The Cowboy's City Girl - An Enemies To Lovers Romance

by Emerson Rose

  Three days later, when I’m a mile from the hospital, a sense of calm takes ahold and I let my foot off the gas and relax. When I’m back on my unit, I head straight to the charting station outside Marcus’s room. When I see him still lying in his bed, I breathe a sigh of relief.

  A beautiful woman, who I assume is his sister, is at his bedside holding one of his large hands and reading from an iPad.

  She has a glow about her, a pure angelic aura that is the opposite of her brother’s dark troubled one. Her long silky dark brown hair is gathered in a low ponytail that hangs to her waist, and she’s dressed in jeans and a cream-colored cashmere sweater that shrugs off one shoulder.

  When I walk past the open door to his room, I glance inside. Her long legs are crossed, and one foot is swaying back and forth as she flips electronic pages with her thumb.

  I have been gone for three nights. This woman could very well be his wife or his girlfriend, although I can’t imagine a wife or girlfriend taking so long to show up. My friend and co-worker, Monica, told me when I called being nosy that it took her two days to arrive.

  No, his information said he had no other family, and they look too much alike not to be blood-related. They share the same beautiful bronze skin, dark hair, and long legs.

  I turn and make my way to the locker room to change into scrubs and lock up my purse. As I undress, I chastise myself for caring about who is or isn’t sitting with Mr. Castillo. It’s none of my business. I’m here to make sure he recovers from a car accident, not monitor his visitors or worry about his personal life.

  When I’m dressed, I swipe my badge through the time clock and find the day nurse to take report from. She speeds through the information as nothing much has changed. Some of the swelling has gone down in his brain, he’s still in traction, and, of course, he is still Roman Gladiator gorgeous.

  I introduce myself to his sister while ticking things off of my assessment list in my head.

  “Hi, I’m Imani. I’ll be taking care of, your… brother, is it?” I ask, praying that she answers yes. She lays her iPad down on Marcus’s bed and extends her hand with a smile.

  “Yes, yes, I’m Elena, nice to meet you,” I shake her hand. Up close I see just how much she looks like Marcus. It’s uncanny how much a woman and a man can resemble each other. Marcus and Elena have got to be twins.

  “Nice to meet you, Elena. How’s he doing today?”

  “The same, I suppose; he’s so still. I’ve never seen him like this. Marcus is usually in perpetual motion; he always has been. We’re twins. We haven’t been close the past few years, though,” she says. Her words are laden with sadness, and I sense pain in her voice. After being with him for one shift, I can imagine how difficult it is for her to be separated from him long-term.

  “Twins. I was just thinking how much you look alike; it makes sense now. I hear you don’t live in Seattle, where are you from?”

  “Maine. About as far away as we can get from each other and still live in the States.”

  I move to the bedside and listen to his lungs while we continue to get to know each other.

  The distance between them seems to make her melancholy. I wonder why but I don’t want to be nosy, so I keep still about it.

  It must be something serious to keep twins so far apart.

  She slides her hand back into his and relaxes back into her chair, and I find myself wishing it were my hand on his instead of hers.

  “It’s just the two of us, our parents aren’t alive,” she says.

  “I’m glad he has someone here with him,” I say smiling. “He might be able to hear you when you talk to him. I always encourage family members to speak to their loved ones. You never know, it could help.”

  “I’ve heard of that, but I wasn’t sure if it was true. I’ll start talking to him. What about reading?”

  “Sure, anything that stimulates his brain can be helpful.”

  “Okay. A part of me wishes he would show some kind of response, but, I mean, oh, I don’t know.” She shakes her head, and her voice trails off.

  She’s uneasy, but I can’t tell if she’s worried that he won’t regain consciousness or that he will.

  “You don’t want him to wake up?” The words fall from my lips before I can stop them. I can’t believe I asked that question out loud. What is the matter with me?

  “Well, Marcus is… difficult. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything in front of him if he can hear me?”

