Freddy helped Gran up to her knees and then to her feet, his hand rubbing a warm pattern on her back the entire time. “How’s your core feeling, Charlotte? Tight? I thought it felt nice and tight that time.”
A thousand questions burned in Gretchen’s brain—right alongside the images that now could never be erased. She clamped her mouth shut and attempted to eradicate every last one. For the past six weeks, Freddy Miller, a life coach of dubious origin, had been doing his best to restore her grandmother to the cheerful, bouncy old woman she had never, in all her seventy-five years of existence, even pretended to be.
He was like a magician when it came to Gran. He took her swing dancing as a way to loosen her limbs. He got her to keep appointments with an unprecedented level of compliance. He even made her laugh.
Of course, he also spoke in the most blatant yet maybe-possibly-she-couldn’t-quite-tell unintentional sexual innuendoes ever crafted, which kind of ruined all the rest of it.
“Well, Gretchen.” Gran blinked at her twice. “You look like hell. As usual.”
“And you’re not in bed like you’re supposed to be,” she shot back. “As usual.”
“That, uh, may be my fault,” Freddy said. “I called to check in earlier, but no one answered. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t laid out flat on her back somewhere without me.”
In his early fifties, Freddy boasted a round, cherubic face topped by a thick golden swatch of hair that couldn’t possibly be natural. Fit for his age—it was probably difficult to sell oneself as a life coach in any other condition—and possessed of a laid-back cheer that never seemed to dissipate, he was exactly the kind of man Gran loved to chew up, spit out and save for later.
Gretchen was still waiting for the chewing to commence. “That’s thoughtful of you, Freddy, but Gran’s orthopedist,” she emphasized the word, “suggests she take it easy until her ankle is fully healed. In addition to sleep and her regular medication, that means no late-night...um...exercise.”
“You couldn’t be more right,” Freddy agreed. “What do you say we juice those joints tomorrow?”
Gretchen choked on a laugh she refused to release. He had to know how that sounded. “Are you absolutely sure those are the words you meant to say?”
“I have yet to let any of my grandchildren dictate my life to me,” Gran warned, catching Gretchen’s eye. It was clear from the way her lips wobbled that her grandmother was also trying hard not to give way to mirth. Great. In addition to bleaching her brain before she went to bed, now she’d have to fight a massive case of the giggles too. “I’ll go to bed when I’m damn well ready, and Gretchen knows it. Go put some ice on your face, dear, and leave us in peace.”
“I’ll be sure and stuff her in bed later,” Freddy added, his expression bland.
Gretchen opened and closed her mouth helplessly. If there was one thing she was good at, it was knowing when she was outnumbered and outwitted and simply out of her league. This was one of those times. Most of her life was one of those times, which was why she took one look at Freddy dipping into a kind of pre-get-her-grandmother-to-bed lunge and decided to hightail it out of there while she had the chance.
She picked her way carefully through the hallway, worrying over the problems that had plagued her ever since Gran’s tumble six weeks earlier. Navigating the passages was always a struggle, as Gran’s house was filled with a mismatch of family heirlooms, none of which was allowed to make its way into the hands of actual family. This, despite the fact that they lived in wall-to-wall stuff. Heavy mahogany armoires piled two deep in the dining room. Chairs in varied states of disrepair stacked to the ceiling. Gran even had an entire room dedicated to different wedding china patterns.
When a family had been around as long as theirs had, artifacts had a way of accumulating. And when the someone in charge of disbursing them would do anything to antagonize the grandkids who might actually eat off one of those plates or sit in one of the chairs, the result was, well, this. A hazard. A messy, precarious, ankle-breaking hazard.
All three of Gretchen’s sisters thought she ought to work harder to get Gran to release her tight hold over the goods, but her sisters also liked to pretend that Gran didn’t exist as an actual human being with thoughts and feelings.
Besides—it wasn’t as though Gretchen had to live in the mess. As she moved down the stairs to her basement apartment, she took in the familiar bright blue walls, the roller derby posters from past bouts, the blissful scarcity of furniture. Compared to Gran, Gretchen was an ascetic.
A thirty-one-year-old ascetic who admittedly lived with her grandmother, yes. But someone had to take care of her. Someone had to make sure the hoard didn’t topple on her in the middle of the night. As Gran had been Gretchen’s one real anchor in this world for as long as she cared to remember, that someone was going to be her.
Her phone vibrated again just as she was gathering the nerve to look at herself in the mirror.
She could barely contain her girlish excitement as she pulled it out. Late-night texts normally indicated that she’d popped up on someone’s booty call radar and was in desperate need of a reality check to her personal standards, but she had no doubt who this one was from. Didn’t he have to get up early tomorrow and go to work?
It’s probably too late for an ice pack, but you should sleep with your head as elevated as much as possible. Vitamin K cream might also help.
She swooned and clutched the phone to her chest as she fell to her bed. That had to be the least romantic text she’d ever received in her life. From the least romantic man she’d ever had the misfortune to admire—and trust her, there had been a few stinkers in there.
This was not going to end well.
She squealed a little. Oh, no. This was not going to end well at all.
