My mother’s breezy tone as she talks about the love of my life “moving on” makes my palms sweat and my heart threaten to burst out of my chest. How many times in the last year did I have those very same thoughts while I lay awake at night in the middle of some Dominican rain forest? A hundred? A thousand? Every fucking night after the sun went down and the frustration of desperately searching for Fernandez faded into the quiet solitude of darkness, I wondered if someone else was holding her in his arms at that exact moment. I knew she deserved a man who wouldn’t leave her high and dry with a half-assed explanation as to why he had to go, but that didn’t make it any easier to imagine someone else kissing the soft skin behind her neck or running his hands up the inside of her bare thighs.
“Did you even try to keep in touch with her, like I asked?” I question my mother softly, pushing away the mental image of someone else’s hands on my girl.
It was no secret that my mother never liked Olivia. The one meal we’d shared with my parents in the restaurant of the upscale country club where they’re members was the most strained, awkward experience of my life. While Olivia tried everything to make my mother like her, my mother did everything to prove to Olivia that she wasn’t good enough for me. When she asked Olivia if her dating me had anything to do with the inheritance that sat untouched in my bank account since I turned eighteen, I grabbed Olivia’s hand, pulled her up from the table and told my mother to fuck off. We didn’t speak again until I went to her the day I left for the Dominican, begging her to look out for Olivia and make sure she was okay.
“Of course I tried, Cole. I invited her to lunch several times, but she was quite rude to me every time I called. You’re better off without someone like that in your life. I told you that the day I looked into her file at the hospital,” she reminds me.
I clench my jaw so hard I’m afraid I might crack a few teeth. Being the administrator at the hospital where Olivia worked, my mother had complete access to her personnel file and thought she was doing me a favor by pulling Olivia’s records and informing me how little income she had coming in. According to my mother, this was surely proof that Olivia was only with me because she knew I had more money than I would ever spend in my lifetime.
“I appreciate you letting me stay here while I heal, but if you say one more negative thing about Olivia, we’re done here. You know how I feel about her and, if you want to be part of my life, you will respect that.”
The haughty look on my mother’s face quickly disappears as she nervously fiddles with her wedding ring and gives me a small smile. “I’m sorry, Cole, I just worry about you and your sister. Neither one of you seem to understand just how easy it is for someone to take advantage of you because of your money. Caroline practically hands out blank checks to every man she says hello to.”
Like her ears were burning, a knock sounds at the door before it’s slowly pushed open and Caroline appears in the doorway.
“Doing some redecorating, Cole? The shards of glass remind me of an early Jackson Pollock. Very nice,” Caroline says with a laugh as she stares down at the broken vase.
At twenty-eight-years-old, Caroline is seven years my junior and one of my best friends. She’s also a huge thorn in my mother’s side because of her cavalier attitude toward men and life in general. After our parents had me, my mother spent years trying to get pregnant again, losing one pregnancy after another. Part of me thinks that’s reason she behaves the way she does. No one can go through life with that much loss and come out the other side unscathed. It’s the main reason why I continue to forgive her for her constant interference in my life. After her fifth miscarriage, my father put his foot down and they decided to adopt my sister. My mother spent years trying to mold Caroline into an exact replica of herself, forcing her to take etiquette classes and enrolling her in the most expensive private schools in the country. After she was kicked out of the seventh school for getting half the senior class drunk on homemade sangria, my mother finally gave up. Caroline lives to piss off our mother and she’s the only reason I didn’t write my entire family off years ago.
“I was going for abstract expressionism,” I tell Caroline with a smile. “Nailed it.”
My mother rolls her eyes as she checks her Cartier watch. “I have a board meeting I’m going to be late for. I’ll check in on you later.”
Caroline and I stay quiet until the door clicks shut behind her and then we both burst out laughing. The oppressive tension always present when my mother is in the vicinity quickly leaves my body and I relax into the cushions of the couch.
“God, she’s such a bitch. Remind me again why we put up with her?” Caroline asks as she joins me on the couch.
“Because she’s our mother and we have to,” I deadpan.
“How’s the knee?”
I wrap my hands around my thigh and pull my bum leg up to rest my foot on the coffee table in front of me, not bothering to try and hide the wince of pain. Today is the first day I’ve been able to get out of bed without the help of a nurse, but moving from the bedroom to the living room on my own exhausted me.
“Hurts like a mother fucker,” I tell her as we both stare at the post-op knee brace that goes from mid-thigh to mid-calf on my right leg.
“Well, your new nurse will be here tomorrow morning to get you back into tip top shape. Can you please try not to make this one cry? It’s becoming difficult to explain to the temp agency every week why another of their nurses couldn’t hack your charming personality,” Caroline scolds.
I give Caroline an apologetic look and shrug my shoulders. “Did you tell them to stop sending me toddlers fresh out of nursing school? It’s not my fault they can’t handle a little bad language when I get pissed off.”
“Cole, you called the last one a pushy bitch and told her to go fuck herself when she tried to help you take a shower,” she reminds me.
“Exactly. I’m perfectly capable of washing my own ass. I’ve been doing it unassisted for years.”
