Imperfect: (McIntyre Security Bodyguard Series - Book 5)

by April Wilson

  Todd was a little self-absorbed even in the beginning, but he was a nice guy, and he’d treated me well. It wasn’t until the past couple of years that I began to see troubling aspects in his personality.

  “Well, I’m heading inside,” I say, taking my leave.

  I head inside the building, stopping in the foyer to grab my mail. As I’m pulling the collection of junk mail flyers and the few bills out of my box, I see that one of them is addressed to Mr. James McIntyre, Apt. 2A. As I’m Molly Ferguson in 2B, it’s clearly not intended for me.

  The door opens and in walks James McIntyre. He heads straight toward me. As it appears he’s headed my way – or, rather toward the mailboxes – I take a quiet step back to get out of his way.

  He pauses and cocks his head just the slightest bit. “Molly?”

  His voice is deep and resonant, and it makes my nerve endings tingle. It fits his appearance – male, rugged, too handsome for his own good. He’s wearing those dark glasses, though, and I still can’t see the color of his eyes.

  “Yes,” I stammer, embarrassed at being caught gawking at him. I close the door to my mail cubby and turn the little brass key to lock it. “Sorry, I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Take your time. Has the mail come?”

  I wave my little stack of white envelopes in the air. “Yes.” And then I remember he’s new to the building and probably doesn’t know the routine. “Our mail carrier’s always here by noon – you could set your clock by her.”

  I take another step back as he heads in my direction, fishing a key out of the front pocket of his jeans. Then he lays his hand on the wall, sliding it over to feel his way to his assigned mailbox. I wonder if he has impaired vision – is that why he has a service dog? His fingers glide over to locate the lock, and he inserts his key. Damn it, even his hands are sexy, with those long fingers with trim, blunt nails. He’s got quite a lot of mail jammed into that little box – mostly real mail, not the junk fliers I usually receive.

  I glance down at my own mail and see his envelope on the top, and it reminds me. “This was put in my mailbox by mistake.” I hold the envelope in question out to him, but he doesn’t take it. The moment drags out into two, and I feel awkward.

  “Here, this is yours,” I say, slipping the envelope into his hand.

  His broad shoulders lift as he sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were handing me something. I’m blind.”

  Blind? As in completely blind? “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts with a small smile. “There’s no need to apologize.”

  I find myself staring at him, barely following what he’s saying. He’s – well, he’s really nice to look at. Up close, I can see how broad his chest is, and inside his open black leather jacket, I can just make out a lean waist. He has a straight blade of a nose and wide, beautifully-shaped lips. His cheeks and jaw are covered with a neatly trimmed beard.

  “Well, I’m right next door,” I say. “If you ever need anything, just let me know.”

  “I will. Thanks, Molly.” Jamie reaches down to pat Gus on the head. “Gus and I are headed down the street to pick up some Chinese carryout. Would you like to join us?”

  His invitation takes me by surprise. He hardly knows me. Why would he ask me to join him? “Um, sure. I’d love to.” I’d planned to heat up some leftovers for dinner, nothing special. But the truth is, I’d jump at the chance to spend time with him. I can have a self-indulgent, secret crush on the guy, and he’ll never know. I can simply sit back and enjoy his company.

  He steps forward and holds out his arm to me. “Do you mind?”

  It takes me a moment to catch on. Oh! I guess it’s my turn to act as his eyes. He’s asking me to guide him. I smile, relieved he can’t see my pleased reaction, and secretly thrilled at the opportunity to touch him. I link my arm with his. “I don’t mind.”

  The three of us stroll down the sidewalk, with me on one side of Jamie and Gus on the other. The warm weight of his arm linked with mine is both comforting and scintillating. Even through the sleeves of our coats, I can feel how firm his muscles are.