* * *
“So that covers the rest of the week, yes?” Kendra consulted her clipboard and leveled Jared with a firm stare. As was his custom, he merely nodded and kept his wave-making to a minimum. Although he was officially one-quarter owner of New Leaf, his responsibilities were shared among the rest of the team—a team unquestionably headed by Kendra.
It was new for him, this not-being-in-charge thing, and he still wasn’t sure how he felt. Not because he had to be ordering people around to be happy, but because he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the abundance of free time the whole partnership status provided.
Maybe he should take up a hobby. Like bicycling. Or roller skates.
As he swallowed his first real smile of the day, he was struck by how efficiently Kendra got things done. Her clipped, efficient approach to running their medical spa practice was at constant odds with her exterior. A slight Indian woman with a love of sparkles and body piercings, her incongruous front did nothing to change the fact that she was their patient coordinator, business manager and esthetician. This, in addition to overseeing staffing and accounting. Her drive was impressive, to say the least.
“Do you want me to call and make the arrangements at the hospital for that bone graft on Tuesday, Jared?” she asked, moving right ahead with the rest of the meeting.
“If you wouldn’t mind, thanks.”
“Let me know if you can swallow your pride long enough to have me scrub in on that one,” Whitney offered, though they both knew he never swallowed.
Unlike Kendra, Whitney’s exterior and tone were never at odds. Like him, she was a plastic surgeon by trade, but no one would ever accuse her of being clinical or cold. When she spoke, it was with real joy. When she laughed, she held nothing back. She blazed through life without apology and wore the bright colors and skintight clothes to back it up.
Jared was happy to see her doing so well—happy to see them all again, really—but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the sharp, repeated stab of regret in his gut whenever they shared breathing space.
The tea
m closed their files and shuffled paperwork and did all those other things that signaled the end of their meeting, but Jared was the only one who made a motion to stand. Looking around the oval table with a grim smile, he realized they were waiting for him to leave.
These were his oldest and best friends, the only living beings in the world he cared about with the exception of his dog, Max. And they were waiting for him to leave.
“Okay, so what happened last night to put you in such a tizzy?” Whitney asked Kendra, clearly unable to keep her tongue still long enough for Jared to make his escape. “I was going to call you at like four o’clock this morning to get all the details, but Matt hid my phone so you could get some sleep.”
“Remind me to thank him later,” Kendra replied with a laugh. The second the business manager in her turned off, the party girl came out to play. “If you ask me, he’s the best thing that ever happened to you—he almost makes you sane.”
Jared lingered near the stack of coffee creamers and muffins, feigning an interest in stirring sticks while the rest of his business partners fell into friendly chitchat.
“Sanity might be pushing things,” John said dryly. “But what went wrong? I thought we liked this one. You said he was dreamy. I distinctly remember hearing you call him dreamy.”
“One question. Let’s say your date—an attractive, professional woman such as myself—goes to the restroom and returns with a happy smile on her face and her ass hanging out from where she tucked her skirt into her thong. Do you, A: Say something to her about it? Or, B: Keep eating your goddamn duck a l’orange and avoid eye contact for the rest of the night?”
“Oh, dear.” Whitney was barely able to conceal her laughter. “Was it a minor tuck-in, or were all cheeks a-go?”
“Full cheekage, I’m afraid. One of the waitresses eventually clued me in by writing a note on a napkin and sneaking it to me with the cheese plate. She even gave me a free slice of cake to take home later. It was that bad.”
“Maybe he was enjoying the view?” John suggested.
“He didn’t ask for a second date.”
“Then he’s an idiot.” Jared wasn’t sure what compelled him to jump into the conversation, unless it was the same mysterious force that had caused him to ask Gretchen out the night before. This might be something he needed to get under control. Impulses and he did not share a very good history together.
All three heads turned his way. Embarrassment at being caught eavesdropping turned him gruffer than usual. “I’m just saying. I can’t imagine being scared off by a little partial nudity on the first date, that’s all. You’re better off without him.”
After a brief pause in which Jared was pretty sure he was about to be run from the room, pitchforks and all, Kendra beamed up at him and slapped her hand on the table. “Damn straight.”
“What a bastard,” Whitney agreed. “He’s obviously got no imagination.”
Jared felt himself relaxing into an almost-smile. In all the months he’d been here, this was the first time he’d really been able to break past the professional barrier they’d placed around him—a sort of precaution against getting too close. He was accepted but not welcomed. Tolerated but not loved.
Looking around now at their faces, all turned his way, he thought maybe this was what they called a breakthrough. Was he supposed to talk about bad dates and humiliating personal drama? Was that what they wanted? Was that what they were waiting for?
He leaned on the wall and watched them gathering up their things and making plans for consolation drinks after work. Well, hell. It couldn’t hurt to try, right?
“So, I met this woman last night,” he began, “and I asked her out.”
Once again, all three heads turned his way. John even dropped his jaw a little, looking as though someone had just smacked him with a plank. Jared felt himself stiffening under their shared incredulity. It wasn’t that strange. He talked about personal things sometimes.
At least, he tried to.
