by Joy Penny
He’d just repositioned his chair when he heard a loud crash, a sound like an engine being choked, and a scream.
“Brielle?” he said, his heart thundering. “Brielle!”
Damn this chair, he told himself as he positioned his arms and swung himself back in. Thanks to his nerves, he fumbled. He’d forgotten to lock one of the wheels and that half of the chair pushed backward with his sudden weight. He almost slid right down, chin first, into the seat, but he managed to catch himself, wrenching his shoulder and hitting his forehead with his canes, which he kept in the bag at the back of his chair.
“Damn it!” he said, aloud this time. He really wasn’t supposed to walk without his braces, but he could and he had—mostly when there was a therapist with him. Screw it. He pulled both canes out and set them in front of the bed steadily. He couldn’t stop thinking about what could have possibly happened. The vacuum was still running, but it was making a sort of pathetic sound, like it was on its last legs. He pictured Brielle on the floor, unconscious, blood pooling. He had to get there, damn it, and make sure she was okay.
It took him a few tries, but he pulled himself up using his canes and stood still, trying to decide whether to head toward the door and walk out there or to simply walk in front of the chair so he could lock it and sit back down. Part of him wanted to run out there, but he’d never even gotten close, not even in a treadmill harness.
There weren’t a lot of days lately that he cursed the fact that he was born with legs like these—that was just how he was, even if it had a whole share of problems few others had to deal with—but today was one of them.
Phone, he thought, realizing it was still on the bed—out of reach if he got into his chair to grab it. If she needed him to call someone, he wasn’t going to be a lot of help without it.
He gritted his teeth and walked back to where he came from, shifting one cane under his arm to grab hold of the phone and slip it into his pocket. His arms—easier to work out than his legs, but still never as reliable as he’d like them to be—ached, even after or maybe because of the workout he’d given them the day before.
The vacuum shut off just as Archer let out one of his loudest grunts in months. Archer breathed hard, the muscles in his arms, legs, and chest hurting. He needed to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out.
A knock came at the door. “Mr.… Archer? I’m sorry about the noise. The vacuum sort of exploded a little, I don’t know why—I might have missed some of the glass when I picked it up. Um, if you want, I can file the issue with my mom and then we can talk about a replacement.” She stopped speaking and knocked again. “Archer?”
Archer opened his mouth. He wanted to speak, to tell her it was all right, to breathe in relief that she was fine, too. He felt stupid for picturing her unconscious on the floor, for imagining himself some kind of savior.
But it all hurt and right now, all he could do was breathe.
“Archer?” The door creaked open slowly and Brielle’s svelte fingers hooked around the edge as she peeked around the corner. Her jaw dropped and she shoved the door all the way open. “Are you okay? You’re… You can… Your face is flushed.” She rushed to his side, her hands hovering out around him, but she pulled them back quickly, searching his face for an answer. His legs were shaking. He’d gotten up too quickly.
“My chair,” he managed. He cleared his throat and pushed through it despite the pain. He wasn’t about to undo what little progress he’d made with her after their disastrous beginning. “Please.”
“Right!” Brielle jumped up and clapped her hands together before rushing to the chair. She pushed it into place behind him—not without an effort, since one half was still locked and she had to lift it up—and stood back. “Should I…?”
“Locks,” said Archer. “On the sides.”
“Oh!” Brielle bent over, her loose hair hanging over the side of the chair. She fumbled around with the lock on one side until she figured out it was already locked, then locked the other. “Okay,” she said, whipping her loose hair over her face with one hand.
Archer shifted himself slightly and then let himself collapse into the chair, tossing the canes against the bed. He took a deep breath and ran a trembling hand over his face. It felt hot to the touch. He’d been one second away from a full-out panic attack.
Brielle leaned toward him and clenched her hands together, almost as if she were stopping herself from reaching out to touch him. “Can I get you anything? Should I… Should I call for an ambulance?”