  Acting as his tour guide, I tell him a little bit about the neighborhood – at least the little bit I know as I’ve only lived here a year myself. I’m still learning about the place. I give him a description of each shop we pass and make recommendations for the best places to frequent. The pedestrian traffic flows easily around us, as most folks give us a wide berth. A couple of times I have to caution him about obstacles in our path, such as an oversized trash container in one spot and a sidewalk sign advertising ice cream in another.

  It dawns on me that it would be hard for him to find a specific business without assistance if he wasn’t already familiar with the landmarks. He can’t just tell Gus, “Take me to Dragon City,” can he? Can a service dog learn the names of places? I wonder if the reason Jamie asked me to join him was simply so he could borrow my eyes.

  “How do you find new places?” I ask him, my curiosity winning out. “How would you find the take-out place if I weren’t with you?”

  His hands are full – holding Gus’s harness with one hand and my arm with the other, so he simply tips his chin toward his jacket pocket. “GPS. I don’t know how I’d survive without my phone.”

  “Oh, right.” GPS, of course.

  He tightens his hold on my arm. “But having you along for company is far more enjoyable than using GPS.”

  I feel my cheeks heat up, and I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was flirting with me. But that’s impossible. He hardly knows me, and he can’t even see me. He has absolutely no idea what I look like. I could have four eyes and two horns for all he knows.

  “Here we are,” I tell him, stopping outside our destination. There’s a steady stream of people in and out of the small carryout, and the aromas wafting out the open door are mouth-watering. Suddenly I’m starving.

  Jamie releases my arm and holds the door for me. “After you,” he says.

  I step inside the carryout, sure my face is still flushed. If anyone asks, I’ll blame it on the cold. Jamie and Gus follow me inside, and we place an order for two entrees, steamed rice, and a half dozen egg rolls.

  When the cashier rings up our total, Jamie reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. Before I can say a word, he withdraws a credit card and hands it to the cashier, who swipes it in the machine.

  “Wait! I’ll pay for my own.”

  “It’s all right,” he says, putting his wallet away. “I’ve got it.”

  “I should pay for my half of the meal,” I say, once we’ve stepped out of the way and are waiting on our order.

  “Let me buy your meal. It’s the least I can do as a thank-you for accompanying me.”

  For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. I’m not accustomed to men paying for me. Todd and I split every single expense right down the middle, including restaurant meals and date nights. Frankly, I’m a little out of my element here. Does it mean something that he’s paying for my meal? Does that make this a date?

  When the cashier calls out our ticket number, Jamie and Gus step forward to collect our food. It’s my turn to hold the door, as Jamie has his hands full. Once we’re back out on the sidewalk, I’m not sure if he needs my arm or not to guide him back. Gus seems to be doing a pretty competent job of it. I don’t think Jamie needs my help. My question is answered, though, when Jamie offers me his arm. Secretly, I’m pleased as I slip my arm into the crook of his elbow.

  Chapter 6

  Molly

  “Why don’t you come back with us to my apartment?” Jamie says when we reach our building. “We can eat together.”

  I hesitate for a moment. Surely he’s not thinking this is a date. The idea makes me uncomfortable. Yes, I enjoy looking at him, and I’d love to be friends with him, but I’m not interested in dating anyone. Not even Jamie. That just can’t happen.

 
“If you have things to do, that’s fine,” he says.

  I think he’s detecting my hesitation and giving me an easy out, which makes me like him even more.

  I know I’m just being silly. Of course he’s not thinking of this as a date. He just doesn’t know anyone in the neighborhood, and he’s probably a bit lonely and would appreciate some company. Get a grip, I tell myself. It’s just dinner. Don’t make it into something more. “No, that’s fine. I’d love to.”

  I punch in the security code to unlock the door as Jamie holds Gus’s harness and our carryout sacks. Once we reach the top of the stairs, I follow Jamie to his apartment. He lets us in and hands me the food so he can remove the dog’s harness and hang it up on a hook next to a high-tech, fancy-looking cane. Relieved of duty, Gus runs off to tackle a bright green tennis ball lying on the floor in the center of the living room.

