I groan, then head down the hall to their apartment. I knock on the door a few times, no answer. I ring the doorbell, still no answer. Finally, I unlock his door and peer around it. His living room is pitch-black, and something about the darkness, the stillness of the apartment, gives me the overwhelming sensation of needing to keep quiet. Feeling very much like a cat burglar, I tiptoe inside.
"Jackson?" I call out, barely louder than a whisper.
No answer.
For the first time, real worry creeps in. Heath wouldn't have left his brother in real danger, would he?
I pass through the living room and approach the door to the left of the bathroom, which, from the layout of my own apartment, I know to be the master bedroom. Brushing away my reluctance, I push open the bedroom door. The dim orange glow from a bedside lamp illuminates the room. Jackson sits at the head of the bed, a large blanket thrown over his body, and his face lit up by the screen of the phone in his hands. Seeing him there, this typically pompous man all curled up like a little boy, tugs at my maternal instincts. He looks so sweet, so very miserably sweet.
The door creaks as I ease it open and his gaze darts up to mine. I freeze, feeling entirely out of place by just walking into his apartment and now his room. But my appearance doesn't seem to surprise Jackson. In fact, he looks a little relieved.
"I told him not to get you," he says.
Not only is his typically playful voice dull and nasally, the whites of his eyes lean toward red, an eerie contrast to his bright blues.
"What's wrong with you?" I stand at the doorway, arms crossed, eyeing him like I could very well decide to walk out any moment.
He snatches a handful of tissues from the box beside him and blows his nose loudly. Then he groans and looks up at me with self-conscious delay. I'm not sure he even realizes his eyes are round or that his brows tilt up in an earnest plea. In his stuffed-up voice, he says, "Leave me. Go on without me. Just let me die."
CHAPTER SIX
Jackson
I TELL HER TO go, but I want her to stay.
Her bright face is the best thing I've seen all day. Even if her eyes are brimming with humor and only traces of sympathy. It doesn't matter. Suffering is just better when there's a witness.
"Is it the man cold?" She lowers her voice conspicuously. "It's the man cold, isn't it?"
"Don't come too close," I tell her even as she approaches. "I don't want to get you sick."
She just nods gravely and sits on the bed beside me, facing me. She sets her palm to my forehead, and I resist the urge to shut my eyes. Her touch feels good, cool and refreshing, but I keep my eyes on her face. Because even in this shitty state, I'm fascinated by having her features this close up. Closer than ever before. Her lashes are thick, her freckles crisp but scarce, like stars in a city sky. And her lips, so perfect I have the impulse to run my thumb over them, to trace them.
"What's the worst symptom?" she asks. "Congestion? Body aches? Headache?"
I nod at each one, silently thanking God it's my day off.
"Everything hurts. I'm pretty sure I'm dying."
"Well, the man cold is notoriously deadly."
"You hexed me," I accuse, pulling the covers tighter around me, cocooning myself.
The corners of her lips pull up. "Do you want me to leave you here to die? Or do you want me to help?"
I narrow my eyes at her, enjoying the way she's looking at me, like the way women sometimes look at pets or small children. I didn't ever think I would care to receive this kind of adoration from a woman I want to sleep with so badly. But here I am, wanting nothing more than to be doted on by this beautiful sorceress.
"Can you make it stop, freckles?"
She looks to be on the verge of a snicker. "I'll see what I can do, dimples."
Samantha brings me water and watches as I drink it all, then leaves to retrieve some things from her apartment. I remain under the blanket cocoon, shivering periodically at the wisp of cold air that seems to travel down my spine. My bones hurt, my head feels like it's going to explode from the pressure in my sinuses. I have the inexplicable desire to groan for long periods of time, which I manage to fight while Samantha is around, but just barely.
She makes me tea, which is tart and hot enough to burn my esophagus, but I drink it because she tells me to. Because she looks a little scary when I try to refuse, and because I'm dying, anyway.
She forces me to inhale steam that smells like earth and lemon and mint. And I do it. Because the sensation of hot air traveling through my nostrils turns out to be oddly soothing.
And because I'm dying, anyway.
As she goes to leave me again, I say, "You should get me a bell, in case I need you."
Her glare is a little playful and a lot sexy. And I smile my most innocent of smiles in return.
When she comes back, she brings with her a soup, which could also be the result of a flood hitting the produce section of the grocery store. But it's surprisingly good. The vegetables so soft they melt in my mouth, the flavors mildly spicy and exotic, reminding me of something I might have eaten a long, long time ago, back when I was a kid. Back at my grandmother's house.
"What time is it?" I ask, noticing that the light of my bedside lamp has become redundant to the increasingly brightening room.
There's a clock on my nightstand, but the act of shifting my body enough to check it might just break me in half.
"Nine thirty," she replies.
"Don't you have work?"
"I called off."
My mouth parts in reply but the words don't come out.
She called off work…for me? To stay here with me and look after me?
"You didn't have to do that," is all I can think to say.
"You're clearly dying and it's breaking my heart."
She leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. I'm not sure why such a chaste move takes me off guard. Why it feels like more than it is. Why a pang of regret like I've never experienced before runs through me when I don't grab her face and kiss her lips instead. But I don't grab her face. I don't kiss her lips.