She shakes her head at me, patting the thigh of my good leg. “Can you just promise me that you won’t throw anything at this one? When I called that woman to apologize, all I could hear through the line was wailing.”
“She wanted me to take a piss in a bed pan. A fucking bed pan, Caroline. It’s not my fault she had slow reflexes and it almost hit her in the shoulder.”
Listening to my sister remind me of the way I’ve behaved the last two weeks should make me feel bad, but it doesn’t. I’m a Goddamn Navy SEAL. I’ve been to war, I’ve taken down men twice my size and I’ve carried injured members of my team for miles through the harshest of conditions while bullets rained down around me. Being confined to a bed for three months and not being able to even get up to take a piss pushed me over the edge.
Caroline raises her eyebrow at me and I sigh heavily. “Fine. I promise not to yell or throw things this time.”
I just need to keep reminding myself that all of this bullshit is going to be worth it in the end. Once I’m able to walk on my own two feet without the help of crutches, I can concentrate on getting my girl back. It doesn’t escape my attention that I’m spending all of this time away so I can stand tall in front of her.
Just so I can get down on my knees and beg for her forgiveness.
“YELLOW, HUH?”
I smiled to myself when I heard his voice behind me on the front porch and continued to move the paintbrush up and down over the wood.
“Yep, yellow. Do you have a problem with yellow, Mr. Vargas?”
His hands grabbed onto my hips and pulled my body against him, the warmth of his bare chest radiating through my thin tank top.
“I have no problem with a yellow door, Miss Lafierre. Whatever makes you happy.”
His breath whispered against the back of my neck, goose bumps rising on my skin even though it was almost ninety degrees outside.
I continued adding the second coat of yellow paint to the front door, trying not to let his closeness distract me. “Did you
have a nice run on the beach?”
Instead of answering me, he removed one hand from my hip, pulled my long black hair off my shoulder and kissed the spot right below my ear.
I exhaled a shaky breath when I felt his tongue against my skin, lightly sucking and nipping at the area that always turned me on.
“My run was good, but I cut it short. This is a much better way to get my blood pumping,” he whispered against my ear.
I pushed back into him, feeling his erection hot and hard against my ass and he let out a soft groan.
“It feels like your blood is already pumping in one general area,” I told him with a small laugh, my project long forgotten as the paintbrush dangled precariously from the hand hanging limply at my side.
The large, callused hand still resting on my hip made its way inside the waistband of my tiny cotton shorts, his fingertips brushing against my clit. The paintbrush clattered to the floor of the porch and I couldn’t even bring myself to care that there would be a mess of yellow paint to clean up later.
I closed my eyes and dropped my head back to his shoulder, his fingers sliding through my wetness before they slowly pushed inside me.
“Fuck, I love the way you feel. I could touch you like this forever and never get tired of it,” he said, wrapping his lips around my earlobe and tugging it into his mouth.
Two of his fingers filled me while his thumb brushed back and forth against my clit, my hips rocking against his hand while he tortured me with his words.
“We probably shouldn’t be doing this on the front porch where the neighbors can see us. Mrs. Watson might have a heart attack,” I mumbled, my hands reaching back to clutch onto his hips.
His fingers never slowed, the sweet agony they brought making me hum my approval even though I knew we should move inside.
“Mrs. Watson needs more excitement in her life than pruning her fucking rose bushes,” he informed me, his arm tightening around my middle as he held me firmly against him. “Maybe when she hears you screaming my name as you come she’ll stop trying to listen in on our conversations all the time.”
A beeping sound rang in my ears, each annoying high-pitched note playing in tune with the rhythm of his fingers as they plunged in and out of me.
“You should turn that off,” he muttered, his fingers moving faster while my orgasm teetered right on the edge.
The beeping continued, growing louder and louder as my hips moved faster, reaching for the release that was right within my grasp.
“Come for me, baby,” he crooned, holding his fingers still inside of me as deep as they could go.
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
I jerk awake, my eyes blinking rapidly and my breath coming in short gasps. Resting my hand against my chest, I feel my rapid heartbeat fluttering against my palm. The angry cry of my alarm clock echoes around the room and I reach out with a shaky hand, smacking the off button. Flinging the covers off of my sweaty body, I feel the tingling remnants of my unachieved orgasm between my legs and I silently curse that damn X-rated fantasy.
Did I really just have a wet dream?
It’s not like I haven’t had them before, but it’s definitely been a while. My dreams about him are usually of the nightmarish variety and revolve around the pain and devastation he left behind, not the thrill and excitement he gave my body.
Pushing the dream from my mind, I drag myself into the bathroom to shower and get ready for my first day at my new job. I need to concentrate on making a good first impression with my patient, so I definitely don’t need thoughts of him overwhelming me. It’s taken me entirely too long to try and forget about him, and I don’t need some stupid dream messing with the progress I’ve made.
