we, like, leave him there? Won’t he be uncomfortable?”

  “He needs the rest,” she said. “Let him be. If he wakes, he might go to his own bed, but for now he’s fine.”

  “Thank you so much.” Melora threw her arms around Stacy’s neck and squeezed. “I was so scared.”

  “Oh, sweetie, you’re welcome.” Stacy pulled back after a moment and held the girl at arm’s length. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is this how he usually is in the evenings, after filming all day? In pain and…” She flipped her hand in the air.

  “Drunk?”

  Stacy sighed. “I really don’t think he was, Melora. I think, like he said, he was just trying to take the edge off the pain the best way he knows how. Does he have a prescription for anything stronger?”

  “Like Oxy or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. Nikko hates pills. He won’t even take, like, an aspirin. I think it’s ’cause his dad OD’d when he was a kid. And my mom, well...she used to get…high…sometimes.”

  Stacy let that settle for a moment. “Okay. But self-medicating with alcohol, even just a few shots, isn’t going to help him in the long run to deal with this. His pain is real. He shouldn’t have to suffer through it.”

  “What will help it?”

  “I really don’t know because I’m not his doctor—”

  “He hates doctors. All medical people.”

  Stacy gaped at her. “Why?”

  “I don’t know for sure.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I think it has, like, something to do with…you know. The accident.” Her eyebrows rose at the words, her mouth pulling down into a grimace. “Nikko signed himself out of the hospital before the doctor told him he could go. Before he was really ready to be out. Typical. Stubborn alpha behavior to the max.”

  Stacy squeezed her bottom lip between her index finger and thumb. “Did he ever have physical therapy that you know of?”

  She shook her head. “A few times. In the hospital. He wouldn’t do more.”

  “Nothing outpatient?”

  “Nada. Why?”

  “Because if he had, he would know how to deal with the cramping more effectively than just ignoring it, or trying to drink it away.”

  What he needed were exercises and tools to prevent the pain from occurring in the first place. How to convince him of that was the problem, especially if the information came from her.

  Stacy wasn’t sure Nikko would remember much of what she’d done for him tonight when he woke in the morning. Agreeing to her help when he was incapacitated, in agony, and had no choice, was one thing. Being told what to do so the pain could be controlled was quite another. Nikko Stamp was, as his daughter stated, a stubborn, obstinate man who needed to be in control of his world and his surroundings. He wouldn’t willingly accept any help she could offer.

  Standing there in the hallway, with his fragile and hurting daughter, Stacy realized she needed to devise a way to help him without him knowing she was.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nikko looked down at the fresh cup of coffee Stacy had slipped into his cup holder. He hadn’t seen her do it, but he knew she had, since no one else had ever bothered to bring him coffee while he worked.

  She wasn’t currently in the truck, having been called away by one of the producers just as filming started on the prep work for the day’s challenge.

  Nikko took a sip of the coffee and sighed. It tasted…good. A little different, for some reason, but good.

  He’d woken on the couch in his office, a blanket covering him, and the smell of fresh coffee tickling his nose. For the first time in weeks he couldn’t feel any pain or even the twinge of it in his thigh. He tossed off the blanket and was surprised for a moment that he wasn’t wearing pants.

  With his next breath, the evening before shot a clear bullet of memory across the front of his mind: Stacy’s concerned face staring down at him; Melora’s tears and anger; the heat from whatever Stacy had draped over his legs.

  The memory that hit him the hardest, the one that made him drag his hands through his hair and fight for air, was the feel of Stacy’s hands on his leg.

  Strong and firm, yet gentle and soothing, he remembered watching her through slitted eyes as she bent over him, her bottom lip tucked under her top one as her hands wove their magic and slid him out of the torture the cramping leg had caused. She was so involved in her task he was able to watch her without her knowing.

  The whiskey hadn’t done its intended job to either slake the pain or help him pass out so he wouldn’t feel it. He wasn’t drunk, as Melora accused—not even close—but he’d been on the verge when they’d come into the room.

  He’d watched Stacy as she’d ministered to him, so composed, so coolly competent. It occurred to him while her fingers danced across his leg that he wanted nothing more than to see her lose that professional air, watch her come unglued, and know he was the cause. He wanted to see her in something other than the long-sleeved blouses she perpetually wore. He couldn’t understand how she could wear clothes that added to the heat surrounding them every day.

