Saving Cruz (The Moran Family)

by Alexis James

  For something so very innocent, it has the complete opposite reaction in my worn-out body, which heats in ways I didn’t believe were possible—certainly not with my family mere feet away and watching our every move. Fighting off an erection is a monumental task, and the smirk Roman sends me tells me I’m not doing a very good job of hiding my attraction to this sleeping beauty, who continues to mold her body to mine.

  “Dude, you’re in such big trouble,” Marco whispers to me, exchanging a knowing look with Roman.

  Tell me something I don’t know. I try to ignore the intoxicating scent she wears like a second skin, but it’s no use; it’s like a drug to me. I’m certain that holding her like this is not something a boss should do, but I’m past the point of trying to be politically correct. We’re both exhausted, so the least I can do is give her some comfort while she sleeps.

  A few hours later I’m convinced this must be the penance for all the horrible things I’ve done. Mia’s not budged, not once, since I pulled her into my arms. I’ve caressed her back, pressed my lips against her hair, rubbed each little finger that rests comfortably on my chest, and still she sleeps on. Luckily my brothers have tired of teasing me about it and are now currently sacked out in their own chairs, leaving only me and Bella wide awake, though I do catch her dozing between the chapters of her book.

  Mia is the first woman since Dani who I’ve allowed myself to fully embrace in a non-sexual way. Most of the women I’ve been with don’t require care or kindness and quite frankly I’ve doled out neither. Ever. The man I’ve become in the years since losing Dani is not someone I’m proud of. Certainly not someone she’d have been proud to call hers. Not only am I rude and hostile at the office, that hostility is exacerbated whenever I’m with a paid escort—as if I somehow blame her for my having to resort to this less than desirable way of life. The women I see serve a purpose and for a long time that was enough. But I’m beginning to realize it no longer is, and I can’t determine if that’s because Mia is now in my life, or simply because my father is parked outside the gates of Heaven.

  There’s a part of me that really wants to let my guard down and let Mia in. Maybe it’s as a friend, maybe more. But the other part of me—the scared, self-loathing part—sees how detrimental I could be to her. I’ve hurt her enough as it is with my smug attitude and biting words. Besides, I reason as I take her hand in mine, there’s the very real chance that she and the boyfriend are serious and this weird spark I’m sensing between us is just something in my head.

  I don’t know Mia well, not at all really, but the little I do know proves to me how very wrong I am for her. I want to see her smile, and yet I constantly do things to either make her mad or cause her to look at me with a broken, hurt expression. I hate causing her pain, hate that my insecurities are the majority of the reasons why I do hurt her. She deserves so very much more.

  Early the next morning, Mia hands me a cup of coffee and slumps down in her chair, shifting tired eyes my direction and whispering, “You look terrible. You should go home for a while.”

  Rubbing my fingers over my scruffy chin, I reply, “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

  She shrugs. “But at least I was able to run home and shower and put on clean clothes.”

  Too tired to argue, I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall. “I’ll go home when he’s out of the woods.”

  “Then at least let me go pick you up some things and bring them here.”

  I will admit the occasional attempt to wash up in the restroom down the hall has not exactly done the job. Thank God that on one of her many trips out to get us food, Mia stopped to pick up some toothbrushes, toothpaste, and deodorant—her subtle hint that it might be time for some proper hygiene.

  “I can go out to your house and pack you a bag, and then you can go to my place to get cleaned up. My apartment is less than a mile away, so you’ll be close if anything should change.”

  Barely able to keep my eyes open, I shove my hand into my pocket and extract my keys, easily handing them over without protest. “You have my address?”

  She nods. “I do and GPS is all plugged into my phone.” Purse looped over her shoulder, she gets to her feet and looms over me. “Shoot me a text and let me know where your stuff is, or I can just poke around if you don’t mind.”

  I nod once and close my eyes. “Just bring whatever you can find.”

  Soft fingertips tentatively dust over my hair. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Reaching up, I give her hand a squeeze and reply, “Drive carefully.”

