Fight From The Heart: a small town romance (Heart Collection Book 4) Page 4

  “Of course,” I assure him, and his brows pinch while he bites his lip.

  Okay, maybe he’s scaring me just a little right now because he’s giving me a look like he wants to pounce. Like he wants to toss me back on the pillows and have his way with me. And that’s not frightening in the least bit. What I should be afraid of is my own imagination and projecting it on a man who would never do such a thing to me.

  I’m so ridiculous. It must be the fever.

  “I’m done with the soup,” I say, swallowing a sudden lump in my throat.

  “You only took two sips,” Jacob admonishes, staring at my lips. “Finish the bowl and then you need a nap.”

  I’ve slept so much in the past two days I don’t know if I can sleep any more, but my body does feel like mush. Jacob seems to sense the war within me, so he makes a suggestion.

  “Let me finish the chapter I’m working on. You eat your soup, then we can watch a movie or something in a little bit.” He speaks as if he’s pacifying a child, and I want to punch myself in the face for loving it so much. Other than reading his manuscripts on occasion at his house, I don’t spend time with Jacob directly. We speak often via text or email, and somehow that morphed into the other things I do for him, like finding him a live-in cook and house cleaning services. He claims he asks me to do these things because I know this town. I know who to trust, and he trusts me. However, the day he asks me to pick up his dry cleaning is the day I quit him regardless of the pay.

  I nod to accept his present offer, and he stands, leaning toward me. Again, the fantasies take over, the one where he’ll lean down and kiss my temple. He hesitates a second, and then straightens as if reading my thoughts. Quickly excusing himself, he disappears behind me, through his sitting area and out the entrance of his room. Neither his room which is the entire north end of the house nor his sister’s room on the south end has a door, just an opening to their private spaces. A loft bridge connects the two sides, but the siblings rarely entered each other’s bedrooms.

  I consider myself a friend to his stepsister. Ella has had a rough couple of years, and I know the feeling. She needed to find herself—outside of Jacob, outside of this town, and even outside of Ethan Scott, her one true love. I helped her with that when she escaped to New York. I didn’t think Jacob would forgive me at first for helping her leave, but he came around, apologizing for overreacting toward me. It might be the one time he’s truly been angry with me and asked my forgiveness afterward. I finish the soup with additional wandering thoughts. I’m curious about Jacob’s surprise that I hadn’t told my mother about him.

  Mary Carter is what everyone would call good people, and I admire her for raising four kids and surviving the death of my father, who was the love of her life. His passing was difficult on all of us in our own way. My father and I were close. He knew how lost I was in my early thirties, and it’s something I like to think I recognize in Jacob. He has a put together look on the outside, but he’s dying on the inside. His dungeon door is locked tight, and I’ll never have the key to understanding him.

  + + +

  To my surprise, I nap for three hours after the soup and eventually wander down to the entrance of Jacob’s office again.

  “Jesus, I thought you would never rise,” he teases, glancing up at me over the rim of his glasses. These are relatively new to him and give him a sexy professor appearance. With rumpled hair, the flannel shirt, and bare feet, Jacob takes sexy to a new level of torture for me.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” I question.

  “Because you’re sick, Lilac, and you need the rest. But I’m starving.” He stands and pats his rock-hard belly, which thuds in response. I’ve never seen him without a shirt, not even the other night when he laid behind me in bed, but I have a strong imagination of the tightness in those lower stomach muscles as I’ve seen him in fitted tees.

  “I don’t think I can handle pizza,” I warn him. Jacob has an obsession with frozen pizzas.

  “What do you feel like?” His voice drops when he asks, as do his eyes to my legs. The sweats he gave me are too big, and a ripple of something unwarranted seeps through my body under his gaze. I hate when he speaks in that seductive manner because he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s only teasing me.

  “I’d love scrambled eggs and toast.” A little protein and some bread sound divine.

