That night, insomnia grips her just like it has, like clockwork, for the past few months. It has gotten to the point that Isabel has almost forgotten what it is like to be able to sleep through to morning. She laughs at the irony of it. When she was at med school, she would have given anything to be able to survive on the few hours of sleep she was getting a night. She could have used that time for much-needed studying; there had never seemed to be enough hours in the day to cover everything she had needed to. She feels a burst of sadness, a sliver of regret, as she thinks about the textbooks that remain in the bag she hasn’t yet unpacked.
She hasn’t even looked at them since she arrived back in Chicago. They seem to belong to another time, a time when her mother was still alive, a time when life had been simpler, easier, when she hadn’t felt so out of control of her future. It’s strange to think that only a few months ago, she had been so sure of exactly what she was going to do. It all seemed so clear to her then. She would finish med school, move back to Chicago to do her residency and work her way through the ranks until she became a thoracic surgeon, fixing people’s hearts, their lungs, the parts that kept them alive. Now, that seems like a pipe dream, like a future and a life that belongs to someone else.
1:37. The digital clock next to her bed blinks at her and no matter how much she stares at it, she knows this is all the sleep she’s going to get, at least until four when she’ll stumble back into bed again and sleep for another two hours. But that’s only if she’s really lucky.
She throws off the bed covers and throws a University of Dallas sweatshirt over her skimpy nightdress before padding quietly downstairs, careful not to wake her lodgers. She unlocks the office and tells herself that the one perk of insomnia is that she gets a head start on her long to do list for the day.
But, right now, in the eerie pre-dawn silence, her focus isn’t on the bills in front of her or on the checklist of things she has to do. Instead, her eyes are drawn to the drawer of the desk, where she keeps the letter her mother had written to her when she’d found out how sick she was. The kindly attorney who had dealt with Caroline Bishop’s will had given it to her. Isabel had carried the letter around with her, read it over and over again, to the point where she knew it by heart. But she still took it out to read it, because it was written in her mother’s hands and because, for those few brief minutes she has the letter in front of her, it’s as if her mother isn’t really gone, not forever anyway.
Carefully, she pulls the letter out of the envelope that bears her name and carries it to the kitchen, filling the kettle and boiling it and setting up the teapot. It had become her little routine: waking up, reading the letter, drinking tea at the kitchen table like she used to do with her mother. She’s pretty sure a psychiatrist would tell her she’s avoiding dealing with the fact that her mother is dead, that she is holding on to patterns of behavior that wouldn’t benefit her in the long run.
But she doesn’t care about any of that, not by a long shot. All she cares about is trying to understand, trying to get her head around why her mother had kept her illness from her for so long, why she had chosen to deal with it alone, why she had given Isabel so little time to say goodbye.
She unfolds the letter, rereading the words she already knows. Her mom had told her to sell the boarding house, to get rid of it because she had never been able to. It turns out that Caroline Bishop had been tied to this place, tied to it with memories of the man she had loved and the life they had shared together before he died. She didn’t want Isabel to be locked down in the same way she had been. In the letter she’d told her daughter to use the sale money for tuition fees, to make something of herself so, in her mother’s words, she ‘didn’t end up like her.’
Isabel feels a single tear fall over her cheeks, just as she always does when she reads that line because the truth is she can’t think of anyone she’d rather be. She wishes so much she had told her mother that before it had been too late. There is so much she still wants to say that is never going to be said.
She folds the letter back up carefully, placing it in the envelope gently, as if she’s afraid it might break. Before she can pour the just-boiled water into the teapot, though, she hears a noise that makes her freeze. The front door opens and then closes. It’s followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps walking down the hall. In her rational mind, she knows an intruder wouldn’t bother to rob the Bishop Boarding House, not when there are so many more appealing properties to choose from nearby, but a rational mind doesn’t work so well at almost two in the morning. So she grabs the first thing to hand, which happens to be a kitchen knife, and pads quietly towards the entrance, careful not to step on any of the creaky floorboards.
She gasps when she sees the outline of a man in the darkness, coming towards her. “Is this how you greet all your guests, Isabel?” The voice is immediately familiar and the fear twisting her stomach relaxes into a completely different kind of tension.
“Do you always sneak around in the early hours of the morning?” Her voice is steady as she flicks on the light-switch but she almost drops the knife in her hand when she sets eyes on Wesley.
He’s busted up and bleeding, with a particular nasty looking cut above his eye. “Jesus, what happened to you?”
Wesley smiles wryly. “It’s nothing. I had a little accident; that’s all.”
“Did that accident involve someone’s fist and your face?” Isabel raises an eyebrow, already switching into doctor mode and looking him over, mentally cataloguing his injuries.
“You should see the other guy.” He smiles again at her and Isabel wonders how it’s possible to look so devastatingly handsome when it seems like he can barely stand up.
“Well if he’s in worse shape than you, he should be in the hospital.” Isabel’s voice is flat, but it does nothing to hide her concern.