  If I was fully coherent, I might be concerned that she’s about to enter my domain, a place no one but family has ever entered. But since Mia has more than paid her dues in the past three days, and as far as Mama is concerned she is family now, I let the apprehension slide away. I have enough to worry about without spending time being concerned that my most trusted employee is rifling through my underwear drawer. The bigger worry, separate and apart from my dad’s health issues, is why all of a sudden I can’t imagine my life without her.

  “Holy cow!” I exclaim, stepping through the front door of Cruz’s house. I’ve imagined his home in my head a thousand times, but I never once believed he lived in a mansion on the water, shielded from the street by high trees and bushes and a thick wrought-iron fence. Never once did I imagine he came home every night to something this picture-perfect, something that feels and looks like no one lives here.

  The massive two-story home is pristine, with cold, hard surfaces and bare, white walls. There are no family heirlooms within my line of sight, no pictures of his siblings or parents, not one personal touch. There are no plants or vases with silk flowers, no throw pillows on the low, leather sofas. Even though I’m really looking, I can’t see one bit of dust anywhere in this home.

  Correction, I think with a grimace, this is not a home. A home is where you sprawl on the couch in your sweats, leave a glass on the coffee table, or hang an ugly painting simply because your grandparents left it to you. It is no wonder Cruz is so very closed off to everyone. If I had to come home to this frigid mansion, I’d shut myself down too.

  I make a quick pass through the lower floor, checking out each guest bedroom and bath and marveling over the state-of-the-art home gym at the end of the hall, then quickly move back into the main room. His informal living room faces the water, and the low, contemporary, black leather couches look anything but inviting. This is not a space to kick off your shoes and hang out. This is a space that is not lived in at all.

  The large kitchen features stainless-steel appliances and black granite countertops that glisten in the early morning sun. There’s not a crumb to be had, nor a dish that needs washing, and I wonder if he really does live here or this is just a showplace to bring clients.

  I wish I had time to really wander around and inspect the entire house, but since I know he’s eagerly awaiting some clean clothes and his razor, I head upstairs. There are two more bedrooms up here, as well as the laundry room and the master suite that sits at the opposite end of the hall. His bedroom is bigger than my entire apartment and boasts large windows that look out onto the water, which I notice are similar to those in the hotel we stayed at in Atlanta. The view is breathtaking, and I can imagine waking up each morning, sitting in bed with coffee and having the bay waters to keep you company. If I had a view like this, I’d never get out of bed.

  If I had Cruz in my bed, I’d never leave either.

  Shaking off that thought, I step into the walk-in closet and immediately start to laugh. The man is a freaking clothes horse, but every single suit is identical to the next. They are lined up on either side, and I have to ask myself how the heck he keeps track of it all. There are a handful of more casual shirts and slacks toward the back of one side, but clearly he is not a fan of variety.

  Locating a duffle bag on the top shelf just inside the doorway, I quickly fold a few shirts and slacks, nixing the idea of packing a clean suit coat in the bag. He hasn’t w
orn one since late Friday night, electing to roll up his sleeves and pop the buttons at the collar, exposing tantalizing glimpses of olive skin. His forearms are thick with muscles and lined with silky dark hair—the same dark hair that peeks out of the top of his shirt. I can only imagine what his chest must look like and after a minute or so of fantasizing, I realize I’m in a world of hurt if just the idea of his bare torso is getting me hot.

  “Geez, Mia, really?” I say to myself.

  Back on task, I peruse each drawer, looking for something more comfortable and casual than his standard black suit. I pack socks and boxer briefs, black ones that I spend another few minutes fan-girling over. There are some basic white T-shirts, the kind I’m sure he wears under his dress shirts, so I pick up a few of those and shove them into the duffle too.

  The last set of drawers is obviously for all the miscellaneous stuff. There’s one full drawer of brand-new packages of dress socks, another with a large collection of ties I’ve never seen before, and the bottom drawer holds a truly awful sweater I can’t imagine him purchasing on his own and a tattered Harvard sweatshirt.