Despite everything, Archer laughed, shaking his head. “No need.”
“Your… nurse?” Brielle leaned closer, and that loose tendril of hair swung down again. She tucked it behind her ear, driving Archer crazy. “Do you need medication or…?”
Archer cradled his face and took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I just…” He went to move his chair and scrunched his face up in pain. “I moved too fast and I pulled some stuff.” He opened one eye and then the other to find Brielle staring down at him, her hands clasped together almost as if praying, her face panic-stricken. “Maybe you can get me some ibuprofen. In the top drawer in my bathroom.”
Off on a mission, Brielle scrambled into his bathroom, appearing with the bottle just a moment later. She handed it to him and was off again, this time coming back with a glass of water before he’d even managed to shake a couple of pills from the bottle onto his hand.
She gave him a beautiful smile, although it was fleeting. “I won’t make you drop it this time. Promise.”
He let her exchange the bottle for the glass, staring up at her the whole time. “You mean, I won’t make you clean it up.” He tore his eyes away and swallowed the pills, downing the whole glass.
They stared at each other for what felt like a full minute. She reached for his glass and he handed it to her, but then she still stood there, staring.
“So,” he said. “The vacuum?”
“Oh!” Brielle looked shocked. “Right.” She kept looking over her shoulder as if the vacuum might sneak up on her. “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what happened. I heard some of the glass, I think, but I don’t know how that basically caused the engine to catch fire—”
“Catch fire?”
Brielle jumped. Archer hadn’t meant to speak so loudly. Her palm bobbed up and down as if to reassure him. “Well, it sparked. Then the whole thing got black. I panicked and ran for a glass of water, and then I remembered there was fire extinguisher in the front closet, and then I remembered I should at least unplug the dang thing.” She winced. “I’m sorry.”
Archer opened his mouth and then closed it, thinking.
Brielle seemed to mistake his hesitance for condemnation. “I… This has never happened to me before, so I’m sorry, I don’t know exactly how we file a complaint with—”
Something struck Archer, something she’d said earlier. “Your mother?”
“Oh,” said Brielle. “Right. I guess I said that.” She threw her shoulders back. “My mom owns the company.”
“I thought the owner’s name was… Clark?”
“Leah Clark. Yeah, we have different last names. She went back to her maiden name after the divorce. She built her business practically from scratch after my dad left.”
Archer was impressed there was such fire in her eyes. She seemed so proud of her mother and well she should be. “Keeping it in the family then?” That reminded him too much of his situation with his dad—of how his dad would have liked things to be. He pushed the negative thoughts down.
Brielle bounced her head back and forth. “Sort of. Although Mom is liable to fire me any day now.”
“Because of this?” He gestured toward the doorway and the surprisingly explosive vacuum somewhere far behind her. “I doubt it was anything you did. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just get a new one.”
“No, not because of that alone, but thank you. Really.” Brielle swallowed. “I feel bad, though.”
Archer glared at her, hoping he appeared comma
nding. “Don’t.” He didn’t want to say what she might have guessed just by how often she was called to clean for him—they could afford to buy a new vacuum. His parents certainly could anyway. It made him feel bad to think that way when he’d thought of her as working for minimum wage, of taking the first job she could find—although he supposed maybe she was better off than he’d expected since her mother owned the company.
She nodded and didn’t say anything more. She shifted, probably about to leave him to clean up that mess, but Archer wasn’t about to let her go.
“Why will you be fired?” he asked, genuinely curious. “You do a great job.”
“Thanks.” She smiled and tucked that piece of hair behind her ears again. Did she want him to pull her onto his lap? His shoulder ached just then, almost as if in punishment for his dirty thoughts. She turned around and put the glass down atop his dresser, then pulled the hair tie out of her ponytail. Her long, dark hair cascaded around her shoulders for a moment as she gathered it back up. She placed the hair tie in her mouth and bit down, her lips curling seductively.
