“There.” He cups my Achilles in one hand and lowers my leg. With an almost reluctant sigh, he presses my knees inward, closing my thighs, and steps away, tossing the paper towel in the trash by the fridge. “You were right. It’s not bad at all.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He’s in the middle of the kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets. “Yeah.”
I hop down from the counter—a movement that sends my cleavage bouncing, a fact he doesn’t miss—and grab another pair of plates.
I dish out the food, hand him a plate and a fork and say, “I don’t have a dining room, and the kitchen is a little dusty, so in nice weather I eat out back.”
I’ve got a little round glass table and two chairs in the backyard, and it’s my favorite place in the world. I sit here in the mornings as weather allows and drink my coffee, and just breathe. The closest thing to peace is what I feel here, at this little table. It’s my place.
Inviting Jesse to share my favorite place feels deeply personal in an odd, intimate, scary way. This table and chairs were a purchase I made after the divorce was finalized, because I’d always wanted a table out here and Nicholas would never get me one and, at the time, I was saving all my money for the renovations. The day the judge signed the papers, I drove from the courthouse to an antique store, bought this set, brought it home, and promptly sat down with a glass of wine and cried.
Now it’s my place.
So why oh why did I invite Jesse to eat here with me? He’s sitting in the delicate wrought-iron chair, looking like an adult sitting in one of those miniature chairs in a kindergarten classroom. He’s too big for the chair, too big for the table, too big for the backyard. He just fills the whole space with his presence.
I set my plate on the table and take a bite—I smile, pleased with myself for making a yummy meal.
Jesse has eaten half his food before I get done with two bites, and then I realize there’s nothing to drink. I set my fork down and speak around a mouthful. “You want something to drink?”
He nods, fork halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, please. Whatever you have is fine. I’m not picky.
“I have sparkling water and…wine, and that’s pretty much it, unless you want me to make coffee.”
He laughs. “Water, wine, whatever you want.”
“No coffee?”
Another laugh. “At seven at night? I don’t think so. I’d be up till next week.” A self-conscious grin. “I used to be able to drink coffee all day and all night and never think twice, but nowadays? Coffee past, like, four in the afternoon keeps me up for hours. Getting older sucks.”
“It sure does.”
He eyes me. “Yeah, and what would you know about getting older? You’re just a kid.”
I snort. “Okay, if you count forty as a kid.”
“I’m forty-four, so I win.”
“I didn’t realize this was a competition.”
“I can turn everything into a competition,” he says. “I’m sort of competitive.”
I get up and decide to screw it, I’m pouring wine. So I uncork a bottle, pour two big glasses, and bring them back outside. Jesse has his phone out as I enter the backyard, but as soon as he sees me, he powers it all the way off, and shoves it back into his pocket.
“Sorry, just checking my email. James tends to rely on email for all his important communication.”
“It’s no big deal.” Actually, I’m impressed by his courtesy.
Nicholas was always on his phone. What’s the term I read about? Phubbing. Snubbing someone by talking on your phone. That’s Nicholas. Yet another way he proved how little he cared about me.
Jesse, on the other hand, even on an impromptu means-nothing dinner like this, is showing more courtesy than Nicholas ever did.
It feels good.
“You didn’t have to turn it off,” I said.
He shrugs as I hand him the glass of wine. His eyes are hot and intense on mine. “My mama raised me to have manners, and in my book, staring at your phone instead of a sexy woman is just bad manners all around.”
“I thought you’d had your fill of staring a few minutes ago,” I say, the words spilling out unbidden.
He snorts sarcastically. “Got my fill? Imogen, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Um, yeah, just before I came down after my shower.”
“Haha, okay Miss Literal. What I mean is, no, I definitely did not get my fill of staring at you.” His gaze stays fixed on mine, and is so intense that I have a hard time holding it. “That’s not a thing, Imogen.”
“What’s not a thing?”
“Getting my fill of looking at you.”
Oh god. Swoon.
