Confessions Of A Klutz: Confessions Series #1

by Davies, Abigail

  “We have two more companies we could break down and—”

  “Fuck,” I spit when the guy beside me leans over, handing Mr. Taylor a folder and hitting my shoulder. My neck, shoulder, and everything in between throbs and it’s pure torture. So much so I feel tears stinging the back of my eyes as all gazes swing my way. “I’m sorry,” I choke out, my voice barely audible.

  I don’t want to chance a glance at Mr. Taylor, so I keep my head down as much as I can bear as the man beside me clears his throat and continues on. But when I look up, I see Mr. Taylor’s gaze fixed on me, searching, probing, looking for something.

  I try to mask the pain I’m in, but he must see it because five minutes later, he’s declaring the meeting finished.

  “Miss Scott,” he booms, his voice cutting through all of the murmuring voices as they hang around in the room. “My office… now.”

  Swallowing against my dry throat, I close my eyes, preparing myself to stand up. When I do, I grit my teeth against the white-hot sensation rolling through me. I follow after him, back into the elevator and into his office, his muscle in his jaw ticking like the hand of a clock the whole way there.

  He stops at his office door, waiting for me to go in first. I do so, him shutting the door with a click behind us before he says, “Sit down.”

  Shuffling over to one of the chairs opposite his desk, I slowly lower myself, my breath catching when my elbow touches the side of the leather.

  Sitting down behind his desk, he watches me for several seconds, his eyes taking me all in and narrowing when he stops at my lips for a beat.

  “What the hell was that?” he growls, but doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “A meeting with all the department heads and you think it’s appropriate to curse?”

  “I—”

  “I should have known the first day you wouldn’t be any good. You haven’t even finished my schedule—”

  “Yes, I have,” I interrupt, not caring about his stupid rules as the anger rises within me. “It’s in your inbox. I sent it the first day.”

  He raises a brow at me before clicking the mouse next to his computer. After several seconds he says, “It’s not here.”

  Huffing out a breath, I stand up, slowly walking over to him and just now realizing I still have my fluffy socks on. Shit.

  Trying not to bring attention to them, I stand beside him, looking at the screen and taking in a lungful of air, smelling his addictive cologne.

  “There.” I point with my good hand at the screen. “Viloveschocolateforlife@taylorindustries.com.”

  “You… what?” He shakes his head, clicking on the email and seeing the attached schedule. “Right, okay.” I raise my brow, not expecting an apology but Jesus Christ, he’s an asshole. “That still doesn’t excuse the cursing.”

  “He knocked me,” I try to defend.

  He looks away from his computer, leaning his head back slightly. His head comes level with my chest on account of me being five foot two.

  “So?”

  Blowing out a breath, I turn around, leaning my ass against his desk and ignoring the scolding look he gives me.

  “I went out last night—”

  “Good for you, but that has no relevance at all with—”

  “I saw my cousin—”

  “Stop interrupting me,” he booms.

  Rolling my eyes, I give him an incredulous stare. “You’re interrupting me.” His jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth. I take it as my cue to continue. “As I was saying... I went out with my cousin who I haven’t seen in years. One thing led to another and many tequilas later, I’m dancing.”

  “What does this have to do—”

  “You should know,” I state. “I’m accident prone. I fall over my own two feet and don’t have a day where something embarrassing doesn’t happen to me.” I shrug my good shoulder which is a giant mistake. But I work through it as I tell him, “I’ve learned to live with it.”

  Taking a stuttering breath and wincing, I open my mouth to tell him the rest when he pushes his chair back, rolling it several feet away before standing up. “Why are you pulling that face?”

  I swallow before rushing out, “I fell over and hit my shoulder and neck on the edge of a table before my cousin made drinks topple onto me. I don’t remember much after apart from waking up this morning with a hangover and in agony.”

  He takes two steps toward me, his body inches away from mine and towering over me in the most delicious way causing my thoughts to go haywire for a second.

