“I could hire a nurse.”
“Why waste the money? I have time. Work is winding down. The Playhouse, where I’m working, is closed for the winter at the end of October and not opening up until the end of May.”
“You’re going to stay with me?”
“I’m going to drive you home and take care of you until you can be on your own again.”
He smiled at her. Shyla had done this before, when she was between assignments. He was easy to take care of, not too demanding, and he liked everything she cooked. Even broccoli and Brussels sprouts.
She checked her watch. It was time to go.
“I’m sorry I kissed you. I know I’m not supposed to, now that you’re engaged.”
“Don’t worry about it. Throw my pants over here.”
“You’re not leaving?”
“Just want to get you my keys. You’re staying at the house.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“In the guest room. Don’t pay for a hotel. I have plenty of room.”
And plenty of room in your bed with Vanessa out of town. But no sex with a concussion.
“Don’t worry. I won’t attack you. I’m safe. Can’t have sex anyway.”
“I know.” She chuckled. “Okay. I’ll stay. Gimme the keys.”
She stopped at a grocery store before heading to Harley’s house. Having been there before, she knew her way around. She popped the CD in his player and danced her way to the kitchen. After inspecting the fridge, she patted herself on the back for shopping. The appliance was nearly empty, except for some vodka and enough milk for two cups of coffee.
She unpacked the groceries and sang along to the music as she prepared her mom’s recipe for chicken soup. The house wasn’t dirty, because Harley had a housekeeping service once a week. Shyla still held her breath when she entered the bathroom, but pleased to find it spotless.
She made his favorite mac and cheese casserole and tucked it in the freezer. She didn’t know when he’d be getting out of the hospital. Then, she opened a bottle of Chianti, threw together a ham and cheese sandwich, kicked back on the sofa, and watched birds stocking up for the winter from Harley’s bird feeder as she ate and drank.
Unable to resist, she tiptoed into his room and opened the dresser drawers. She expected to find sexy lingerie and other items belonging to Vanessa, but they only held Harley’s clothes and a box of condoms. She scratched her head. Is he still engaged? Although she’d been hawking the papers and the Internet, there were no new stories about them. Just about his fiancée flitting around the globe. Attending parties, doing interviews, and having her picture snapped.
Shyla unpacked in the guest room and threw on a robe. Guess Bianca and I had Vanessa pegged wrong. She kicked herself for misjudging the publicity hound. Nope, Vanessa had not been on Marriage Minded for the right reasons. Obviously, she had been looking for a rich man to fund her pursuit of fame and fortune.
And Harley was her number one chump.
Chapter Fourteen
Harley lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Shyla had come. He smiled. She was right, too. He would need help. The team was adamant about the restrictions on Harley’s activity for a minimum of three weeks. He couldn’t cook, drive, watch television, read, or even have sex. He had to be quiet. Completely. So, where was his helpmate, Vanessa? He had no idea.
She was probably off somewhere trying to get noticed. He’d been sure he’d seen an article about her travels. Maybe she’d even texted him an itinerary. But he had no recollection. That was the problem with the damn concussions. You couldn’t remember shit. Not stuff that happened recently. He could remember old stuff—like how sweet Shyla was, how soft her skin, how willing a partner she’d been in the bedroom.
But he hoped to hell he’d be able to remember the name of the woman he was supposed to marry. He threw on a robe, took his IV with him, and went for a walk down the hall. In the lounge, he was allowed to talk on his cell. He called Vanessa by accessing the history of his calls, because he couldn’t remember her name.
“Harley, darling! How are you?”
“I’m in the hospital.”
“The hospital? I thought it was only a concussion.”
“It was. A bad one. I’m getting out in the morning. They want to monitor me tonight.”
“Oh, okay. That’s good. Then, you’re safe?”
“When are you coming home?”
“I’m right in the middle of this crazy schedule. I’ll be done in ten days and am booked into Kennedy then.”
“Ten days? Do you know anything about concussion protocol?”
“What?”
“Geez.”
“What’s that? I mean, what does the protocol mean?”
“There are limits on what I can do for the next three weeks.”
“So, take it easy. I’ll be home in ten days. You can tell me what I need to do then.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“I’m sorry, Harley. I didn’t do this to you. I worked hard to get these interviews set up.”
“Good luck. I gotta go.”
“Take care, darling.”
“Right. Bye.”
He clicked off his phone. “For better or for worse, as long as it doesn’t interfere with an important interview,” he muttered to himself on his way back to his room.
He passed a restless night, as the staff was instructed to wake him up every few hours to make sure he wasn’t slipping into a coma. At nine, he called Shyla to pick him up. She brought a change of clothes for him and waited in the lounge while he pulled on sweats.
“You don’t have to leave while I dress.”
“You belong to someone else, Harley,” she said as she slipped out of his room and closed the door.
Nope. I only belong to myself.
He popped some ibuprofen, stuffed his uniform in the bag she’d brought, and combed his hair. “I’m ready. Let’s get out of here.”
“Not so fast. Gotta sign some papers,” the nurse said.