Because I'm dying.
Except, I'm not anymore. As I sit here, my body aches are all but gone and I can breathe. And when she leaned in to kiss my cheek, I was able to catch the faint trace of vanilla from her hair. A scent which seems to linger close to me.
"You're pretty," I say.
"Yeah?" She half rolls her eyes.
"That's not what I started to say. I actually meant to say, thank you. But it came out as, you're pretty."
"Well, I'll take both. How do you feel?"
Better. Much, much better.
I don't want to tell her this, because what if she leaves? I'd much rather have her here, right here next to me where I can stare.
"I'm all right," I say, and for the first time I let the blanket fall away. I'm wearing a grey t-shirt with the NYU logo on the front.
Eyeing it for a beat, she tucks her hair behind her ear and says, "I guess my job is done. I'll get going now."
"Not yet," I say quickly. "Better play it safe. My physical state has improved, yes, but what about my mental state? I need help to forget this whole ordeal."
She lifts a brow.
"Will you go out on a date with me? A real date. With food you actually want to eat. In a place where no one's even heard of kale?"
She doesn't answer right away and I realize then my mistake. I've yet to address her main reason for not wanting to date me in the first place.
"Look, I'm seriously sorry if even for a second, I made you feel like what you do for a living isn't legit. It is. Of course it is. You protect life just the same as I do, except we use different methods. I'll admit I didn't think much of those methods before, but you've made ninety percent of my symptoms disappear in a few hours." Fucking magic. "So, yeah, if I ever speak ill of holistic stuff again, you have permission to punch me. So how about it? You and me, Friday night?"
Her shoulders lift and sag under a breath, like she just isn'
t sure what to make of me. I wish I'd stayed in my blanket cocoon because then she looked at me like I was harmless and now she looks at me as if I threaten to slip past her guard. And I think I do. Because as her expression warms, she bites her lip to contain what I can only hope is a smile. I wish I could bite her lip, as well.
"I work Friday night," she says, tone regretful.
"Saturday night?"
She smiles. "All right, Jackson. Saturday. One real date. I can manage that."
I touch her chin, holding it between my thumb and forefinger. She stiffens, then smiles. I'm powerless to stop my thumb from grazing her bottom lip the way I pictured doing before. I swear she stirs. And I hate that I'm sick and that I can't pull her into bed with me and show her all the things she can manage.
"You won't regret it, freckles."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Samantha
A DAZZLING COMBINATION OF sweet and sultry scents fills the air. I stand in the largest, most gorgeous kitchen I've ever seen. The room's length spans the width of my entire apartment, easily, with its sleek granite countertop stretching out before us, dotted with different colored bowls filled with freshly chopped ingredients.
Behind us, skillets simmer sauces on the industrial size stove. The chef, Adriano, is an older Italian man with strong bone structure and eyes the color of dark wood. He doesn't speak often, but when he does, he gives Jackson and me small anecdotes of his life in Saluzzo. He describes his native, sleepy Italian town and its medieval structures and narrow cobblestone roads with an infectious nostalgia that has me missing a place I never knew existed.
I take periodic sips from a wine glass, but Jackson sticks to water because he's on call. I have a feeling he stole time to be with me tonight.
After finishing his colorful, detailed instructions, Adriano leaves the kitchen with a vague promise to return to check on us later. Jackson stands beside me, dressed for a night on the town, just as I am in my sleek, black cocktail dress. This private culinary class was surprise enough. The fact that Jackson arranged for us to also prepare a vegetarian pasta dish is totally unexpected. This is exactly what I needed after a long day of work. Preparing the ingredients is oddly soothing, the sizzling sounds of the skillet like white noise. Smells so delicious, they're erotic, leaving me all too aware of how close Jackson stands at my side. How sexy he looks with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up like he means business.
He's been making fun of my poor chopping technique all night. His, of course, is frustratingly perfect.
"You're so good at this."
He leans in, bringing his lips to my ear. "I'm exceptional at everything I do. Everything."
I bite my lip, not prepared for the way his words roll over me. We're alone for the first time tonight and I'm suddenly nervous.
"You're one of those people who's just naturally good at everything, aren't you? I don't even hang out with people like that," I say. "I like my friends at a functional enough level of mediocre to where I don't feel incompetent."
He chuckles, somehow knowing I'm kidding without me having to so much as smile. I like this guy. He gets me.
"It's a good thing I don't want to be your friend, Samantha."
I snap my head up mid-chopping motion to look into his eyes. They're an electric hue of blue, like the hottest part of a flame, threatening to engulf me where I stand.
Without warning, his hand comes over mine. "Watch your fingers," he says, eyes locked on mine.
His hand remains over my own, and his other comes to rest on the small of my back. His gaze lowers to my lips before he subtly licks his own in an apparently subconscious move. He leans in on an exhale and presses his lips to mine. Time lurches to a sweet stop as his tongue comes in for a taste, our mouths merging perfectly, and my nerve endings catching fire. But in just an instant, he pulls back, leaving my lips tingling and parted in surprise.