Okay. I am definitely about to do something I regret. Pushing through the discomfort, he slapped both wheels and backed up a little, then moved forward a little, his own version of pacing. He stared at her feet. “Do you have an obnoxious client somewhere who’s been complaining about you?” He couldn’t help but offer a faltering smile. He knew she probably thought he was that obnoxious client if anything.
“Not that I know of… No, I should say no. Mom would definitely let me know if that was the case.” She finished readjusting her hair and sighed.
Archer cocked his head and patted the corner of the bed beside him. “Sit down and tell your old uncle Archer what’s going on.”
She grinned. He felt like an idiot, but he’d made her smile, so maybe the silliness wasn’t half-bad. She looked over her shoulder. “I should clean that mess—”
“It can wait. I can even help.”
Brielle hesitated, bouncing on the balls of her feet and biting her lip. God, woman, will you stop being so delectable? I’m sore all over and I really can’t take it.
“Unless you have somewhere to go right away after your hour’s up…”
“No,” said Brielle, shaking her head. “No plans at all today.” A brief, impulsive thought shot into Archer’s mind, but he knew it was really stupid of him. She practically collapsed onto his bed, the energy deflating out of her like she was a popped balloon. “Well, I ought to be spending hours scouring for jobs and drafting a dozen cover letters, but…” She left the rest unsaid.
Archer wove his fingers together and wrung them to distract himself from his naughtier thoughts. She was just at the foot of the bed and she was wearing the unsexiest maid costume he’d ever seen. But damn, did that ugly shirt cling to her. She could she make anything sexy. “Because you’re getting fired?”
“Mom said I could work for her company as long as I need to. To save up and make sure there isn’t a hole in my resume.” She grimaced. “Although I’ve had to spin a bit of what I do so it doesn’t seem like I’ve only cleaned since I was a teen.”
“Like… helping a person with a disability?”
“No!” Brielle looked shocked and put one hand at the base of her throat. “Oh, god no. I wouldn’t exploit you like that. I don’t even… I don’t do anything special for you.”
Archer shrugged. It definitely wasn’t something you could put on a resume, but he’d call waking up his shriveled heart “something special” indeed.
“No, I just mean like… Helping with scheduling, consulting with management, that sort of thing.”
“How is that a spin?”
Brielle’s face grew sheepish. “Mom is a one-woman show. I couldn’t offer her much help that way if she wanted it.”
“So why the job hunt?” Archer twiddled his thumbs and stared down at them, suddenly not sure he could keep looking at her when she was this close. “Our town too boring for you?”
“Not really. Or… I guess.” Brielle tucked her hands under her thighs and turned her attention to the artwork his mother had painted that hung over his bed’s headboard. “I don’t really care where I go, as long as I have a job I sort of like.”
“You don’t like cleaning?” Archer felt like an idiot as soon as the words left his mouth. Because cleaning was sure to be many people’s aspiration in life? God, he sounded stupid.
Brielle laughed, swinging her ponytail over one shoulder. “I actually could clean the rest of my life, so long as I had to do something. But I mean, I did study history and philosophy. I should probably do something with those subjects. And besides, Mom doesn’t want me to stay in her house or keep working for her.”
History and philosophy? He’d had no idea. He didn’t know what he’d thought she was interested in, but that wasn’t it. “Well, that blows,” he said, not sure what else to say. “How long have you been job hunting?”
“Just a few months. I graduated last weekend.”
“Oh!” She was younger than he’d thought. Not that he thought she was ancient, it was just… She exuded sexiness. He tended to associate that with experience. Now he felt really dirty. “Congrats.”
Brielle shrugged. “Thanks.” She raised her eyebrows. “Years of school loans and maybe at this rate, job hunting ahead, yay.” She studied the painting again, clearing her throat. “Do you have an art degree?”
Archer nodded. “Yup. Mother wanted me to pursue a master’s, but I had no need for it. Mother also enjoys painting. She did those.” He pointed at the art above his bed.