Instead of swooning gracefully, however, what I end up doing is choking on my wine. Is this guy real?
“Did Audra send you?” I ask, another blurt I have no control over and didn’t intend to say.
“Audra? Who’s Audra?” He shakes his head. “No, I work for James Bod and I have no idea what Audra has to do with anything.”
“Audra is my best friend,” I say, “and she’s been after me before the ink was dry on my divorce papers to meet someone. She’s tried fixing me up a dozen times in a dozen ways with a dozen different kinds of guys. I thought maybe this whole thing was an elaborate ploy of hers.”
He frowns. “How could she have arranged for you to smash your own window? Is she a Time Lord or something?” He shakes his head, laughing. “I mean, seriously. And why would you think that in the first place?”
“Because you’re too good to be true.”
He leans close to me, so close I can smell the wine on his breath, the utterly masculine scent of sawdust and sweat. “Good? Have you not seen the big truck and the tattoos and the long hair?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make you bad. Just…a certain kind of man. You’re kind, and considerate, and generous, and skilled.” I hesitate over the next words, but again my mouth betrays me. “And hot as fuck.”
“Hot as fuck, huh?” His smirk is heated and humorous.
“Um. Sexy as sin?”
“I’m not a romance novel hero, so I’ll stick with hot as fuck, if you don’t mind.”
“My point is that yeah, actually, you are a sort of romance novel hero.”
He frowns. “How do you mean?”
“You show up looking the way you look, and you fix my window, and you flirt with me, and you say things that make me literally and figuratively swoon.” I shrug. “Ergo, you are a romance novel hero.”
“I’m not flirting with you, Imogen.”
My heart sinks. “You’re—you’re not?” God, have I just totally read this whole thing wrong?
He leans even closer, so close we could kiss, if either of were so inclined. “Nope. I’m hitting on you.”
Hope blooms, desire blossoms, and need burns sun-hot. “Oh. I see.”
At that moment, a horn blares, and then a few seconds later, a fist pounds on my front door. Puzzled as to who it could be and what they would need so urgently, I trot to the front door and crack it open.
The man on the other side of the screen door is even taller than Jesse, with arms the size of my waist. His hair and his beard are neatly cut and combed, and both are brown sprinkled with silver. He has a pair of Oakleys on his face, and his phone is clutched in one hand, and he looks furious.
“Um, can I help you?” I ask.
“Where the fuck is Jesse? His truck’s here and his phone is off.”
“Who are you?” I demand, not opening the door further than a small sliver.
“James Bod,” the man says through gritted, grinding teeth. “His boss.”
I hear Jesse’s tread behind me. “Yo, James, what up?”
“Why’s your phone off, you fuckin’ tool?” James demands, his voice an angry bark.
“Whoa, back off, James,” Jesse says, sounding taken aback. “Take a breath, man. What’s crawled up your ass?”
“The plumber fucked up at the Thomps
on job. The whole fucking basement is flooded! I need all hands so we can save the project, and my top employee has his goddamn phone turned off!”
Jesse shoulders past me and opens the door all the way, talking to James through the screen door. “Okay, well sorry for actually having a fucking life, James. Jesus.”
“The basement is flooded, Jesse. Waist deep.” James runs his hand through his hair. “It’s a clusterfuck, buddy. It’s gonna mean a total redo on the entire basement.”
Jesse groans. “Fuck, man. Seriously? We were damn near done with the basement. All but paint and switch plates.”
“Right, which is why I need you to get your ass over there.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
James turns around on a heel and trots down the steps, but then halts at the bottom and trots back up. “Sorry I was a dick,” he says to me, looking sheepish. “It was unprofessional of me, and I apologize.”
I smile at him. “Thank you for the apology, Mr. Bod. I accept. And it’s fine. Emergencies are like that.”
He juts his chin at the interior of the house. “My brother-in-law fix you up all right?”
I frown. “Your brother-in-law?”