  As her hands rolled and kneaded his aching thigh muscles, a picture of her, naked and under him while he pounded into her, watching those gorgeous green eyes flash with heat, raced behind his closed ones. He bit back a moan, fearful she’d know what he was thinking. He’d almost told her the truth when she started apologizing, assuming she was hurting him.

  She was, just not the way she thought. If he had told her, she’d probably have run from the room and hopped the next flight back to New York.

  A week ago he’d have been thankful for that, would have done whatever he could to make sure she left.

  Now, he couldn’t stand to think of it.

  Nikko dragged his hands across the stubble on his cheeks. She’d even asked his permission before touching him, as if frightened if she did so without his consent he’d snap at her. Or worse.

  Christ. He was such an asshole.

  He’d be
en nothing but a complete jerk to her the entire time they’d worked together, barking at her, acting condescending. It killed him to admit it, but Stacy Peters did an excellent job. None of the little, annoying problems that routinely came up on a shoot were too small or piddling for her to deal with, and she always did so in a quick, efficient manner. The crew adored her. As did the chefs. She had a ready smile and a kind word for each of them, helping in whatever way was needed. Was it any wonder she never smiled at him? She was probably scared if she did he’d give her a tongue-lashing for the effort.

  And yet she’d ignored his arrogant stupidity and found it in herself to offer help when he needed it.

  “Yeah,” he said aloud, the sound of his voice thick with loathing and disgust in the quiet room, “you’re an asshole, all right.” He dragged his pants on.

  Following the smell of coffee to the kitchen, he got his second surprise of the day when he found Melora standing at the stove, flipping pancakes on the griddle. The table was set and the coffeepot was filled to the top of the carafe.

  “This is unexpected,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek.

  “Yuck.” Her nose wrinkled, making her look all of five years old. “You reek like a bar.”

  “And how would you know what a bar smells like, young lady? You’re only fifteen.”

  He had to bite back a smile when she blushed.

  “What possessed you to make breakfast?” he asked, filling a mug.

  She lifted a thin shoulder and concentrated on flipping the pancakes lining the grill. “I thought it would be, like, a nice gesture. You’ve been doing all the cooking, working, plus taking care of me.” She shrugged again and dropped the pancakes onto two plates. “I figured I could, you know, pay it back a little. Give you a break for once.”

  A wealth of emotion exploded in his chest as he looked across the table at her.

  The therapist had cautioned him against suggesting or pressuring her to cook or prepare any food. Her aversion to eating would manifest itself in difficulty with making sound choices and would increase her already high anxiety about having to eat, so Nikko had done all the meal prep. This was the first time since her mother’s death the girl had shown any interest in cooking, something he knew she’d done often before the crash. Because of her mother’s occasional erratic and out-of-control behavior, there were many times Melora had assumed the adult role in their relationship. She’d been the one who’d cooked, paid a bill, or done the laundry in order to keep the household contained and running smoothly.

  Nikko hadn’t known the extent of what the teen had had to deal with until the night of the crash, during the fight with Flannery that had led to it.

  He wondered at the reason for the change now. Did she think she had to care for him as she’d done for her mother? Had last night’s events proven in her mind she did? He didn’t want to ask, worried she might interpret his question the wrong way. She was still an emotional, dramatic fifteen-year-old and he didn’t want to say anything that would set her off.

  But still…

  “These look great,” he said. She’d put four on his plate, one on her own. While he slathered them with the butter and syrup she’d put on the table, she cut her own pancake into small pieces and ate it without garnish, a glass of water at her side.

  Nikko knew enough not to push, happy she was at least eating.

  “Yeah, they do,” she said.

  “Mel, I want to talk about last night. Can we?”

  She looked over at him and lifted a shoulder again. “’K.”

  Nikko took a deep breath, then a sip of coffee. “First of all, I’m sorry for yelling at you, for being such a... well, grouch. I was in a lot of pain from standing so much yesterday.”

  “I know.”

  “Still, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.”

  Another shoulder lift. “’K.”

  “I’m wondering why you called Stacy Peters to come over here?”

  Her eyes widened as she stared across at him.

  “I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I just want to know why her.”

  After a huge sigh, she answered. “I was scared. You wouldn’t answer the door and”—she flipped her hand in the air—“you sounded... I don’t know. Like, weird and out of it.”

  Nikko nodded. “But why call her, specifically, and not someone else if you were so worried?”

  “Like who?”

  It was Nikko’s turn to shrug. “Todd, maybe. You’ve known him for years. Or Jade Quartermaine. You’ve met her a million times.”

