Something
Precious
By:
Brooke St. James
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
Copyright © 2018
Brooke St. James
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Other titles available from Brooke St. James:
Another Shot (A Standalone)
(A Modern-Day Ruth and Boaz Story)
When Lightning Strikes (A Standalone)
Something of a Storm (All in Good Time #1)
Someone Someday (All in Good Time #2)
Finally My Forever (Meant for Me #1)
Finally My Heart's Desire (Meant for Me #2)
Finally My Happy Ending (Meant for Me #3)
Shot by Cupid's Arrow (A Standalone)
Dreams of Us (A Standalone)
Meet Me in Myrtle Beach (Hunt Family #1)
Kiss Me in Carolina (Hunt Family #2)
California's Calling (Hunt Family #3)
Back to the Beach (Hunt Family #4)
It's About Time (Hunt Family #5)
Loved Bayou (Martin Family #1)
Dear California (Martin Family #2)
My One Regret (Martin Family #3)
Broken and Beautiful (Martin Family #4)
Back to the Bayou (Martin Family #5)
Almost Christmas (A Standalone)
JFK to Dublin (Shower & Shelter Artist Collective #1)
Not Your Average Joe (Shower & Shelter Artist Collective #2)
So Much for Boundaries (Shower & Shelter Artist Collective #3)
Suddenly Starstruck (Shower & Shelter Artist Collective #4)
Love Stung (Shower & Shelter Artist Collective #5)
My American Angel (Shower & Shelter Artist Collective #6)
Summer of '65 (Bishop Family #1)
Jesse's Girl (Bishop Family #2)
Maybe Memphis (Bishop Family #3)
So Happy Together (Bishop Family #4)
My Little Gypsy (Bishop Family #5)
Malibu by Moonlight (Bishop Family #6)
The Harder They Fall (Bishop Family #7)
Come Friday (Bishop Family #8)
So This is Love (Miami Stories #1)
All In (Miami Stories #2)
Something Precious (Miami Stories #3)
Chapter 1
Every time I got sick, it seemed like a huge surprise that my body could possibly hurt so much. It was like I completely forgot what it was like to be sick until it happened again. Maybe it was just that I took for granted being healthy and pain-free until I was no longer healthy and pain-free.
I pondered this as I stared at the ceiling in my bedroom. I held-off swallowing as long as I could, but finally, I had to, and it felt like a ball of wet fire—molten-hot lava, traveled down my throat. I cringed, and my eyeballs and head ached as my face contorted. My whole body hurt—especially my head. My nose burned and my cheeks throbbed. Obviously, some colds were worse than others. I could remember times when I had been sick and would still push through and go to work or about my day-to-day routine.
That wasn't the case this time. Whatever I caught knocked me flat on my back. It was currently day two, and I still felt out-of-it and incapable of getting out of bed. I had watched a few movies, but mostly, I just stayed in bed and dozed off, thinking, hoping that every nap would bring me closer to normal.
I considered that I could possibly have strep throat, but I decided to wait it out for another day and see if it improved. In the meantime, I was as comfortable as I could be.
I lived in a guesthouse that belonged to Bill and Jana Reynolds. It was a small cottage situated in their beautiful backyard. Their back terrace was my front yard, so we saw each other all the time. They were like family to me and were renting Abigail and me the place for far less than it was worth.
Yesterday, on separate occasions, Bill and Jana had both come over and looked in my throat with a flashlight. Each of them commented on the fact that they didn't see any white patches on my tonsils, which was, apparently, a good sign. Either way, I planned on seeing a doctor if I showed no signs of improvement by tomorrow morning. Tomorrow was Thursday, and my best friend and roommate, Abigail, was getting married on Saturday.
I had to be feeling better by then.
Not that I was a bridesmaid or anything.
Abigail and Ash weren't doing all that. They were having an intimate ceremony for family and a few close friends at an aquarium, followed by a reception party that evening.
They had invited a lot of people to the party, but there would be no bridesmaids or groomsmen. Regardless of the fact that I had no responsibilities at the wedding (not even as a photographer) I still very much wanted to be there for my friend. I needed to, actually. Even if I was still sick by the time Saturday rolled around, I would find a way to go.
Thinking about Abigail's upcoming wedding inspired me to muster up the energy to get out of bed and make myself a cup of tea.
Moments seemed to pass in a blurry haze, and before I knew it, I was standing over my stove, staring at our stainless steel kettle, which was making a hissing noise.
I glanced toward the counter on my right, noticing that there was a mug with a teabag resting in the bottom of it, just waiting for hot water to be poured. I hardly remembered putting it there, and I blinked at it, absentmindedly hoping I chose the right kind of tea—something with caffeine since I hadn't had my coffee that morning and I thought the lack of caffeine might be adding to my headache.