By the time he’d finished, Shyla had brought the car around. He slid onto the front seat after stowing his things in the back.
She put the vehicle in gear. They drove slowly back to the house.
“I made chicken soup.”
“Good.” He stared out the window, trying to focus his attention on the changing leaves, rather than think about Vanessa, or the fact that this concussion couldn’t be talked away. He needed to confront what was happening to him.
At the red light, Shy put her hand on his forearm. “Don’t think so hard. You have to rest your brain. There’ll be plenty of time to think things out when you’re better.”
“I can’t help it. Life sucks right now.”
“I know.”
When they got home, Harley had two bowls of soup then Shyla tucked him into bed. He grabbed her arm as she turned to walk away.
“What? Yes, I’m going to check on you every couple of hours. But you need sleep.”
“How can I thank you for coming? The soup? Everything?”
She waved her hand. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“Okay, so I care about you. And you need me.”
“I do. And I love you for being here.”
He saw tears gather in her eyes before she blinked them away. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Hush. Go to sleep.”
He kissed her hand then rolled over and closed his eyes.
* * * *
It was a long night for Shyla. She watched a movie then hit the sack, setting her alarm so she could check on Harley every three hours. She’d nudge him awake to much cursing and pillow throwing on his part then left him to return to slumber. She’d crawl back into bed and try to get to sleep before the next round. The two slept in. She awoke first at ten. Yawning, she padded into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
At ten thirty, Harley strolled into the room in his boxers. Scratching his chest, he poured himself a cup of java, took a sip, an
d then spit it out. “What the hell is that?”
Shyla got up from her work on the computer at the dining room table. “That’s coffee.”
“Tastes like shit.”
“It’s fine, Harley. It must be your concussion.”
“Since when can a concussion affect my taste buds?”
“I read it. I’ll make you some tea. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“No food restrictions. How about bacon and eggs?”
She made him a big plate then refilled her mug and joined him. He shoveled the food in as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
“I brought the newest Harlan Coben book with me.”
He looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
“I thought I could read it to you, like I did last time.”
“That’s great.” His smile warmed her soul. He didn’t look like a wealthy, arrogant athlete.
They sat like husband and wife, chatting about the news. After breakfast, she washed the dishes while he made himself comfortable on the sofa.
Shyla spread a throw over him, opened a water bottle, and settled into a comfy, overstuffed chair facing Harley. After putting her feet on a cushion next to him, she opened the book
He laced his fingers behind his head for a bit then rolled over onto his side. After forty minutes of her reading aloud, his eyes closed. She shut the book and pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. She kissed his forehead.
“Sleep, honey. It’s what you need most,” she whispered.
Shyla returned to the dining room and brought up her design program. She began working on sets for the next summer season’s shows.
Harley slept for hours, giving her time to work. Day after day, they had the same routine. She’d cook then read, and he’d eat, listen, and then sleep. Television was forbidden for the first week. Physical activity for three.
The running back paced in the house. Shyla ignored his temper tantrums, impatience, and bad humor, chalking it up to the concussion and the frustration of living like a caged animal.
If Vanessa saw him now, she might not be so willing to say, “I do.”
Returning early from the grocery store, she found him showered, clean-shaven, and wearing sweats. He had a small barbell in each hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Just a little. To keep my arms from going soft.”
“Put those down, immediately!” Frustration at dealing with a grown man who was acting like a two-year-old bubbled up inside her. “What the hell?”
“Just a little exercise.”
“You’re not supposed to be doing any.” Anger heated her face.
“So what? What’s it gonna hurt?” He put one down.
“Your brain, stupid! Your brain. Do you still have one?”
“Hey! Don’t call me stupid,” he yelled, putting down the other one.
“I’ll call you stupid when you are stupid, Harley Brennan.” She rested her fists on her hips.
“Yeah? I don’t have to take that from you.”
“Yes, you do. Because I’m the one taking care of you. So, you’d better be nice to me and do what I say.”
“I can hire someone!” he shouted and stormed off into his room and slammed the door.
Tears burned her eyes. If he had slapped her across the face, it wouldn’t have surprised her more. “You can hire someone? Well, go ahead. Hire someone. Anyone. The Queen of England. I’m outta here,” she muttered to herself as she strode down the hall to the guest room. Her door closed with a bang. She yanked her valise from the closet and threw it on the bed.
“I don’t have to take that crap from him.” She unzipped it and opened a dresser drawer.
A knock drew her attention.
“Can I come in?”
“No! You can go fuck yourself, Harley Brennan!” She threw the clothes from the drawer into the suitcase.
He opened the door slowly and entered the room. “What? You’re packing?”
“You said it. You can hire someone else. So, go ahead. Go ahead, you dick. Hire whoever you want. I’m outta here.” Tears broke through her defenses and cascaded down her cheeks.
“I shouldn’t’ve said that. I’m sorry. Don’t go.” He sidled up to her, but she stepped away.
“Tough.”
“Come on. You know I’m edgy. I’m in a bad mood, seems like all the time.”