  “Oh, sure, if you want to talk about it I’m always just outside the room on the other side of the window, charting.” I point toward the window.

  “Thank you.” Her eyes dart from my face to Marcus, and I swear relief spreads through her body when she sees that he is still unconscious.

  At my charting station outside Marcus’s room, the bustling of the ICU continues around me, but the only thing I can think about is Elena’s remark that Marcus is difficult.

  What did she mean by that? And why don’t they keep in touch? They’re twins, I find that strange.

  When my charting is caught up, I consider Googling him or looking through his chart to see what kind of work he does. It’s not a breach of HIPPA, I am his nurse after all. Knowing his profession could help me care for him better, right? I continue justifying reasons to look him up because I do not snoop through my patient’s lives.

  But, then again, I’ve never had a patient that made me feel the way Marcus does.

  I flip to the first page of his chart where his admitting information is located and find Dominus in the box titled place of employment.

  Dominus? What kind of place is that? It sounds like dominatrix; I wonder if it’s one of those kinky clubs that are popping up everywhere lately.

  Google it.

  No, it’s none of my business. My God, why can’t I just take care of the guy and leave his personal life alone?

  Elena steps out of his room snapping me from my thoughts. She’s wearing a long camel-colored coat drawn tight around her waist with a wide belt. I can’t help but admire her soft Italian leather boots. She pulls off a casual exotic look with ease.

  “Good night, Imani, please take good care of my brother. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  “Of course. Do we have a number where we can reach you at if he comes around?”

  “Yes, I gave it to the day nurse. Please call me right away if his condition changes in any way, I’ll come day or night.”

  “Ok, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  She turns on her four-inch heels and clicks across the tile floor to the elevator.

  I want to be alone with Marcus. It’s wrong to be happy that his only family member has gone home, but I am.

  In his room, I close the blinds to the small window that faces my charting station and shut the door. After I push Marcus’s scheduled medications into his IV, I touch his warm, soft hand and lean down close to his mouth. An urge I’ve never had before comes over me, and I want to bite his perfect full bottom lip.

  What is it about him that makes me have thoughts like this? What is it that draws me to him like a moth to a flame?

  I bite the inside of my cheek to help rein in my compulsion and turn my head to the side like a curious animal. The image of him opening his eyes at this exact moment flashes in my mind and I almost chuckle. He would think I was an absolute maniac. I’m sure I’d be out on my ass fired from being his nurse forever.

  I move away a few inches and, after a moment of hesitation, I speak in a soft voice.

  “Marcus, it’s Imani again. You were in an accident three days ago. You’re in the hospital, and I’m your nurse. You look like a guy who keeps a clean-shaven face, am I right? I’m going to help you out in that department, okay?”

  I don’t expect him to respond, but I’ve always felt it important to communicate with my patients whether they can talk back or not. They are still in there somewhere, and if it were myself locked away in my brain I’d like to be spoken to.

  I can’t believe
no one has taken the time to shave his face in the four days I’ve been off. He’s going to look like a lumberjack pretty soon, albeit the sexiest lumberjack who ever lived.

  I move the oxygen cannula from his face and lay it on the pillow. I hitch my hip onto the bed next to him and settle in to enjoy the heat from his body against mine.

  I inhale and blow away the anxious butterflies in my tummy. His hair flutters from my breath and foreign feelings spark through my body.

  I smooth shaving cream over his face and neck and begin to drag the razor along his neck while tilting his chin and rotating his face around for a close shave. I take my time and enjoy touching him in such an intimate way while he sleeps.

  The job could have been done much quicker, and I feel a little guilty for drawing it out on purpose but that doesn’t stop me.

  When I’m finished, I place my hands on either side of his face and brush my thumbs against his smooth newly-exposed skin. He’s even more breathtaking with a clean-shaven face. I didn’t think that was possible.