  “Where does it hurt?” he asks, his deep voice softer this time, and when I stare into his eyes, I see the concern flashing back at me. I stay silent which prompts him to say, “Tell me where it hurts, Violet.”

  Why does my name sound so good rolling off his tongue? I stare at him, willing him to say it again so I can lock the memory away and bring it out when I need to—

  “Violet.”

  “I… here.” I point at my collarbone.

  “Can…” He clears his throat, tilting his head at it. “Can I check?”

  Rolling my lips between my teeth, I want to tell him no but what comes out of my mouth is, “Yes.”

  I undo the first two buttons of my blouse and try to pull it aside. “Shit on a stick! That fucking hurts.”

  He takes the edge of the pastel pink material, pulling it aside. “Jesus Christ,” he spits out, running the pads of his fingers over it. I want to savor his touch but it hurts like a mothertrucker. “I think you’ve broken it.”

  “Not again,” I groan, and when I look down I can see the bone almost popping underneath my skin. The sight of it has my stomach rolling, my face paling, and my body swaying backward.

  “Hey, hey.” His hands come on either side of my face, bringing my attention back to him.

  “I’m sorry,” I croak, those tears from earlier coming back and rolling down my cheeks, making a path over his hands. “I’m such a klutz, and now you’re probably going to fire me and I have the worst insurance because of how many times I’ve been in the hospital. I won’t be able to pay my medical bills which means I’m going to have to call my dad and tell him I’ve broken another bone—what are you doing?”

  He pushes his hands through his suit jacket, walking over to the door and opening it. I turn and watch him as he walks to my desk, gathering my stuff and coming back to me.

  “I’m taking you to the hospital.” He helps me into my coat, frowning as he does. “Where’s your winter coat?”

  “This is my winter coat.” He shakes his head, a V forming between his brows I can’t help but touch to try and smooth out. “You shouldn’t do that, you’ll get wrinkles.”

  He raises a brow at me, his lips lifting into a smirk as he takes ahold of my hand, ignoring my jab. The heat of his fingers seeps into my skin, warming me and momentarily making me forget about the pain until he pulls me into a full standing position.

  He leads me out of his office, stopping at the main reception desk and dropping my hand as he tells Nasally Voice, “Field my calls, if it’s important then call me, if not it can wait until Monday.”

  “What—”

  He turns back around, walking away from her and pressing the button for the elevator, placing his hand at the bottom of my back as we step on. The doors close, leaving us in the confined space once again, only this time feels different, like something happened in his office that has him seeing me as more than the person sent from L.A. to cover for his PA. Oh hey! That rhymed! I’m a poet and I didn’t even—

  “Violet?”

  “Hmmm?” I look up at him.

  “What the hell are those on your feet?”

  Shit.

  * * *

  I wait on the edge of the hospital bed, my feet dangling off the side and not touching the floor with a silly grin on my face. Morphine is the best.

  We’ve been here for three hours, Mr. Taylor sitting in a chair beside me with his face buried in his cell. He looks up every now and again, watching me fo
r a beat before moving his gaze back to his cell. He didn’t speak another word while Jeeves brought us here, neither did he when we arrived, apart from to ask me my information at the reception desk.

  He stayed in the small curtained-off area while I had an X-ray and now we’re just waiting for the results of said X-ray.

  My hand grabs at my stomach as it growls loudly, earning me a smirk from Mr. Taylor. He opens his mouth to say something as he shuffles forward on his chair, but the curtain opens.

  A man in light-blue scrubs and a white jacket comes inside, a tablet attached to his hand. He looks up, his gaze skirting across me and then to Mr. Taylor before he closes the curtain back up and clears his throat.

  “Miss Scott—”

  “Violet,” I tell him, a giggle working its way up my throat—what the hell is wrong with me? I never giggle! “Like the color.”

  He chuckles under his breath before he swipes along the screen, bringing something up and turning it to face me. “You have a broken collarbone.”

  I push my face closer to the screen. “Ouch.”

  “I imagine you’re in a lot of pain.” He lowers the tablet. “Can you tell me how you did this?”