She turned to face him. “Yes, you are. And it’s a pain putting up with you.”
He rubbed her bare arm. “Come on, baby. I need you. No one can take me through a concussion like you.”
Regardless of her efforts to stay firm, her heart softened. He spoke the truth. No one cared more about him than she did, and she knew the drill. One winter, she’d blown off a potential job to hunker down with him for a month.
“Please. I’m begging you to stay. I’m really sorry, and I promise not to be nasty again.” His fingers closed over her shoulders. Heat from his chest permeated the thin blouse she wore, warming her back. He pressed against her, lightly, then bent, brushing his lips along her neck. Her resolve slipped.
“Okay. Just this once,” she whispered, her voice breathy, her pulse kicking up.
She turned to face him. His mouth hovered above hers. Before she blinked, he was kissing her. It was a warm, sweet, tender one…and over before she could object.
“Thanks. You’re the best,” he murmured.
Shy stood for a moment, controlling her breathing. “Laundry.”
“What?”
“Let’s get your laundry together. I’ll throw a few things in too.”
She pushed by him and headed for his room.
* * * *
Harley kept his promise, occasionally leaving the room or eating his words when the frustration of his inactivity got to him. He noticed her chuckle occasionally as he struggled to remain civil, even though he was at the end of his rope.
But Shyla was an excellent caretaker, and he kept his mouth shut when bad temper invaded to avoid losing her. He figured learning restraint was good training for marriage. By the middle of the second week, the team doctor allowed him fifteen-minute walks outside.
He’d take her hand and stroll behind his house into the woods. The smell of late autumn, the swish of the fallen leaves, added to his melancholy. Winter was approaching, and he was out for the rest of the season. No more football for him. He worried if he’d ever play again, but he didn’t share this with Shyla. It was his burden to carry alone.
Shyla was quiet, not taxing his brain. He was silently grateful. Sometimes, she’d stop to snap a picture of the glories of nature all around them. Harley appreciated the songs of birds winging their way south and the last of the colors gracing the leaves before the trees went to sleep. He raised the collar of his fleece against a winterish wind and motioned to Shy.
“It’s getting cold. Let’s go.”
She joined him, and they headed back. “I made pea soup this morning.”
“So, that’s what smelled so good.”
“How about some with hot dogs?”
“Sounds great.” He shivered once as the wind struck then directed them toward home.
As they sat down to bowls of steaming, fragrant soup, he heard a car door slam. Maybe some of his teammates. He’d been forbidden from socializing in or out of the house. But now, they’d be coming around to cheer him up. He grinned. He’d missed the company of the Kings.
The front door opened and a female voice called out, “surprise!”
Harley and Shyla jumped up and peeked into the foyer. There stood Vanessa, in her designer clothes. The smile fell off her face as her gaze settled on Shy.
“Who the hell is this?”
“Shyla Hollings,” she said, extending her hand. But all she received was an icy stare.
The brunette turned to Harley. “What’s she doing here?”
“She’s taking care of me.”
“Oh, oh. I see. So, you hired her?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Wait!” Vanessa held up her hand. “Where have I heard the name Shyla before?”
Harley shifted his weight.
Shy backed toward the hallway. “I’m going to pack. Now that Vanessa’s here, you don’t need me anymore,” she said, before disappearing down the hall.
Vanessa’s eyes blazed. “Now, I remember. She’s the one that animal in the bar took me for, isn’t she?”
“Now, wait. And he’s not an animal.”
“No, that’s right. He’s a tree.”
Harley’s mood went south. “He’s my friend. So, stop making fun of him.”
“She’s your old girlfriend, isn’t she?”
“That’s right. She came here, on her own, to take care of me. Some people care what happens to me.”
“Oh, really? She didn’t come here to get you back? Rich, handsome football star? To sleep with you?” Vanessa dropped her bag and stuck out a hip.
“No, she didn’t. Shy’s not like that. She’s been cooking for me, reading to me…”
“Reading to you?” Vanessa’s eyebrows shot up.
“You don’t get it. Didn’t you even bother to look up concussion on the Internet? I can’t read, watch TV, have any physical exercise at all—including sex! I can’t drive, listen to music, can’t go to a restaurant, or even socialize outside the house. And in the house, only for short periods of time. I’m like a fucking zombie, stuck in a cage.”
“I didn’t know.” The arrogance bled out of her, like infection from a wound.
“Well, you should have checked. I can’t be alone.”
“I’m sorry, I…”
“I’m ready. I’ll be heading home now.” Shyla entered the foyer, wheeling her small case behind her.
“Shy, don’t go like this,” Harley started.
“By all means. Go right ahead. We wouldn’t want to keep you from your own life. Don’t you have a boyfriend who needs your attention? My fiancé doesn’t anymore.” Vanessa sneered.
Fear rocketed through Harley as he watched Shyla narrow her eyes and get ready to tear Vanessa limb from limb with cutting words. Color seeped up the blonde’s neck. No one was as adept at the verbal slice as Shyla.
Harley Brennan, Running Back Page 18