  I brush a dark curl of hair from his forehead and lean in closer to examine a gash along his hairline that isn’t clean enough for my liking. I grab a few alcohol pads and some sterile gauze to clean the wound.

  I continue to speak to him in a soft, low voice, explaining every move I make until he’s bandaged up. When I’m done, I sit back and examine my work. It’s perfect, like him.

  I sit and daydream for a while about leaning down and brushing my lips against his. How would that feel? Would he know, would he remember? Am I losing my fucking mind even having these thoughts?

  I hop off the edge of the bed, replace the oxygen, clean up my mess, and leave the room in a rush. This is ridiculous. Maybe I should trade patients with another nurse?

  No, I can’t. The thought of anyone else touching him makes me want to yell “Stop, he’s mine!”

  Yep, I’ve lost it, no doubt about it.

  I keep my hands to myself for the rest of my shift, and, when it’s over, I find myself reluctant to leave again.

  His day nurse today informs me that his sister has been coming around nine the past two mornings. I know he won’t be alone, but the nagging anxiety I feel about leaving him won’t go away. He’s a stranger, Imani, a stranger, and you’ll be back here in a little more than twelve hours. Twelve hours has never felt so far away.

  Three

  At home, I wash my face, tie my long ebony hair in a knot, and grab a bottle of water before curling up in my bed. I hold off on taking my sleeping pills for now and pull my iPad from the drawer of my bedside table. The blank screen begs me to Google Marcus’s place of business and, after a second of hesitation, I tap my finger on the glass and type in Dominus.

  I’m surprised to find that it’s an elegant member's-only restaurant and nightclub. A few clicks later, I learn that it’s not a single restaurant but a chain with locations all over the world. Here in the U.S., he has one in Seattle, San Diego, New York, Chicago, and Miami. Internationally, there are locations in Italy, France, Brazil, and even Australia.

  Damn, this man is successful. I knew he must have money or he would have never landed in Seattle Trinity hospital, but I didn’t expect this.

  I can’t get over the degree of extravagance. No expense was spared in the decorating department, that’s for sure. The nightclubs are dark and mysterious, a little creepy for my taste but that peaks my curiosity a bit more.

  A little voice in the back of my head is telling me that I should stop right here. Digging any deeper into this man’s past is only going to bring me trouble, but do I listen?

  No.

  Fifteen minutes after I told my little voice to shut up, I’ve only learned three things about Marcus Castillo. He is thirty-six years old, he lives in Seattle, and he was born and raised in Italy.

  That’s it.

  I hit the brick wall of all brick walls after finding his birthplace. There’s no more personal information to be found, nothing.

  There are pictures of him at various Dominus locations around the world, spanning over at least fifteen years. He is wearing a regal suit in every photograph, but what stands out the most to me are his eyes. They look vaguely familiar to me.

  They’re a piercing green, but not just green. It’s a unique shade of green that a person could get lost in. They’re hypnotic, smoldering bedroom eyes in many of the photos but, in others, I see solitude and seclusion. I’m an eye person. I believe in the saying that your eyes are the windows to your soul.

  I would have guessed him to have brown eyes with his dark complexion and Italian heritage. Then it dawns on me; the eyes, of course I have seen them before. But they were on someone else, his twin.

  Elena has the same green eyes, but hers have something that Marcus’s don’t. Elena’s eyes sparkle with a certain peace and tranquility that his lack.

  In almost every photograph he is alone, as in without women or a date, and he is never smiling. You’d think women would be flocking around a gorgeous, wealthy man like Marcus.

  His expressions are intense and sharp with the hint of a scowl. Now I can see why he has those tiny permanent lines between his eyes.

  I scroll down and come across a collection of photographs taken at Dominus locations all over the world. There are famous people, and I mean A-list celebrities, posing with him on red carpets that lead into his posh restaurants and nightclubs. Not one person is touching him in any of the pictures. They stand close, but it’s clear that he is not a touchy-feely kind of man and everyone knows it.