  I retell the story while he watches me intently, his gaze moving over to Mr. Taylor briefly. “I’ve looked at your records and it seems this is one of many broken bones you’ve had over the last few years.”

  My eyes flutter closed, knowing what’s coming. Every time I come to an ER with a broken bone, they see all the other times I’ve come in and assume there’s something else to it.

  “Uh-huh,” I answer, opening my eyes back up. “Look, I know what you’re going to say, and to be honest, I’m so hangry right now I can’t be bothered to explain to you how accident prone I am.”

  “Hangry?” the doc asks.

  “Yep. It’s a cross between hungry and angry. I need food, preferably pizza. Oh! And could I get some of those awesome pain meds?”

  “I—”

  “Look, Doc, I just really want to go home, eat, and then get a good night's sleep.” I wave my hand in the air. “Fix me up and send me away.”

  “Right, well…” His dark-brown gaze flicks to Mr. Taylor again before he shuffles on the spot. “I’ll be applying a brace you’ll need to wear for the next four weeks. After you’ll need to consult with your doctor to revise your treatment plan. If the pain has gone by then and it’s healed you can stop wearing it. If not, you’ll have to wear it for a further four weeks.” He looks at the tablet again before stepping back. “I’ll get the brace and then we can discharge you so you can get some pizza.”

  He pulls the curtain aside, disappearing for a beat before he’s back and holding up something I’ve never seen before. He goes on to explain it’s a figure eight brace that’ll keep the area immobilized to help heal the fracture I have.

  “Could you remove your blouse?” he asks.

  “My blouse?” I ask at the same time Mr. Taylor stands up, moving a step closer.

  “The best option is to wear it under your clothes,” he explains.

  The top two buttons are already undone from where Mr. Taylor looked back in his office. This morning when I woke up, I knew I couldn’t push my arm through one of my normal blouses so I wore this one where the buttons go all the way to the bottom.

  I slowly reach for the third button, wincing at the pain, the morphine having started to wear off. I try to get the small button out of the hole, but after what feels like a lifetime, Mr. Taylor steps forward and asks, “Do you want me to help?”

  Looking up at him, I get lost in his blue eyes. I should be embarrassed, I should want to ask him to leave and not see me at my most vulnerable, but the earnest look on his face has me nodding my head slightly.

  His large hands reach forward and that’s when I realize I don’t have a bra on. “Wait!” I hold up my good arm, my voice having jarred both men. “I erm… I…” I look between them, suddenly embarrassed. How can something like this embarrass me yet breaking my collarbone by falling over doesn’t? “Is there a woman who can put the brace on?” I ask, my voice wobbly.

  “No,” the doctor says, stepping forward. “I’m the only person available right now, unless you want to wait another couple of hours?”

  “Vi,” Mr. Taylor voices. “Let’s get this on and then we can head home. Come on, it won’t take long.” I’m surprised at the softness in his voice.

  “But—”

  “Your partner will also need to know how it’s applied so he can help you put it back on after showering—which is the only time you can take it off.”

  “He’s not—”

  “Let’s get this on and you can get on your way,” the doctor interrupts at the same time Mr. Taylor undoes the third button.

  I squeeze my eyes closed, wondering several things at once: Why didn’t he correct the doctor? How am I going to get this back on after I have a shower? And why the heck is he being so nice to me? He should’ve fired me by now, told me to go back to L.A., yet he’s not, he’s standing here, undoing my fourth button while I wait for my boobs to spring free and announce themselves. Hey, world! Look at me! I’m free and not contained in a torture device people like to call a bra!

  They love the freedom and I’m sure right now they’re rejoicing in the fact I probably won’t contain them for the next month or so. I just hope people won’t get offended when my nips pop out to say hello at the most inopportune times.

  “Fuck me,” Mr. Taylor groans and that’s the point my eyes spring open.

  “I tried to tell you,” I whisper, my voice breaking. My boss is staring at my boobs! Shitting hell.