I blinked at the little paper tag that was hanging at the end of the string, trying to decipher what kind of tea it was. I was relatively sure it was green tea. I thought I remembered taking it out of the box now that I noticed the delicate green design on the tag. What I probably needed was some kind of specialty medicinal tea for my burning throat, but Abigail and I were both coffee drinkers, so our selection of tea was pretty limited. Plus, I was almost certain that kind wouldn't contain my much-needed caffeine.
I got lost in thought, wondering how much caffeine green tea had.
My thoughts went in circles as my eyes skimmed the counter. I went from thinking of tea to the fact that I needed to wipe a few crumbs that were around the toaster.
Bill and Jana's place boasted beautiful, marble countertops, but I noticed the back edge of it, along the backsplash, could use a good wipe-down. I told myself I would do that once I was feeling better.
The kettle was beginning to hiss more intensely when I heard a knock on the door. The sharp, abrupt sound of it shook me from my daze, and I instantly glanced in that direction. There was a window in the top section of the door, but I couldn't make out who was standing on the other side.
It seemed to be a male figure, but all I could see was the edge of a shoulder and part of an arm.
I figured it was probably Bill.
I didn't feel up to answering the door.
I thought about ducking behind the cabinet so that he wouldn’t see me. I was already in the process stepping to the side when I realized that he might have looked inside before he knocked. Just because he wasn't staring into the
window at that moment didn't mean he hadn't seen me already. I had been spacing out, so I wouldn't have known.
I stood there for a moment in a sick stupor, wondering if I could get away with simply not answering the door regardless of whether or not he had seen me. My room was down the hall, and there was no way I could get to it without being seen.
Abigail had been here the other time that Bill had come over to look in my throat.
She had been the one to let him in.
I did not feel like talking to anyone that time, nor did I feel like it now. I loved Bill and everything, but I wanted more than anything to just go back to bed. I thought maybe he would just give up and go away if I didn't answer the door. I stood there for a few more seconds, moving slowly as I reached out to gingerly turn the burner off.
There was another knock. I saw his arm move up as he used his knuckle to tap on the edge of the door. This time, it was a little louder. I watched as the figure on the other side of the door shifted and the person standing there began to peek into the house through the window.
It was not Bill at all.
It was Jake.
Jake Reynolds.
The Jake Reynolds.
Luckily, I was too sick for my body to react the way it normally did. My heart began beating faster at the sight of him, but I was far more indifferent than usual.
He squinted through the glass, trying to see in.
Jake was a good friend of mine and had been for years. He was Bill and Jana's nephew, and he also happened to live in this very guesthouse before Abigail and I moved in. He was familiar enough with the place and with me that he shamelessly searched for any sign of life through the window.
He smiled when he finally caught sight of me, and before I knew what was happening, he reached for the knob and let himself in.
"Sup, K.K.? I heard you were sick."
Jake was literally the only person in the whole world who called me K.K. My name was Kristen, and that's exactly what everyone else called me—even my little nephew called me Aunt Kwisten.
Jake was the life-of-the-party type—the guy who knew everyone. Even if he didn't know someone, he made conversation and included them, and by the end of the encounter, they were thick as thieves. Jake was a friend to everyone—impossible to hate. He was a name-shortener from way back. And the thing was, no one seemed to mind when Jake did it. Even people who normally got aggravated when people shortened their name without permission forgave Jake for doing it. He was just that charming.
"I am," I said, sniffling. I poured water from the kettle into my mug. I wasn't looking straight at Jake, but I could see out of my periphery that he was crossing the room, headed toward me.
I could also see that he was holding something. He came to stand on the other side of the kitchen peninsula, setting the object between us on the counter top. I glanced at it. It was a plastic bag that contained a paper bag. I knew by the looks of it that there was food inside. I had seen enough take-out in my life to know it at a glance.
"I brought you some soup," Jake said, gesturing toward the bag.
"You didn't have to do that," I said, holding the mug in front of my face. I was completely out of it, but it was still instinct for me to hide myself since I knew how terrible I looked. Old habits die hard. I had it bad for this man for what must have been almost a decade, and sick or not, I still impulsively blocked myself from his full inspection. I swallowed a sip of tea even though it was really hot and not done steeping. I tried my best not to cringe as the hot water washed down my raw throat.
"They had baked potato and chicken-and-rice, and I couldn't decide, so I brought both."
I gave him a thankful smile. "You didn't have to," I said, not even knowing I was repeating myself.
Jake tilted his head and gave me a regretful smile. "I hate seeing you sick," he said.
I tried to smile. "It's a bad one."
"Flu?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I don't think so. I haven't had a fever or anything. I just feel ill. Some colds are just worse than others, I think." I lifted one shoulder. "I'm hoping I'll feel better in the morning. If not, I'll go to the doctor."