  “Coming right up, breakfast in bed.” He winks at me, and I grin. He’s such an ass in an adorable way. As he nears me, he stops at my side. “Back in bed, Lilac.” His voice drops even lower, and over my shoulder, I look up at him. He’s so close to me, closer than necessary for a man heading to his kitchen. His fingers brush the back of my hand. Another ripple of excitement quickly turns into a tornado whirling through my midsection.

  “Yes, sir,” I whisper. Jacob bites his lip, his eyes dropping to mine once more. There’s a tic in his jaw, and the vein in his neck strains.

  “Lilac.” A warning resonates in the nickname. For the first time ever, I’m deliciously frightened of Jacob. Not for the first time, I imagine what it would be like to kiss him. To have the lip he’s chewing press against mine. To feel his tongue slip past my lips and tangle with mine. To have his body over me.

  Heat rushes my face while Jacob stares at me.

  Without a word, I roll from the doorjamb and turn to the staircase, slowly taking it upward and sensing Jacob watching my retreat. There’s nothing sexy about wearing his too large sweats or his oversized tee, so I have no idea what he’s looking at other than the expanse of my backside, probably noting it isn’t tight like Malibu Mandi.

  Chapter 5

  And The Oscar Goes To . . .

  [Jacob]

  She’s going to be the death of me. It’s evident watching her climb my stairs she isn’t wearing underwear under those sweats, and I want nothing more than to tug them down and take her right there on the steps. Not to mention, she’s not wearing a bra under the T-shirt I gave her, and I want to lift the shirt and place my mouth over one of those weighty globes. Pam has a lush body, and she just does it for me without even knowing it. And dammit, I’m hammer stiff again, and I’ve already taken care of business in the shower once this morning.

  I head to the kitchen, in hopes to cool off and prepare our eclectic meal of her eggs, my frozen pizza, and a bowl of popcorn for the movie. She’s right. I’m not a cook. I want food without effort on my part. It’s one reason I hired Ethan Scott last fall. If someone doesn’t feed me, I can forget to eat. I also hired him because I had a six-week book tour, and I needed someone to look after my stepsister, who was living with me at the time.

  Pam and I have already discussed her part in aiding my stepsister’s disappearance last fall. All’s forgiven although I was pissed at Pam at first. Ella’s the one who did the soothing over, eventually calling me and explaining her thought process, her feelings, and how she wanted to get help, but on her own terms. It’s noble actually, but as soon as she hinted I needed help—I needed to face my past—it was time to shut that conversation down. I ended up easily forgiving Pam. How could I not? She’s the only friend I have.

  Thinking of Ella, I give her a call while I’m working on the makeshift dinner.

  “Belly,” I tease when she answers. She’s thirty years old, but I still call her by the nickname I gave her when she came to live with me and my father. Her mother was sixteen years younger than my dad and a former model. Both parents doted on Ella as they shaped and molded her into the shining star they wanted her to be. She equaled dollar signs for them. On the other hand, I was a huge disappointment to my father, and my stepmother was indifferent. I had nothing to offer her, so she had nothing to give me except Ella. Her daughter was ten years younger than me but looked up to me for everything. Kindness. Friendship. Protection. And I failed her on the last one. I brought an unsuspected villain into her life, and he scarred her. It was all my fault.

  “Jacob,” she exhales with excitement. “I haven’t heard from you in days.
How is the writing going?”

  “The writing is good.”

  “Wow, what a way with words,” she teases. Once my sister moved to New York, I diligently checked in on her, and it drove her crazy. I just wanted her safe, happy, and whole. Even though I’m not much of a romantic myself, I did think the one thing that could give Ella the happily ever after she deserved was Ethan.

  “How was your trip?” The question is asked through clenched teeth. Ella hates Mandi and held nothing back about how bad she thinks the relationship was for me. For the past six months, she’s been telling me I should find a woman like Pam. When I think about it, Ella’s been saying Pam specifically. I should be looking at Pam.

  “It’s finally over.” There’s relief in saying the words. I’m not the best communicator, and I don’t like conflict, especially not provoking it, but I had to be straight with Mandi. I didn’t love her, so there was no future for us.