  Frustrated, I lay the iPad aside and take my sleeping pills. I snuggle down into the duvet and close my eyes. In the darkness, I imagine how it must feel to be him right now trapped in his mind unable to move or speak, possibly aware of what’s going on around him yet powerless to do anything about it.

  Marcus comes off like a man who thrives off of being in control and feeds on power. Maybe that’s what Elena meant when she said he was difficult.

  Maybe I don’t want him to wake up after all.

  Four

  Day sleeping can be unsettling. Waking up in a dark room with light peeking in around the curtains throws me off every time.

  I have no idea what time it is. In fact, I’m not even sure what day it is. I roll over and open one eye to look at the clock. It’s still early, and a creative buzz pushes me out of bed.

  Today I’m trading a few hours of sleep for time at the Seattle Glass Blowing Studio. I love it there, it’s a place of healing and new beginnings. At SGB, I can throw myself into making something beautiful and escape reality, if only for a short time.

  I roll out of bed and grab my phone to play some music while I shower. In the bathroom, I stop in front of the mirror and narrow my eyes at the chronically tired version of myself. A woman I scarcely recognize stares back at me with crazy tangled jet-black hair and bags under her eyes. “Who are you, and what have you done with my youth?” I ask out loud, but I know the answer. I work too damn many hours and don’t have enough fun.

  I could use a vacation somewhere warm where I can soak up the sun on a sandy beach and relax. I turn on the water, strip down, and step into the hot shower. I tap my foot to the beat of the music and swivel my hips while I wash my hair.

  I rarely go anywhere without music except work, and even then, when it’s slow, I sneak in my ear buds while I’m charting or observing a sleeping patient.

  Marcus sleeping.

  There he is again, invading my thoughts. Am I ever going to get this guy off my mind?

  After my shower, I see a slight improvement. I have color on my cheeks from the hot water, and my hair is untangled and smooth.

  When I’m dry and my challenging hair has been flat ironed and braided, I dress in old jeans and a tank top, layering a navy-blue UW sweatshirt over the top. I have to layer when I go to SGB. It’s roasting hot in that place, but it's fall outside and the lower temperatures mean it’s time to bundle up.

  I pull on my boots as I scan the room for
my purse. Where is my damn purse? I don’t know how I manage to lose a fifty-pound purse, which is a borderline suitcase, so often.

  There it is on the floor by the front door, right where I left it. I heave it over my shoulder and pull the hood up on my sweatshirt before I step outside.

  The wind is chilly today. I hate saying goodbye to my favorite season. I’m going to miss the freedom of summer attire, playing outside with my sister’s kids, and eating barbecued ribs in her backyard.

  I live above several small shops including a bakery and a clothing boutique. I fell in love with my apartment when I got my first whiff of the heavenly smells that drift up through the ventilation system. Being a homebody, for the most part, I wanted a place that felt warm and welcoming. You can’t get much more welcoming than the smell of freshly baked bread and pastries.

  I scan the street up one side and down the other for strangers before I spot my red Volvo S60 across the street. I make decent money, I own my apartment, all of my student loans are paid off, and I live well beneath my means, so I spoil myself with a great car or, more importantly, a safe car.

  I have trust issues. My social life consists of occasionally going out with a very select group of friends. Being safe is monumental to me, hence the safe car. The idea of breaking down and being stranded on the side of the road, alone and vulnerable, is unthinkable. New car, regular servicing, and new tires more often than necessary keep that particular fear at bay.

  I pull into the side parking lot at SGB and jog down the sidewalk to keep warm until I reach the entrance. The smell of burning leaves hangs in the crisp air. If it weren’t so chilly, I’d stay outside and breathe it in for a while.

  Inside I pass through the lobby and swing open the door to the sweltering hot studio. My old friend Dax is working on another vase. I swear he’s made a million of them. Several people are scattered around the studio working on their projects that are all in different stages of completion.