Even in my dazed state, my body began to react to Jake. I felt drawn to him despite feeling so lousy. He was literally the perfect guy—my perfect guy. He had striking ice-blue eyes framed with dark lashes. His face was a combination of sweet and fierce, approachable and dangerous, kind and tough, beautiful and rugged. I loved everything about Jake—the way his mouth moved when he talked, the way he smelled, the way his hair fell over the side of his forehead, the way his dark whiskers grew on his jaw and how he always had them trimmed.
The list went on and on.
His dimples.
Don't even get me started on his dimples. I could barely look at them without my insides turning all warm and gooey.
I had watched Jake turn from a boy to a man in the time I knew him, and I had it bad for him since day one. He started as a handsome young man, and got broader, thicker, more square-jawed and dashing. He got more masculine by the minute. What's more than that was he was sweet. His personality was just as irresistible as his face and body. He was funny and brilliant, and he was kind and considerate without being a doormat.
God had outdone Himself on this man.
The only problem with Jake (and it was a big one) was that he had no idea I existed.
I mean, he definitely knew I existed on this earth—we were good friends, and at any time, he would give me the shirt off his back. He just didn't know I existed the way I wished he did.
Our relationship was and had always been entirely platonic. It was the friendship-ey-est relationship ever. It was nothing but a friendship.
I had done everything I could to clue Jake in on the fact that I was madly in love with him, but he never seemed to notice. It was probably difficult to see past his perfect, gorgeous string of girlfriends—especially the latest one, his current girlfriend, Clara.
They had been together for what must have been two or three years now. They had broken up several times, and each time, I prayed that Jake would somehow miraculously notice me.
But it never happened. All that happened was that he stayed single for a while and then got right back together with Clara.
I didn't have bad self-esteem. I liked myself and knew I was a good person, but physically, I couldn't compete with Clara. She was literally a model—a fitness and yoga instructor who did part-time modeling.
Like Jake, her body and face were pretty much flawless. Her dad was Cuban and her mom was American, and she spoke perfect English and Spanish. I really admired people who could speak multiple languages, and I almost hated that Clara could do it so well. I had taken a few years of Spanish in high school, and I could still barely stumble through the basics.
I had made Clara's acquaintance enough times to know that there was no use comparing myself to her. We were all created differently, and I was generally confident with my place in the world, but the truth of the matter was that God created some of us with a physical advantage. Clara Garcia was a good old fashion man-magnet. Period.
Chapter 2
I sat on a nearby barstool, staring into my tea and wondering how a simple cold could make me feel so dang disoriented. Jake made himself at home in my place. He had been over plenty of times since I moved in—enough to know that I pretty much kept all the kitchen stuff where he had it when he lived there. He easily found the bowls and spoons, and he took them out of their respective places.
"Baked potato or chicken-and-rice?" he asked, taking the soup containers out of the bag.
I glanced at the clock, feeling like it was early for lunch. It was 1pm, and I had no idea where the morning had gone.
"Chicken," I said weakly.
I stared downward absentmindedly, but I could see Jake as he poured the soup out of the container and into a bowl. He took a sip from the side of the spoon before putting it into the bowl and sliding it in front of me.
"It's sti
ll pretty warm," he said. "Try it and see if it's hot enough. If not, I'll nuke it."
I set my tea down and carefully sipped a spoonful of the savory, brothy liquid. I wasn't hungry, but it tasted much better than the tea, and it went down easy.
"It's really good," I said.
"Hot enough?"
I nodded. "Thank you for bringing this."
"You're welcome," Jake said.
He put the rest of the chicken soup, along with the container of baked potato soup, into the fridge before sitting on the stool next to me.
"I wish you were feeling better because I have an exciting proposition for you."
"What is it?" I asked continuing to slowly sip from the spoon.
"It's a job," he said. "Shooting a portfolio. Two-grand for one morning's work."
"It's never just one morning's work, but go ahead and tell me what it is," I said. My words came out somewhat dull and lifeless on account of being sick, and I glanced at Jake to find that he was staring at me with a look of confusion.
"It is just one day," he assured me. "One photoshoot."
As a professional photographer, this was a misconception I dealt with all the time. People always thought that the photographer simply showed up to take the pictures and that was all there was to it. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Eighty percent of my work happened after the shoot—choosing photos, and carefully editing them in Photoshop.
I loved my work, though. When I first started out, I took just about any job I could get. But lately, I had steady work specializing in children's photography—especially newborns.
I stumbled upon several wealthy clients who hired me for newborn photography, loved my work, and then told their friends about me. It seemed as if all of them were having babies one-after-another.
It was fun, I was learning a lot and turning out to be a capable artist. My books were increasingly full, and I was making good money. I was happy with where I was with my career and was no longer in a position where I had to take just any job—although two thousand was tempting—depending on what kind of portfolio it was.
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