  “What can I get you to drink?” Jamie says, heading for the kitchen. “I have soft drinks, beer, water. Some nice red wine, if you’d like.”

  I set the take-out sacks down on the dining table situated between the kitchen and the living room. “Water for me, please.”

  “Cold or room temperature?”

  “Cold, thank you.”

  I glance around the apartment, which is very sparsely, yet tastefully, furnished in masculine shades of browns and blues. His apartment is a carbon copy of my own, and it feels a little surreal being here. I half expect to see Charlie come walking down the hallway to greet me.

  Jamie brings a chilled bottle of spring water and a bottle of cold beer to the table, along with two plates, napkins, and silverware. “Help yourself,” he says as he sets everything down.

  I grab a plate and fork and dish some of the rice onto my plate. Then I locate the carton of Veggie Delight.

  “It’s nice to have some company,” he says, dishing his broccoli and beef onto his plate. “I’m still getting used to living alone. Sometimes it’s a little too quiet. I’m used to having people around. Noise, activity. Gus makes plenty of noise, trust me, but it’s not quite the same.”

  “I know what you mean. When I moved here a year ago, it took me some adjusting too.” I take a bite of my steamed rice and sautéed veggies and moan when the sweet and sour sauce hits my taste buds. “Oh, God, this is so good. I should do this more often.”

  He laughs. “You’re easy to please.”

  As we enjoy our meals, I’m tempted to ask him about the blonde I’ve seen him with, but I’m not sure I want to know. I can pretend he’s single and available, and I can enjoy having him to myself for these few minutes.

  There are so many things I want to ask him… like how he lost his sight. And what he does for a living. Does he work, or is he on disability? But I don’t see how I can ask him those things without coming across as too nosy.

  “So, Molly, what do you do?”

  I have to smile. Obviously, we’re both thinking along the same lines. “I’m an artist. I have a small gallery and studio down the street.”

  He seems surprised. “What kind of art?”

  “I paint abstract landscapes.”

  “Acrylic or oil? Or watercolor?”

  I’m impressed that he’s actually paying attention. “Acrylic, because it cures faster. But my paintings are very textured, so they often look like oils.”

  “I guess we have something in common, then. I’m an artist of sorts. I’m a writer.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  He laughs at my blatant incredulity.

  If he’s blind, how can he write? “But how do you…” Again with the nosy questions. “I’m sorry, never mind.”

  He laughs. “Don’t be sorry, Molly. You can ask me anything. So, how can a blind man write books? It’s not that hard, really. I write using dictation software, and then I use software to transcribe the audio. The manuscript then goes to my editor, and eventually to my proofreader. It’s definitely a team effort. I couldn’t do it alone.”

  “What do you write?”

  “Fiction, specifically military thrillers. I was in the military for quite a few years.”

  “Oh. Is that when you lost your sight? In the military?”

  He nods, and his lips flatten. “I was too close to an explosion.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t be. I was the lucky one – I survived. My two best friends weren’t so lucky.”

  Oh, God. I’m so sorry. My words seem far too inadequate, so I hold my tongue, not wanting to dredge up painful memories for him. I’m sure whatever happened was horrific. I guess he is lucky he wasn’t hurt worse, or even killed.

  As we eat our meals, I watch him, taking advantage of the fact that he can’t see me studying him. I can’t help noticing how the fabric of his T-shirt stretches and strains over his chest and arms, hugging his torso, which looks like it’s cut from stone. He may no longer be in the military, but he’s still incredibly fit.

  I glance up at his dark glasses. They’re so dark I can’t see anything behind them. I wonder, are his eyes scarred? The rest of his handsome face is unmarred. I know what it’s like to be scarred. Like him, I hide those wounds from the rest of the world.

  When we’re done, I carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen. He follows me and starts rinsing them off.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him as he puts the dirty dishes into the dishwasher with methodical precision. “For a blind person, you seem to do everything so effortlessly. If I couldn’t see, I’d be stumbling all over myself.”