  Smiling at his one attempt to hold onto the past, I extract the sweatshirt and pull it up to my face, drinking in the spicy scent that is his and his alone. Out of the corner of my eye I see what looks like a photo, haphazardly thrown in the drawer, and my curiosity is instantly ignited.

  Dropping the sweatshirt down onto the carpet, I reach for the photo and can’t hide the gasp that escapes. A younger, happier Cruz smiles broadly into the camera lens, his dark hair long and curling down to his shoulders. He’s wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes—so unlike the reserved, buttoned-up man I’ve only ever seen in a black suit and white shirt. His arm is thrown around a pretty, dark-haired girl with large dark eyes who is snuggled up to his side and grinning just as happily. Suddenly, I see the Cruz he used to be: the free, happy man he once was before life happened and he became Cruz Moran the entity.

  Tears burn my eyes and now I fully understand what it means when people say a picture is worth a thousand words. I only have to look at his smiling face, those dancing blue-green eyes to know that he once had a happy life. There’s a love there between him and the girl, not that I can blame her. I can see how lovable that Cruz must have been. Hell, I’ve even seen glimpses myself, albeit brief, of the person he’s tried so very hard to bury. And while there are many ways I can describe the man I work for, lovable would not be one of them. Sure, he’s extremely loving toward his family, but that’s different. This image shows a connection, not one made through blood, one made through chance, through choice. Whatever the story is he shares with her, the memories have lingered long enough that he keeps this ragged photo tucked away for safe keeping.

  Guilt descends hard and fast, and with a groan I replace the photo, re-fold the sweatshirt, and place everything just as it was. There’s a reason the photo is tucked away privately and not out on display in a frame on a table, a reason the photo is the only personal thing I’ve found in this house. The fact is whatever the reason is, it is none of my business.

  Moving with a purpose now, I head into the master bath, locate his electric razor and a few toiletries, and shove those in the duffle as well. Lifting my head, I gaze at the woman in the mirror. I no longer recognize this woman and not simply because I’m lacking in sleep. Sure, there are dark circles under my eyes and the makeup I applied yesterday has mostly worn off, but there’s an aging there that’s happened; as if overnight, quiet, shy Mia has disappeared and now snoopy, disrespectful Mia has taken her place. I’m sickened I allowed myself to intrude into his private life. He may be an arrogant jerk sometimes, but that doesn’t give me the right to overstep boundaries that have been clearly set in stone from day one.

  My eyes fill and tears roll in thick waves down my pale face. I don’t like this woman I’ve become. I don’t like her at all. The truth is I owe Cruz an apology, and I sure as hell owe him an explanation. I just wish I could explain that my need to know him has stripped me of my common sense and the crush I can’t seem to let go of has impaired my judgement. I wish I could explain it all, but chances are I’ll never tell him how I breached the trust he put in me; how my need to know more about him transcended the need to do what’s right. I can only hope that if he ever does discover I’ve snooped through his personal belongings, he’ll give me a moment to explain before cutting me from his life for good.

  Cruz is practically falling asleep standing up as he follows me out to my car and obediently gets into the passenger seat. I’m tongue-tied, torn between wanting to tell him what I did and withholding the information until things here at the hospital settle down some. Right now I need to concentrate on convincing him to rest for a while and taking care of him. Everything else will simply have to wait.

  “Nice place,” he comments when we step into my apartment a few minutes later, and for a moment I feel like I’m in dreamland, watching him stroll through my space and admire the surroundings.

  “Thanks.” I give him a moment to check out the view and give Grant an odd look.

  “Why is there a tree in your apartment?”

  I shrug. “That’s not a tree. That’s Grant.”

  He shoots me a quizzical look. “Grant?”

  “You know, like Cary Grant … the actor.” He looks perplexed. “He starred in a lot of movies years ago.”