James jerks a thumb at Jesse, who had jogged into my kitchen to retrieve his tool belt. “That joker. My brother-in-law.”
“Jesse is your brother-in-law?”
Jesse nods at me as he pauses by the door. “Yep. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on the day and his mood.” He turns to face me. “Sorry about this. Thanks for dinner.”
“It’s okay. Duty calls, right?” I smile up at him, feeling a stupid, annoying, persistent flutter in my belly—and regions southward—at the smile on his lips and the promise in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll find something else for you to fix.”
Jesse laughs. “Imogen, babe—trust me, there’s plenty around here for me to fix.”
“Hey, Don Juan, let’s go,” James growls. “Flirt with the clientele on your own time. Or better yet, don’t flirt with the clientele at all.”
Jesse nudges open the screen door, giving me a brilliant grin and a sly wink. “The job’s done, Jamie. So she’s not a client at the moment, just a former client. And don’t be a dick.”
James shakes his head as the two of them jog toward their trucks, still bantering. “I’ll show you a dick if you don’t get your ass in your truck.”
“Yeah, and I’d need a scanning electron microscope to even see the damn thing, you fuckin’ micro-peen chump.” Jesse whacks James upside the head. “Douche.”
“Hey, asshole. I can fire you, you know. Brother-in-law or not, best friend or not, I will fire your ass.” James reaches his truck—it’s almost a match for Jesse’s, being huge and black with every accent chromed out, sporting huge knobby tires and a lift kit, a back rack, and toolbox.
Jesse just laughs. “I’d love to see you fire me. Your little company would fall apart in ten seconds without me.”
James snorts, yanking open his truck door. “Funny, cause I seem to remember it was going just fine without you.”
“Oh yeah? And who, pray tell, found you your CPA to sort out your messy-ass books?” Jesse demands, climbing up into his own truck. “And who has the supply contacts at Pella and Kohler, hmm?”
James starts his engine, and then leans through the open window, shouting, “One word, asshole: Lunchbox!”
“That was second grade! Let it go already!” Jesse shouts back.
I laugh at their banter, which continues even as they drive away. When they’re gone, I head back inside, clean up dinner, put the leftovers in the fridge, and pour the rest of the wine into my glass.
Feeling at loose ends, I wander around my house, sipping wine and mooning about Jesse like a lovesick teenager.
He’s just so dreamy!
Chapter 5
My phone rings while I’m in a room with a patient. I’m happy and mad all at once. Happy because it seems to be working, and mad because I’m with a patient. My luck being what it is, it was in the back pocket of my scrub pants this morning, when I pulled my pants down to go pee and my poor phone took a swim. I fished it out within seconds of it hitting the water. I blew it dry and stuck it in rice in an effort to get it working. It still works…sort of. But it won’t go to silent, the screen is marbled and watery, and it won’t charge. So now, with my phone ringing in my pocket, it sounds like it’s…well…still at the bottom of the toilet bowl.
I’m in the middle of checking my patient’s blood pressure.
“You need to answer that?” he asks. The patient is a seventy-five-year-old man, a regular, and a mild hypochondriac. And a serious crank.
“No, it’s okay. I dropped it in the toilet this morning and now it won’t go into silent mode. Sorry, Mr. Christensen.”
“Shoulda left it at home, then, or in the car,” he grumbles as I write down his blood pressure. “Unprofessional, is what it is. Damn cell phones ringin’ all the damn time. Everybody staring at a screen insteada interacting with folks.”
“Your blood pressure is still pretty high, Mr. Christensen,” I said. “It’s one-thirty over eighty-seven. You’ve really gotta work on getting that under control.”
“Oh, save it for the real doctor,” he grouses. “Don’t need a lecture from some damn nurse.”
I roll my eyes at him, but go through the rest of the visit in silence.