“This is nothing. I’m just going to take a hot shower and hit the sack.” He moves to walk past her and Isabel catches a slight limp as he moves and notices there’s blood on his jeans around his thigh.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You need more than a shower. Let me take a look at you.” She motions towards the kitchen, leading the way and pulling a chair out for him before grabbing the well-stocked first aid kit she knows her mother kept in one of the cupboards.
He looks at her doubtfully. “Trust me, I’m just a little bruised. It’s nothing.” He tries to brush off her concern and takes another step towards his bedroom before her voice stops him.
“Come in here and sit down before you fall down.” When he doesn’t move, she crosses her arms and taps her foot impatiently. “If you bleed all over my house, I’ll be seriously pissed. Now stop the macho bullshit and sit the hell down.”
Wesley blinks at her, clearly surprised at her bossiness, but, as always, amused. He shrugs, as if he’s doing her a favor, before hobbling into the kitchen and sitting in the chair she’s set out for him.
“Good.” Isabel nods, satisfied, before taking the seat in front of him. “I’m not going to lie. This is going to hurt.” She dabs some iodine onto the cut above his eye and, to his credit, he barely reacts but she hears him breathe in sharply. Once she’s cleaned the cut, she can see that it’ll need a couple of stitches, but there are more injuries to inventory first. Gently, she picks up his right hand, taking in the ripped skin on the knuckles and the bruising that’s just starting to come out. She probes it gently with her thumbs. “It doesn’t feel like there’s anything broken.” She lays his hand gently on the table and moves to the freezer, wrapping ice in one of her kitchen towels. She rests the cold compress over his hand. “This should bring down some of the swelling. Now, take off your pants.”
Wesley looks at her with a knowing smirk. “I appreciate the offer, Isabel, but I thought you didn’t mix business with pleasure.”
Isabel feels herself flush, but pushes her embarrassment away. She has something more important to focus on. “Don’t flatter yourself, Wesley. From the blood on your jeans it looks like you’ve got a pretty impressive cut on your leg. Take off your pants and let me take a look.” When he doesn’t make a move she sighs heavily, rolling her eyes. “Come on, slick. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
He raises an eyebrow at her, but he doesn’t protest. Slowly he stands up, unbuttons his jeans and lets them fall to the ground, not taking his eyes off of her at any point. He stands in front of her, his black Calvins not doing much to hide the fact that the man is incredibly well endowed. Isabel swallows hard, battling against the dryness in her throat that seems to have come upon her suddenly.
“Take a seat.” Her voice comes out quietly and she busies herself focusing on the gash on his leg. It’s not deep, and it doesn’t look as if it’s just happened either. It’s ragged and there’s some scarring around it that looks like burn marks. She cleans it with the iodine solution and wraps his thigh in gauze. Isabel can feel his eyes on her, but she keeps her attention focused on the task at hand. “It looks like you’ve opened an old wound.”
He waits a beat before he responds, as if he’s weighing each word. “You seem to know what you’re doing. You patch up a lot of your tenants before?”
Isabel looks up at him, smiling then. “No, I can honestly say that you’re the first.” She tilts her head, assessing the cut above his eye and deciding what to do with it. Her line of sight drops down to take in his dark chocolate irises that feel like they’re pulling her into his orbit. She feels herself leaning in closer to him without even meaning to. She clears her throat and looks away, breaking the connection between them. “I’m going to need to stitch that.” She nods towards his eyebrow as she rifles in the extensive first aid kit for a needle. When she finds one, she takes the kettle and runs some boiling water over it to sterilize it. It’s a good excuse to step away from him, even if it’s only for a minute. When she’s around him she feels like she can’t quite catch her breath, everything feels more intense, louder, brighter. Being around him is an overload to her senses.
“Blood doesn’t bother you.” It’s a statement but the question is implicit.
Isabel shakes her head, dipping the needle into the boiling water a second time for luck. “It never has, really.”
He doesn’t push the point and Isabel feels grateful that he’s not quizzing her, despite the fact that he’s obviously curious. She takes her seat in front of him again and focuses on his eye that she sews up in a less than a minute. He doesn’t flinch when the needle meets his skin and Isabel wonders how many times he’s been stitched up before. He catches her eye as she lowers the needle, pinning her with his gaze. She feels herself drawn into him again and it’s a physical pull she has to actively resist.
“Well, you’re all set. Although I wouldn’t do any of you signature eyebrow raises for a while if you don’t want to risk pulling out your stitches.” She watches as his face breaks out in a grin. If he’s handsome when he’s serious, then when he smiles, really smiles, he’s heartbreaking.
“My signature eyebrow raises?” He gives her a knowing look that makes her blush.
“It’s your move.” She teases him, smiling broadly. “Bet it works like a charm on the ladies.”
“Some, not all.” He stares at her with those deep, dark eyes of his that seem to speak volumes and only to her.
Isabel feels herself redden again and busies herself packing up the first aid kit and avoiding eye contact. This man has the power to reduce her to a quivering wreck with just one look, a fact that he’s probably all too aware of. She looks at his pants that are still sitting in a rumpled pile on the floor. “You can put your jeans back on now.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the silence is weighty as if he wants to, before he slides on his pants, making it just a little easier for her to breathe.