"Just a taste," he says with a wink. Then he goes back to his chopping as though he didn't set my head spinning with sensations. How such a short kiss could leave me so goddamn hot, I have no idea.
I'm in a cloud of internal steam when Adriano returns to compliment our food, which he says he can tell just from the smell, will be magnificent. Hungry, we are ushered away from our food and up a flight of stairs.
We emerge onto the building's rooftop. Midtown Manhattan sprawls out around us in all its glory, buildings crowding much of the skyline, but leaving just enough for me to glimpse the sky dimming with the last rays of sunlight. Patio lights strewn overhead glow brighter with each passing second. The city that never sleeps comes to life as night falls. New York City is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
As if that's not enough, a small table awaits us, draped in a white tablecloth, candles twinkling in its center.
"Wow," I whisper, under my breath.
Jackson pulls my chair out and as I settle into the seat, he takes the one beside me. I like that we are sitting side by side versus across from each other. We have the same view of the city and he's close enough to touch. If I have enough nerve.
"You like?"
Do I like? I more than like.
This man is getting all of the vagina tonight. All of it.
"It's beautiful."
The food we cooked up downstairs is brought to us, served looking fancier than I remember it being. It tastes incredible, the most intoxicating blends of flavors exploding in my mouth and damn near making my eyes roll back in my head.
"This is better than sex," I blurt out.
Jackson looks up with the most adorable expression of outrage on his face.
"Not better than my sex," he says. At my smile, he lays a warm hand just above my knee, sending a thrill up my spine. "Freckles, I can make you forget this pasta ever existed."
I take in a small breath, trying to keep cool even as his hand moves an inch or two up my thigh, to where my dress ends.
"You think so?"
"I know so."
He kisses me again. God, this man can kiss. It's absolute perfection, the way his lips dominate my mouth, the way his tongue toys with mine. Teasing and indulging all at once. This is more than just a taste, this is a feast.
"You look good enough to eat," he whispers against my mouth before diving back into the kiss.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, his kiss is hot as hell.
My thoughts are a buzz as his fingers crawl under my dress, and I nearly lift from my seat in agonizing anticipation of his touch. Then the buzzing sounds become louder.
My thoughts are literally buzzing.
Jackson pulls back, drawing his hand away to reach into his pocket. He glances at his cell and curses under his breath. "I'm being called in."
Frustration floods through me, but I try to keep it from my tone. "I'm sorry you have to go."
"Don't be sorry, Freckles," he says, still eyeing my lips like he's not done with me. "You're coming with me."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Samantha
I'VE BEEN IN OPERATING rooms on multiple occasions, but never have I seen one from this angle. I sit behind the angled glass pane that overlooks the entire operating room from a floor above.
I'm alone, starkly out of place in my cocktail attire. I watch the figures below move around like synchronized swimmers as they prepare for the operation.
A young boy lies on the table, his soft features visible even behind the oxygen mask. I want to be worried about this young boy, but the whole thing just seems so surreal. Jackson told me it was an easy surgery and shouldn't take longer than two hours. No one in the room seems worried at all. Pure professionals, gearing up for what they've probably done hundreds of times before.
Jackson enters the OR wearing blue surgical scrubs and a green surgical cap covered in a dolphin print. I know it's Jackson even with the mask he wears over his nose and mouth. As he gets gloves pulled on by a nurse, he looks up at me and winks. The mood in the room reaches me even through the separator.
Calm. Confident.
Someone turns
on music; a feel good oldie comes on. Marvin Gaye croons the first line of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" just loud enough to be heard over Jackson's voice.
"All right, people. Let's do this."
I'm in complete awe as I watch.
In awe of how much I don't hate being here, despite the fact that I've always hated hospitals. In awe of how Jackson commands his OR with precision and respect. Careful movements and clear directions, like the lead of a symphony.
Jackson stands at the head of this child, hands working carefully around the now exposed brain. There's no nail biting moment. There's no frantic beeping of machines. It's all smooth sailing.
Viewing it all from above, I revel in silence at the magnificence of it all. At the power one man can have to manipulate one of the largest, most elusive organs in the human body. He's in the zone, tapped into something I can only sense by the confident energy emanating from him.
When the surgery is over, Jackson leaves the OR. I almost forget that I'm here to see him as I continue to watch the scene below. Before long, the patient's been wheeled away, and a few stray nurses and technicians amble around the room like worker ants.
"Hey."
I turn at the sound. Jackson stands at the doorway to the observation galley. He's back in his clothes from dinner, but there's something different about him. Something so striking that I forget to respond. How is it possible for him to look hotter than he's ever looked before?
A flutter of nerves unleash in my belly and scatter across my body with every step he takes in my direction.
There's so much more to him now, a tantalizing hint of unadulterated power in his eyes, an almost tangible stream of pheromones emanating from him and wrapping around me.
He nods toward the glass behind me. "How'd you like it?"
"It was amazing," I say, unable to slant my words to sound anything other than awed.
A smile builds on his face, slow and satisfied. "That was my first time doing that procedure."
"I thought you said it was a simple procedure?"
You and Me Page 4