After I’m done with Mr. Christensen, I stop by the desk and shove my phone at the bottom of my purse—because he was right about it being unprofessional to have my phone ringing in the room with a patient. Then I have three more patients—an embarrassed high school senior with a gnarly STD, a toddler with a cold and a helicopter mommy, and a middle-aged woman with swimmer’s ear.
By the time I’m done with all of them, Dr. Bishara is finished with Cranky Christensen.
“Imogen, a word with you please?” Dr. Bishara says, indicating his office.
I sigh. Here we go.
I follow him in, close the door, and lean against it, refusing to play his power game, the one where he sits on the corner of his desk and tries to intimidate me.
“Sit, please,” he says.
I smile. “I’m fine, thanks. I have patients to get to. What’s up, Dr. Bishara?”
He glares at me through his thick glasses. “Mr. Christensen said your phone rang while you were with him. We have a very clear policy regarding cellular devices, I do believe.”
“Yes, Dr. Bishara, I’m aware. But I dropped it in the toilet and now it won’t go on silent mode. It’s in my purse, now.”
“If your phone cannot be silenced, it should remain at home.”
“I have aging parents who live in Florida, Dr. Bishara. I can’t just not have my phone.” Which is true enough.
“Then replace it.”
“I can’t afford to, at the moment.” I hesitate, and then go for it. “Which does lead me to think…I’ve worked for you for ten years, Dr. Bishara. I’ve never been late, never called off, and I cover more shifts than anyone else. I’ve also never asked for a raise.”
Dr. Bishara removes his glasses. “Imogen, I do not think this is the right time for this conversation. I am in the middle of reprimanding you for violating our cell phone policy and you ask for a raise? What kind of logic is this?”
“Reprimanding me?” Oh—now I’m pissed. “Reprimanding me? I’m your best employee! How many other times has this happened? What about Tiffany? She’s literally always on her phone! She answered a call while she was with a patient, and you said nothing. But my phone goes off one time—something I can’t fix right now because my phone is broken and I can’t afford a new one because I haven’t had a raise in six years—and you reprimand me?”
“Now wait a moment—”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “You know what? No. Seriously?” Don’t be dumb, I tell myself; but it’s too late. My ire is up. Time to do something stupid. “Dr. Bishara—I quit.”
“Imogen, don’t be ridiculous.”
> I remove the stethoscope from around my neck and set it on his desk. “What’s ridiculous is that I haven’t quit before now. I can make double at the hospital doing the same thing I do here. At this point, I’ll take the extra hours and extra stress.” I give him a sarcastic, cutesy finger wave and fake smile. “Good luck without me, Dr. Bishara. You’ll need it.”
I shove the door open, ignoring his protests. I grab my purse, and walk past the front desk. Amber hurriedly puts a call on hold and chases after me.
“Did he seriously just fire you?” she asks, following me out to the parking lot. “For your phone going off?”
I laugh, feeling slightly hysterical. “No, I quit.”
Amber halts in place. “You—you quit?” Her voice rises about an octave on the last word. “You can’t quit! You’re the only reason this entire office is able to function!”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m done.” I pause with my hand on the handle of my ghetto-ass car. “Also, Amber, you should know your husband is cheating on you. Tiffany saw him at a restaurant with some other woman, making out and stuff. I told her she should tell you, but she didn’t. So…there you go. Sorry.”
Amber sniffs. “Dammit. I suspected, but I haven’t been sure.”
“Tiffany has pictures, actually. But she said you were a bitch to her about covering for her that one time she got wasted and no-call-no-showed, so she wasn’t going to tell you.” I laugh, not at all kindly. “Good luck with her. She’s a real treat.”
And with that, I climb into my car and drive away. Instead of going home, though, I go to the nearest cellular service provider and buy a new phone. Apparently I was due for an upgrade anyway, so it didn’t actually end up costing me a full arm and a leg. Then, with shiny new phone in my hand, I decide to keep splurging. Nothing like quitting your job to make you feel like celebrating.
I decide on Mexican. Chips and guac and margs and a smothered burrito.
Hammered Page 6