“You’re a long way from Dallas.” He nods to the sweatshirt she’s forgotten she is even wearing.
She shakes her head at just how true his statement is, in more ways than one. “Yeah, you have no idea.” Unconsciously, she crosses her arms over the emblem written across her chest and looks around for something to busy her hands. “I was making myself some tea before you arrived. Would you like some?”
Wesley doesn’t look like the kind of guy who sits around drinking tea but he nods once, even if it’s only because he can tell she needs to do something. They remain in silence while the pot brews and she pours out two cups, carrying them over to the table. Instead of sitting in the chair opposite him that she had occupied previously, she steps away, leaning her back against the kitchen counter.
“So why do you still wear the shirt if you don’t want to talk about it?” He takes a sip of his tea, the small cup looking like a toy in his big hand.
She remembers the feel of his hands around her waist, the warmth there, the way he had kissed her like he never wanted to stop. She blinks the image away, but the memory of it is still scorched on her mind. “I wear it to sleep in. You don’t usually expect the third degree when you’re in your pjs.” She tries to brush off the intensity of his stare and fails miserably. He sits there waiting patiently for her to actually answer the question.
Her immediate reaction when anyone asks her about college is to give them the standard spiel – that she’s just trying to get the boarding house straight before she goes back. But something about being here, with Wesley, in the darkness, which is more night than morning, she finds she doesn’t have the energy or even the inclination to lie. “I guess because I don’t want to admit it’s all over, that that part of my life is over and done with.”
“And why is it done with?” He looks at her, his expression neutral but his eyes full of a mix of interest coupled with caution – two feelings she’s become intimately familiar with since he turned up at her door.
“Because I’m here now, because I have to run this place.” She shrugs as if there is no more to it.
She’s surprised when he shakes his head. “I don’t buy it.”
Isabel feels her mouth fall open at the way he sounds so certain of himself. “You don’t buy it?”
“No.” He doesn’t back down from her sarcastic tone. “If you wanted to be in Dallas, you would be in Dallas. Using the boarding house is just an excuse. It doesn’t sound like you.”
Isabel narrows her eyes at him. “You don’t know anything about me!” She almost laughs at the situation – trying to persuade a man she’s barely spoken to that he doesn’t know her better than her most intimate friends.
“I know you’re not a quitter, and I know you’re stubborn as all hell. So if you wanted to do something, you would do it, no matter what stood in your way.” He shrugs as if it’s that simple.
“You got all that insight about me from all the deep conversations we’ve had since you got here?” Her tone is dripping with sarcasm but he doesn’t rise to it.
“Am I wrong?” His eyes throw out the challenge to her.
She breaks eye contact with him, hating the way he seems to be able to read her mind. She stares into the depths of the black tea, as if she might fin some answers there. “No, you’re not wrong.”
“So what gives? What are you doing here when you should be there?” He points to the five-letter word emblazoned across her chest. “What were you studying? Wait, let me guess!” He holds his hand up to her and taps his index finger on his chin, a habit that she’s noticed when he seems to be lost in thought. “Between the way you didn’t faint at the sight of blood, the fact you seem to know your way around a first aid kit, and you’re clearly smart as a whip, I’m guessing nursing.” He snaps his fingers as if he’s got it.
Isabel raises her eyebrows, ready to chew him out for his sexism. “Because, of course, women can only be nurses, right? We couldn’t hope to be doctors or dentists or heart surgeons?”
“A heart surgeon, wow.” He looks at her, clearly impressed.
“I didn’t say that’s what I was studying to be.” Her voice is tart, still smarting from the disappointment that he believes in all the macho bullshit she’s been dealing with since she decided to study medicine. She’s always surprised how many seemingly educated, smart men thought being a doctor was ‘too big a job’ for such a pretty girl. The first time she’d heard that point of view she’d wanted to smack the guy; the second time she’d decided she would beat him in all their tests, and the third time and the times after that she’d barely even registered the words. But something about Wesley thinking that way made her disappointed, as if she had expected better from him; something that was, of course, ridiculous as she knows less about him than she does about the Fed-Ex guy.
“You didn’t have to tell me. Your eyes lit up like a Christmas tree when you said the words. You love it.” He leans forward, almost daring her to disagree. “And don’t try to make me out to be some macho asshole. I’m aware we’re in the twenty-first century, I get that women are pilots and doctors and whatever the hell else they want to be.”
“So why the surprise, then, Mr. Raeburn?” She puts her cup down, abandoning all pretense of drinking the tea.
“Because a lot of girls like you would trade on their looks instead of their brains.” He says the words as if they are a universal truth.
“Girls like me?” She crosses her arms over her chest, feeling her irritation levels rise yet again. Who the hell does this guy think he is, anyway?
“Beautiful girls, Isabel.” His voice is soft, but there’s no mistaking what he’s just said.