  “I…” His throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes tearing away from my chest as he looks back up at me. He stares, watching me and I’m sure he can see the tears pushing forward, glassing up my eyes. I’m never going to be able to look at him again after this. “It’s okay,” he finally says, looking back down and undoing the next few buttons with lightning speed.

  “How do you put it on?” he asks the doctor, not moving from where he’s maneuvered himself so the doctor can’t see my chest.

  “I’ll slip one arm in then I need to adjust the back to get the other arm in before tightening it completely,” the doctor replies.

  Mr. Taylor nods before he pushes the blouse off my shoulders, gathering it and holding it against my chest, covering me. He takes a step to the side, his large palm covering my chest, one of his fingertips brushing over my nipple and causing a shiver to roll through me.

  His dark-blue eyes meet mine, darkening as his gaze dips to where his hand is. I hear his small growl and the noise makes me even more… excited.

  The doctor pushing one part of the brace up my bad arm and placing it on the ball of my shoulder breaks us out of the connection we have. We both look away as the doctor goes around the other side of the bed and pulls it up my good arm. All the while he’s coaching Mr. Taylor on how to do it. I should be paying attention too because I’m the one who’s going to have to figure out how to do this on my own, but I can’t because all I can focus on is his hand on my chest, his finger moving. I don’t even think he’s aware he’s doing it now.

  “Ballbags!” I shout when the brace is pulled tighter, pulling my shoulders back.

  “This is the position it needs to be in. I’ll mark the brace so you know how far to tighten it.”

  I don’t listen to the rest of what he says because my head is spinning and my empty stomach rolls. I’m gonna be sick, I can feel it. Or am I going to pass out? I feel hot and then cold, my clammy skin sticky.

  I have to get out of here, I need painkillers, I need… pizza and my bed.

  “Thanks, Doc,” I hear Mr. Taylor say before the curtain is pulled back, and then my blouse is being pulled away from my chest, my arms being slipped through it before the buttons are being done up.

  He’s methodical in his ministrations and I finally get the courage to look up at him when he finishes dressing me.

  “I b
et you didn’t think you’d see my boobs when you woke up this morning, huh?”

  He chuckles, the sound deep and rich. It makes me want to climb into his body and press repeat over and over again so I can bask in the sound.

  He shrugs. “I’ve learned one thing over the last four days.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, letting him help me down off the bed.

  “Yeah.” He wraps my coat around me before gathering his things and picking up a piece of paper off the bed before placing his hand on the bottom of my back. “No two days are the same with you around.”

  I turn my body to face him as we walk out from behind the curtain and through the ER, back toward the main doors. “You can say that again; my life is full of surprises. I never know what’s coming but at least it’s fun… well… not the pain aspect, or the falling over, or the jobs I’ve been fired from.”

  He raises a brow as we make it to the car, opening the back door. “How many jobs have you been fired from?”

  “Erm… well… six in the last seven months?” I voice it like a question before a tired breath leaves my throat. “Seven if you count this one.”

  I get into the car, it’s slow but I can’t handle the pain shooting up my arm at the jostling if I go fast.

  “This job?”

  I look over at him as he closes the door behind him, Jeeves heading off into the traffic. “Well, yeah. You won’t want to keep me—”

  “Vi, I’m not firing you. You can have a few days off and then come back. I need a PA right now and I don’t have time to find another one. You only need one hand to answer a phone and type. It may take longer but…” His eyes flash as they dip to my chest again. “I’m not going to fire you.”

  “You’re not?” I ask, my voice vulnerable. I’m never vulnerable.

  “No.” He shakes his head, a smirk lifting up the corner of his lips. “I may have to get a giant roll of Bubble Wrap to encase you in though.”

  I laugh. “I tried it once,” I tell him.

  “You tried it?”

  “Mmmhmm. I was twelve and during the year previous I’d broken my wrist, dislocated my shoulder, sprained my ankle, gave myself two black eyes and numerous cuts and scrapes. So, I decided to try it.”