“Nice,” Brielle said, looking back at them. Then she glanced at him, the curiosity plain on her face. “How did you get a job drawing comics? That’s so cool.”
It was Archer’s turn to feel sheepish. “Thanks.” He wasn’t sure if she really thought that, but she seemed genuinely interested. “It’s a… long story.” She didn’t seem deterred. “Well, it sort of started the… opposite way of yours? I didn’t want to work for my dad’s company and he wanted me to work for him. Or… he would have.”
“Would have?”
Archer swallowed. He didn’t know why he was telling her this. “Well, he owns a construction company.”
“Oh!” said Brielle, gasping. “Ward Construction! I see their trucks all over.”
Archer laughed. “Yeah… But I bet you don’t see any workers in wheelchairs in them.”
“Oh,” said Brielle, suddenly sad. “Oh, I… Yeah. I see.” She paused. “But couldn’t you help behind the scenes? Like in the office?”
“Probably.” Archer ran a hand over the back of his head. His muscles were doing better. The pain reliever was probably kicking in. “But it’s not like I had much interest in all that anyway. Besides, I think Dad’s happy to keep me out of sight, out of mind.” He gestured around him. “I owe half… No, more than half of everything to him throwing money at me to keep me out of the house and keep me quiet.”
“I’m sorry…” Brielle bit her lip again and Archer had to go back to his wheelchair-pacing. “Guess we both have parents who don’t want us to live at home?”
Archer scoffed, gripping both wheels hard in a lock. “You haven’t met my mother yet.”
Brielle stared at him, questioning. He wondered why he’d said “yet,” but he knew his mother—she was bound to show up sometime she wasn’t supposed to. “Hey,” he said, trying to change the subject, but his voice was already shaking, “if you’re really not busy today after we finish up here…” He lost his nerve.
Brielle’s eyebrows arched. “I’m not!” She sounded almost like she was sure he wouldn’t believe her.
“I… have a signing today. At a local comic shop.” Why the hell would she want to go with you to a comic shop? Not exactly the most welcoming place for a woman—particularly a woman this hot.
Brielle’s face lit up. “I’d love to come! I’d love to!”
Crap. Archer had been so caught up in the moment, he’d forgotten why
he’d stayed away from dating to begin with.
Pauline was going to have to be their driver.
Chapter Nine
Brielle wondered if it would have been easier to just Google map where this shop was and to meet him there. She wanted to go home and change anyway. (Archer had been surprised to learn she lived just a few minutes from his condo. Pleasantly surprised, she might even dare to say. As if proximity made any difference to anything.) But Pauline had showed up before Brielle could leave—they’d lost track of time when cleaning up the mess of the dead vacuum—and she’d insisted Brielle come back to the condo after Archer’s therapy exercises and that they’d all go together.
Archer’s face wasn’t that hard to read when Pauline offered the ride. He so clearly preferred Brielle’s idea, but Pauline was a force to be reckoned with.
So now she was in the passenger seat of Pauline’s van in front of Archer in the one and only seat behind her. Pauline had strapped Archer’s chair in—apparently some of her patients just continued to sit in their chairs when she had them in her car, but Archer had insisted on sitting in the van’s bucket seat. It had taken him a short while, but Pauline’s vehicle was equipped perfectly to make it easier for him with grab bars and a ramp that lowered so he could make the step up.
Archer’s face had turned a deep shade of red the entire process, which would have made him look more endearing, except that Brielle was worried he was ill from the exhaustion.
“Do you read these funny books? The Mystics?” said Pauline, her eyes focused on the road.
“The Mystified.” Archer sounded like he was about to laugh. “Come on, Pauline, you know this.”
Pauline looked both ways before she executed a turn. “Excuse me if I can’t follow all the things you kids do these days.”
“You’re like twenty years older than me,” said Archer. “If that. Stop acting like an old woman.”