  He smiles. “Before I moved here, I lived in my brother’s house in Kenilworth, and there was someone there to do everything for me. I was waited on hand-and-foot by the housekeeper. I felt… suffocated. And whenever I went out to walk in the woods or swim in the pond, I was shadowed every step of the way by the groundskeeper. They both meant well, and I understood that, but I wanted to be self-sufficient. I needed to be self-sufficient. I wanted to prove that I could take care of myself, so I moved out.”

  “You seem to be doing a good job of it. You live alone, you manage a career.”

  “Thanks. It takes practice, and a lot of memorization. There are eight steps between the kitchen sink and the door to my apartment. It’s twelve steps from my apartment door to the stairs. There are ten steps down to the ground floor, and another six steps down to the sidewalk.”

  “Wow, that’s very precise,” I say, biting my tongue to keep from laughing.

  “I have to be precise,” he says. “That’s how I function, how I navigate. I know exactly where everything is, how many steps to take, when to turn. I know where every piece of furniture is in this apartment.”

  After we finish cleaning up the kitchen, I thank him for the impromptu dinner invitation and wish him a good evening.

  Jamie walks me to the door. “Molly?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you mind if I touch your face?”

  His unorthodox request takes me by surprise. “Why do you want to touch my face?”

  “So I can see you. I’d just like to get a sense of what you look like. Tall or short? Long hair or short hair? Straight or curly? The shape of your eyes, your nose, your lips. Do you wear glasses? I can get a much better sense of you if I can touch your face. Do you mind?”

  I swallow, thinking this has to be the strangest request a man has ever made of me. If he’d tried to cop a feel, I might have been less surprised. “No, I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

  He raises both of his hands toward my face and hesitates, as if waiting for permission. I reach for his hands and guide them to my face. His fingers are warm and slightly rough, and very methodical as he systematically maps my head, starting at the crown and making his way down.

  He touches my hair, measuring its length and texture, and then he brushes his thumbs across my forehead and traces the shape of my eyebrows. With the tips of his fingers, he skims the contours of my face,
learning the shape of my eyes, the length of my nose, the width of my lips.

  I stand perfectly still as I’m mesmerized by his inquisitive touch, which is both clinical and personal. There’s absolutely nothing sexual in his exploration, and yet I feel intimately connected to him. For a self-indulgent moment, I imagine what it would be like if his fingers traced the scars that run across my chest, one on each side of my sternum. I can easily picture him as a mindful, patient lover. Just the thought of him touching me like that sends a rush of liquid heat straight to my core, and I shiver.

  His nostrils flare, and for a crazy moment, I’m sure he can smell my heated reaction to his touch.

  “I smell vanilla and peppermint,” he says, sounding curious.

  I laugh nervously. “The vanilla is my lotion, and the peppermint is actually tea tree oil – my shampoo.”

  “It’s nice.”

  For a moment, I lose myself in him. He’s so observant, figuratively speaking. He pays attention to the smallest little detail. I think he’d make some lucky woman an amazing partner, not just in bed but out of it too. Shaking myself from that pointless reverie, I step back putting an end to his exploration.

  He drops his hands to his sides. “Sorry.”

  “No! It’s fine. You have nothing to apologize for. It’s just… I’m not used to being touched. I’ve been alone for a while.”

  “You’ve never mentioned a husband, or a significant other. Are you single?”

  “Yes. Well, I’m divorced.”

  He frowns. “I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

  “It’s fine, really. I’m just not used to it. Did you get what you were looking for?”

  He smiles. “Yes. What color is your hair, though? I can tell it’s just past your shoulders and wavy, but I can’t tell the color by touching.”

  I laugh, feeling self-conscious at his scrutiny. “Mud brown.”

  He grins. “And your eyes?”

  “Also brown. What about you? What color are your eyes? I can’t see them behind those dark glasses.”