“I was hoping you guys might be able to place her for me.” Now that the words were out there, he might as well commit to it. Besides—he was curious. Gretchen had scared him with her level of familiarity. Was he really so wrapped up in his own problems that he forgot meeting entire people? “Her name is Gretchen, and she lives here in town. She’s youngish. Petite. I think she’s some kind of professional roller skater, if that makes sense.”
Kendra’s eyes lit up. “Long dark hair? Tattooed like crazy?”
“I’m not sure. Her hair was black, but it was all...up and stuff. And I don’t recall any tattoos.” Wait. He had seen that dark something creeping up her neck. The rest of her had been pretty well covered.
“Oh! I know who you’re talking about.” Whitney snapped her fingers. “Gretchen Badgerton. I see her all the time.”
“Do you know her well?” he asked, alarmed.
“I know of her,” Whitney corrected. “She works at the Java Rocket by my condo.”
Java Rocket was where he stopped most mornings for breakfast. Granted, he was never at his best after yet another night of no sleep, but he’d never noticed anyone there except the hipstery-looking teenager working behind the counter...
His stomach dropped. “No. No, no, no. You must have it wrong.”
“I don’t think there are a whole lot of other roller-skating Gretchens in town,” Whitney said. “She also lifeguards down at the rec center—I’ve seen her a few times blowing her whistle at the kids.”
Flashes of horror hit him from all sides. A cute girl with blue-black hair handing him his tea, her arms a colorful swirl of pinup girls and Eastern religious symbols. A textbook open on the counter, the sounds of her joking with her coworkers about upcoming finals week.
A lifeguard. A barista. On roller skates.
She couldn’t be more than eighteen. Nineteen, if he was feeling generous. Good God, what had he done? It had been dark last night, and the bruising on her face had made it difficult to age her very closely—something he was normally quite adept at. But that explained why he hadn’t made the association. Not to mention her small stature and the attitude.
That wasn’t a grown woman being assertive and putting you in your place, Jared. She’s a fucking teenager. That’s how they act. And he’d spent the better part of last evening sending her fatherly, medical-advice-laden texts. He groaned.
“Yeah, she seems nice.” Kendra studied him closely. “Why do you look like you just swallowed a spider?”
“I didn’t know...” He had to call her. Or, shit—should he talk to her parents instead? Maybe it wasn’t too late to take up that upscale surgical center’s offer in New York. Cut his losses and run. Then, before he could stop himself, he added an anxious, “How old do you think she is?”
Whitney zoomed in. That was how she moved—she was always either in his face or so remote she might as well have been on a different planet. “Omigod. You’re robbing the cradle. You totally want to take advantage of the hot young thing slinging coffee for her rent money.”
His stomach grew tighter. This was bad. He was practically a walking cliché here. A walking, disgusting, predictable cliché.
Just like another conceited surgeon of the same name.
“The kids are into parkour now, Jared. You might want to write that down. Oh, and planking. Just promise me you aren’t going to pierce your ear.”
Kendra’s eyes lit up. “I can pierce your ear. Right now, if you want. We can get you a giant diamond stud.”
“It’s not like that,” he said, but it was a fruitless attempt. The second Whitney and Kendra picked up on a thread of conversation they found hilarious, they wouldn’t stop until they’d woven a whole damn tapestry.
So much for the breaking of workplace barriers through exposing his weaknesses. He needed to get out of here. He needed air.
&
nbsp; “I have...paperwork,” he said.
“Yeah, you do,” Whitney teased. “You should go write her a note.”
“I’ll totally pass it to her in gym class,” Kendra added.
Fortunately, the two women had no need of him now that he’d provided them with all the amusement they needed to make it through the day. The quiet seclusion of his private office, with its muted colors and plastic facial molds and a door that thankfully locked, had never sounded so good.
He beat a hasty retreat, no oxygen reaching his brain until he sat and released a long breath that echoed the hiss of the hydraulics in his chair.
It was easy for them to joke about things like this. Whitney had recently joined the ranks of smug, happy couples everywhere with a man five years her junior, and he was pretty sure Kendra received daily date requests. He was happy for them, he really was, and he wouldn’t take away one second of Whitney’s happiness for all the money in the world. After what he’d done to her, she deserved nothing but the best.
But damn.
There had been no shortage of romantic options in Jared’s life since he’d returned to the States, but he had yet to pick up a single handkerchief fluttering his way. None of the offers had seemed very real, driven as they were by women who only wanted to date the man who’d spent the past twelve years traversing the wilderness repairing cleft palates and war wounds.
If only they knew his real motivations for hiding out overseas. If only they knew he was some kind of creepy old man who picked up teenagers in his outdated red convertible.
He dropped his head to his desk with a thud, wishing—and not for the first time—that he was safely ensconced in a jungle somewhere, fighting for his life and the lives of countless others. Give him twenty-hour days. Give him surgeries without enough supplies and a team that hadn’t had a day off in weeks. Give him outbreaks of dysentery and shortages of antibiotics and rain that fell so pervasively it was impossible for wounds to stay dry long enough to heal.
The Derby Girl Page 3