  Melora’s snort had him biting back a smile. “Yeah, like that was ever gonna happen. Like, never.”

  She took a large chug of her water. “I called Stacy because she’s nice. She gets me. She likes me, even though you cut her a new lung that day we went to the airport. And I knew she’d come. She’s that kind of person, despite what you think.”

  “Okay,” he said calmly, the warning signs for a dramatic showdown becoming evident in his daughter’s rising voice. “I get that. Thank you.”

  Suspicion clouded her eyes. “For what?”

  “For calling her. What she did helped. A lot, actually. I don’t have any pain today.”

  “Then you need to thank her and not, like, me.” She rose and put her empty dish in the sink, added the griddle, and started washing them.

  “You should give her a chance,” she said, flicking a glance over her shoulder at him. “She’s wicked cool and nice.”

  Nikko nodded while he sipped his coffee.

  Stacy Peters had obviously done something to make such a good impression on his daughter. Melora said Stacy “got her.” He might have been far removed from being a teenager, but not so far that he didn’t understand the meaning behind those words.

  Either because she was just a naturally kind person—which he was beginning to think was really the case—or for some other unknown reason, Stacy had accomplished the one thing he’d been so desperately trying to do since his daughter had come to live with him: gain her trust. He knew she loved him, just as she knew he loved her; there was never a doubt of that. But there was some part of her Nikko felt didn’t trust him to stick around.

  When they’d split, he and Flannery had decided physical custody was best granted to her. He moved around from project to project, never staying long in one place. Melora needed, as every child did, a stable home base, a place to feel safe and secure.

  Flannery’s death had shattered that security for the teen and Nikko knew she was still uncertain whether he’d keep her with him once school started again or ship her off to boarding school while he was working. He was doing everything he could think of to make her see she could depend on him; trust him to stick around.

  “I need my laptop for research I’ve gotta do for this stupid book report,” she told him. “Can I have it until you leave?”

  Knowing trust went both ways, he nodded.

  “You can have it for as long as you need it, Mel. No more restrictions.”

  Surprise pulled at her mouth, while suspicion danced in her eyes again. “Why not? You were, like, adamant that I couldn’t have unrestricted access. What’s happened to change that?”

  Nikko rose with his plate and dropped it into the sudsy water in the sink. With both arms, he pulled his daughter into a hug and kissed the top of her head.

  With a chuckle, he said, “Unrestricted access, huh?”

  “You know what I mean,” she mumbled into his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his waist. “And you still stink.”

  He pushed her an arm’s-length away, cocked an eyebrow, and tried not to laugh. “I’ll go shower, since I’m disturbing your tender senses. You get your laptop and get to work.”

  Before he made it to the doorway, he stopped when Melora said, “Daddy?”

  He turned around.


  “Don’t you need to, you know, watch me for an hour? We just ate.”

  Nikko’s heart stuttered in his chest. He wanted to pull her into his arms again and tenderly kiss away all the bad things that had happened to her. Convince her she was cherished; loved.

  God knows how she would react if he did, though.

  Instead, he tossed her a smile and said, “Nah. I trust you, kid. I always have.”

  He wasn’t certain, but he was pretty sure when he walked up the stairs to his room there had been a fine sheen of happy tears pooling in her eyes.

  * * * *

  The hot, dry air struck Stacy in the face when she stepped out of the makeup trailer, the sun’s glare stinging her already dry eyes. A boulder-sized headache was banging behind her left eye, screaming for relief.

  She needed a bottle of water, a fistful of aspirin, and a nap.

  In the past two hours she’d dealt with a disgruntled supply manager and a missing order; two crying producers—one because she missed her boyfriend, the other because she had a personality conflict with the chef she was assigned to—and had been raked across the verbal coals and back by a demanding, obnoxious, and diva-channeling Jade Quartermaine, who’d complained about everything from the heat, to the lack of alcohol (again!), and her wardrobe choices.

  Stacy’d been able to locate the missing produce order in the back of the supply room where someone had erroneously placed it; listened compassionately to one producer’s personal woes and then gently told her to suck it up or leave; she’d switched the next producer to a different chef, and finally stood silently listening to Jade’s harangue without offering her any consolation.

  Lack of sleep, the heat, and the headache now pounding away had her wanting to just run from the ranch and escape.

  Just as she started walking toward the main house to find some relief, her walkie-talkie signaled.

  “This is Stacy.” She turned her back to the blaring sun and shielded her eyes with the back of her free hand. She really needed to remember to wear a hat.