  “For real this time?” Ella teases. She knows the push and pull history of our reckless relationship.

  “Yes, smart-ass, it’s really real this time.” Decisions were made with Mandi, and Pam was waiting in my home when I returned a day early. It almost feels like a sign, but signs mean hope, and I refuse to accept that kind of voodoo. Pam was sick and passed out on my couch, not expecting me and certainly not waiting for me.

  “I’m so proud of you, Jacob. How grown-up and adult of you.” She laughs.

  “How are things with you?” I hesitate. I haven’t seen her in weeks.

  “Actually, I have news for you.”

  I almost drop the phone when I learn my stepsister is back and permanently staying. She quickly gives me the details, and I promise to visit her new place.

  If ever there’s something to fill me with hope, it’s the true happiness in my sister’s voice.

  “I’m so happy for you, Belly,” I say, meaning every word.

  “It’s your turn,” she says, her voice lowering a bit. “You deserve happiness, too.”

  I snort. “Well, hearing you happy makes me happy.”

  “Now, you’re just being cheesy.” She pauses. “But you’re a good big brother.” The shift in her tone tells me all we don’t say to one another. She loves me, and the small sliver of my heart that allows love reciprocates.

  “I’m the best,” I mock, and she laughs.

  “Yeah, the best. Okay, talk soon,” she says.

  “Take care, Belly.” I worry about her. She hasn’t always been good at taking care of herself. Then Ethan started caring about her, and everything changed. It restores my faith in the possibility that love can really strengthen a person. Other people. Not me. I don’t really know what love is other than what I feel for my sister, and that’s a different kind of love.

  Placing everything on a tray again and tucking a bottle of scotch under my arm, I carry the small pilfering up to the bedroom. Pam is sitting upright with pillows at her back and the television on.

  “I don’t understand how to work this thing,” she jests, holding up the four remotes necessary to get to the channels. I don’t watch TV often, but for the best viewing, I had the set secured to the wall near the corner, opposite my side of the bed and closer to where Pam sits. The angle allows me to watch it in bed if I wish, and I’ve never been so excited to watch something because Pam will be next to me.

  “What would you like to watch?” I ask after setting the tray near the foot of the bed.

  “I’m not picky. Anything is fine.”

  My brow hitches at her, and she shrugs so I pull up one of my favorites.

  “Frankenstein?” she questions, reaching for the plate with eggs and toast. “What version is that?”

  “Kenneth Branagh. I love to pick apart all the ways he got it wrong,” I admit. “The book is better.”

  “I know.” She sighs, a smile curling her lips as if she knows me so well. Even without the hot pink or bright red lipsticks, her lips are full, and for the millionth time, I wonder what they would taste like. Right now, I imagine scrambled eggs, and I’ve never been so envious of a food before as I watch it enter her mouth and slide down her throat.

  Sweet Jesus, get a grip, man.

  I take a seat on my side of the bed. As I pour myself a scotch, Pam watches me before turning her attention back to the start of the movie as if it’s the most interesting part. She’s no longer eating.

  “Is everything okay?” I intend to tease her, but my tone turns sour, mocking. Mandi would always tell me I drank too much, which was ironic considering the shit she put up her nose.

  Pam shrugs. “Your house. Your rules.”

  “What does that mean?” An edge still taints my voice.

  “Nothing.” She shrugs again.

  “Don’t blow this off. Do you have a problem with me drinking?” Then I reconsider my question. I’m not justifying myself to anyone, not even Pam. Fuck this. No one will make me feel bad for a drink. Without waiting on her answer, I down the glass to prove the point to myself.

  A heavy silence falls between us, and I hate the uncomfortableness more than the burn of the scotch.

  “What?” I snap, uncertain why I’m barking at her.

  “You know my dad died from a drunk driver,” she says under her breath. Her quiet tone is like a sucker punch to my gut. I remember the timing of her father’s death all too well, and I huff, giving off a dismissive sound. I also know Pam’s been known to imbibe on occasion, so I don’t understand what I’m missing.