  “Like what?”

  I give him an over-exaggerated eye roll that hopefully displays my disgust and disappointment. “Only some of the best movies ever, like Houseboat, Father Goose, and An Affair to Remember.”

  He snickers. “You’re very strange, you know that?”

  “My grandpa tells me that all the time.” I point toward the stairs. “Follow me. I’ll show you where everything is.” I’m trying to ignore the fact that my crush is soon going to be standing naked in my shower, going to lay his head where I do each night, and silently curse myself again for all my random, wandering thoughts.

  Tossing his duffle onto the bed, I head directly to the bathroom and extract fluffy, green towels. I hear his footsteps getting closer and closer and turn toward the open doorway. Once again, he’s taking everything in with a pleased expression on his very tired face. Then he shoots me a look that mimics the riotous conversation I’m having in my own head.

  “Um, towels are on the counter. Help yourself to anything you need.” I give him what I hope is a stern look. “Please lie down for a while. You look ready to drop.” He starts to protest as I move into the bedroom and hold my hand up to halt his dissertation. “I don’t want to hear it. You won’t be any good to your family if you have to be admitted for exhaustion.” I give him a shove for good measure. “Go shower. I’ll be downstairs, and Marco knows to call me if anything changes.”

  He nods and one hand tentatively cups my face, stroking his thumb over my cheek, which sends an odd tremor shooting down my body, landing in places it shouldn’t. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Smiling, I force myself to pull away and turn toward the stairs. “Call out if you need anything.”

  I busy myself with a few menial chores, all the while listening intently to the rush of water from upstairs and forcing myself to ignore the naked play-by-play that keeps skating into my head. I make a snack, pour a soda over ice, and plop my butt down onto the couch, kicking off my shoes and making myself comfortable.

  Hiding behind a magazine, I hear the bathroom door open then the sound of the zipper on the duffle, and I smirk knowing that he’s prancing around up there in just a towel. Oh, what I’d give to be a fly on the wall.

  “Knock it off,” I whisper to myself.

  There’s more walking around back and forth to the bathroom, and a few minutes later I hear the squeak of springs as he climbs onto the bed. I swear there’s a little dance going on between my legs. I wonder if my sheets will smell like him. God, I hope so. I may never change them again.

  The ding from my phone alarm wakes me after what feels like only minutes of s
leep, when in actuality it’s been almost three hours. Sitting upright, I tug the band out of my hair and let the thick, wavy mass spill down around my shoulders, my eyes immediately drift to the open doorway of the room upstairs where there’s nothing but silence.

  I quickly shoot off a text to Marco, who responds almost immediately with ‘No change. Get some rest,’ so I decide to let Cruz sleep for a little bit longer. Glass in hand, I quietly let myself out onto the balcony and drink in the warm Miami air.

  There’s been a definite shift between the two of us ever since I insisted on staying with him at the hospital, and day by day things have continued to grow and change. His tone is softer, kinder, reminding me of how he was with his mom that night at the office. He touches me now, whereas before he acted like I had some infectious disease. And while I may not be the greatest love of his life, I do get the sense that he’s attracted to me, even if he refuses to acknowledge it.

  I’m crushing hard and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned for my heart. While his brothers might be players, I think I knew from the beginning that Cruz was different and that he has the potential to tear me in two. If I allow myself to let my feelings take flight, I’m terrified he’ll not only fire me, but he’ll run fast and far in the opposite direction.

  Now, however, is not the time to be dwelling on my feelings for my very untouchable boss. I need to see him through this crisis, hope and pray that his father makes a full recovery. Then I’ll be in a better position to truly judge what’s been going on between us. There’s the very real possibility that this sudden closeness is merely because he’s so torn up about his dad, and he’s reacting emotionally to me instead of logically like he normally would. Chances are, when the frenzy has faded, he’ll go right back to the hard, distant man he prefers to be. And I’ll still be standing here, stars in my eyes, wanting someone who is unreachable.