An hour and a half later, dressed in a new pair of pale blue scrubs with a white, long-sleeved t-shirt underneath and my thick black hair pulled back in a high ponytail, I make a last-minute decision and whip my car into the parking lot of Krispy Kreme Donuts. The red neon ‘Hot Now’ sign in the front window called to me like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. If I can’t charm my grumpy new patient with my bedside manner, hopefully fresh, warm donuts will do the trick.
As I stand off to the side of the counter after I place my order, I feel a hand lightly brush my shoulder.
“Excuse me, are you a doctor?”
Turning around, I’m met with the gorgeous green eyes and handsome face of a man in a business suit. My libido instantly flashes back to the dream from this morning, but my brain shuts it down quickly and reminds me that heartbreak isn’t worth any amount of good looks.
“Sorry, no, I’m a nurse. Do you need help with something?”
The corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile and a dimple appears. I’ve always been a sucker for dimples.
“I don’t know. As soon as I saw you walk through the door, my heart started fluttering. Is that a medical problem? Or maybe something you can fix by going out to dinner with me?”
Oh, my God, are you kidding me?
I force myself not to roll my eyes as he inches his way into my personal space, resting his elbow on the counter right next to me. I take a step back and look for the young kid who took my order, hoping he’ll hurry his ass up so I can get out of here.
“So, what do you say? Dinner and drinks tonight? You can bring your stethoscope and check out my heart,” the guy says with a chuckle, completely unaware that I’ve moved further away from him and I’m trying to figure out a way to escape before I vomit on his shiny black loafers.
Seriously, what is it with guys and nurse fetishes? Do they have any idea how unsexy it is to put in catheters and take a rectal temperature?
“Sorry, I’m busy tonight,” I mutter, not bothering to look at him when I speak.
“Tomorrow night, then. How about eight o’clock?”
I should probably be flattered that a relatively attractive man is hitting on me the first time I’m out in public alone without looking like death warmed over, but I’m not. I know eventually I need to get back on the dating horse, so to speak, but it’s not going to be any time soon, and it’s definitely not going to be with this guy. When I decide I’m ready to date again, it will be someone whose voice alone makes me weak in the knees and whose touch my body recognizes, craving the pleasure he can bring me with a single brush of his fingertips.
You had that once and look how wonderful THAT turned out.
An image of Cole and his dimples pops into my head and my skin starts to warm, remembering the feel of his hands on my body so long ago. The memory pisses me off enough that I lose whatever patience I have left.
“Look, I’m just hear for the fresh donuts. How about you take your creepy pick-up lines somewhere else?”
My words hit home and he quickly pulls back from me with a scowl. Before he can fire off the insult that I’m sure is on the tip of his tongue, the Krispy Kreme employee saves me.
“Ma’am, your order’s ready.”
With a quick thank you, I grab the green and white box from his hands and high tail it out of the building without a second glance at Mr. Charming.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull my car up to the huge, black iron gate at the address I programmed into my GPS and roll my window down, smiling at the guard in his little building right beside it.
“Good morning, I’m Olivia Lafierre, the temp nurse.”
The older gentleman leans through the open window of his building, flipping a page on his clipboard.
“Yep, got your name right here. You’ll be going to the guesthouse, not the main house. When I open the gate, just follow the driveway about a half-mile until you come to a fork in the road. Take a left, drive for another half-mile and you’ll see the house right in front of you. You can park in the turn-around in front of the porch.”
I thank him as he disappears inside the building and, a few seconds later, a buzzing sound fills the air and the iron gates slowly part until I can pull through.
“Jesus, welcome to Lifestyles of the Ric
h and Famous,” I mutter to myself as I inch my car down the blacktop driveway and stare at the professionally landscaped hedges and flower gardens along the way.
When I pull up to the front of the “guesthouse” a few minutes later, my jaw drops open. If this is what they use for the guests, I can only imagine what the main house looks like. This thing is easily ten times the size of my home. As I open my car door and step out onto the pavement, I stare at the white, Spanish Mediterranean-style house in front of me.
Reaching back into my car, I grab my medical bag and the box of donuts, bumping the door shut with my hip before making my way up the front stairs and under the huge stone archway that leads to the door. With a deep breath, I ring the doorbell and wait.
Something crashes on the other side of the door and I hear a few low, muffled curses followed by a loud thump. According to the information I received from the temp agency, the man isn’t able to get around very well and is need of physical therapy, so I wonder if I should just walk in.
Transferring the box of donuts to my other hand, I juggle it and my medical bag and reach up to knock on the door, speaking through the wood. “Hello? Is everything okay in there?”
When I hear another crash, this one louder than the last, my concern for the well-being of this man outweighs the inappropriateness of waltzing through a stranger’s door uninvited.
I quickly turn the handle and push open the door, sticking my head inside. When I don’t see anyone in the foyer or its immediate vicinity, I move the rest of the way inside, closing the door behind me.
“Hello?” I shout again, my voice echoing around the vaulted ceiling in the entryway.
“…fucking BULLSHIT!”
I hear the stifled tail end of another curse coming from a room down the hall in front of me. This guy could be in serious pain. What if he fell out of bed? I can’t just stand here, waiting for him to come to me. The last thing I need is for him to complain to the agency that his nurse didn’t come to his aid.