  “It’s one drink,” I mutter. “Maybe you’d like one?”

  Pam doesn’t look over at me, keeping her eyes toward the television. “Probably not a good idea, considering the meds and a lack of food.”

  I notice she’s placed her plate back on the tray, hardly eating the eggs and only taking one bite of toast.

  “You need to finish that.” I nod at the plate, not interested in discussing my drinking.

  “You’re kind of bossy, you know that?” she mutters, reaching back for the plate and taking a few more bites.

  “So I’ve been told,” I reply as she’s the one who has accused me of such a thing. I’d like to boss you around this bedroom. Instead, I concentrate on eating my pizza, ignoring the sudden buzz of drinking the scotch too fast, and staring at the movie I’ve seen too many times before.

  I’m not saying I’m an alcoholic. Which is the first sign I might be one, right? But I don’t dismiss the fact I do enjoy a drink or two, and sometimes too often. Tonight suddenly feels like a time I don’t need it, so why did I bring the bottle up here? Force of habit, I suspect. I’ve used the scotch to dull my thoughts, numb the pain, or just make me forget life in general, but I don’t want to forget this night. I have my Lilac in my bed, doing something outside our norm of work, and I like it. I like her here, and I’m ruining it.

  “I always feel sorry for the creature,” Pam blurts out, interrupting my thoughts.

  “He’s freaking ugly,” I state, staring at the hideousness of his being.

  “He’s misunderstood,” Pam says with compassion. “He’s been rejected from his creator, who is a father figure, albeit a poor one, and all he wants is love. He senses it’s a natural connection in families and between couples.”

  Her assessment hits a little too close to home. My father has rejected me. I’ve never been in love.

  “You’re familiar with Frankenstein?” I question when I shouldn’t be surprised. Pam is well-read and versed in the gothic genre.

  “Yes, even us country bumpkins have read classic literature.”

  Cringing, I defend myself. “I didn’t mean you hadn’t read it. I meant you are sympathetic with the plight of the monster.”

  “He’s not really a monster, though. He’s called the creature, and he’s only trying to survive. And more notably, survive on his own in a complicated, unforgiving world.” Another evaluation hitting the mark on the monster sitting next to her in bed.

  “You know he’s not Frankenstein,” I remind her, annoyed without r
eason at her remarks about the fated creature.

  She guffaws. “Frankenstein is the name of the doctor, not the creation. The story is really about the doctor as a monster, not the creature as one. It’s about how love is innate but needs to be nurtured to blossom. The doctor should have compassion, but he doesn’t. The creature shouldn’t love, but he does, and that desire for love consumes him to the point of hate.”

  Alright, now I do need another drink. I reach for the scotch and pour. I don’t need a psychological investigation into a story so similar to my own. I want to rip apart Kenneth Branagh’s warped depiction and laugh at it.

  See, a monster myself.

  I sense Pam’s eyes on me as I down the second glass, but I ignore those knowing eyes. She sees what I’m doing—drowning myself.

  “I never asked you about your trip,” she interjects next, changing the subject to one that upsets me even more than our previous topic. I’ll need this entire bottle to hold a conversation about my suddenly ended love life. The thought gives me pause. But was it actually love? The seductive attempts by Mandi. The whines, pleas, and begging for more. The coldhearted stance I had to take with her. The fact my dick couldn’t rise for her anymore, and my heart finally said enough.

  “It was . . .” I can’t lie. “Not great.”

  Pam’s head spins in my direction. “Really? I thought it was a vacation.” She knows about Mandi on a surface level, meaning she knows I’ve had someone in my life. Mandi is the one who met me in various places around the States. Mandi is the one I’d argue with on the phone, and Mandi is the one I asked Pam to send flowers to once.

  I’m such an ass.

  “It wasn’t. Vacations are supposed to be restful, and this one wasn’t.” I sigh and glance up at the movie. It’s the scene where the creature’s lover is killed. All he wants is to be loved, Pam said. Spot-on assessment.