Amethyst

He left me, because they told him to. There wasn’t another woman, no cash incentive or special deal, no perks or posh house, he just … left. Amazingly, part of me is glad to know this. It means I can extinguish any thoughts of love or rekindling an old romance, because any man who can leave a woman so easily was never really in love at all.

That’s the part that’s hard to swallow. All the years I thought we had something special and rare, and all the while he was only pretending. His feelings were never as deep as mine.

You’d think after six years, I’d have gotten over him, but I guess this is what I needed. Cold, hard, in-your-face truth is hard to deny.

That’s what’s going to get me through this though. I swipe the tears from under my cheeks with my fingertips and stand up to take a deep cleansing breath. I blow it out slowly and smooth my hands over my waist. I can do this. It sucks, but I know the truth now. I’m going back into that room and do what I came here to do.

I waver for a second at his door and harden my heart, bracing myself for his onslaught of apologies and excuses.

But they don’t come.

I pass through the door, and he lifts his head, seemingly surprised that I’m still here.

“Thank you for not leaving,” he says, following me across the room with his eyes.

I remove my planner from my purse and sit down as far away from him as possible. I’m going to have to ease myself into this, like I’m entering the shallow end of a pool.

“If they release you today, we can start some physical therapy in two weeks. I’ll be giving you your meds when we get back to your house and helping you with daily living tasks, such as bathing and dressing. That won’t be a problem for you, will it?” I ask, flipping thorough the pages of my planner, refusing to make eye contact.

“No, of course not. That’s what I’m paying you for,” he answers, his voice curt and full of professionalism.

“Fine then. In the meantime, we can work on range of motion exercises while you’re bedridden. I’ll have a formal schedule for you tomorrow.”

“Ame?” he says, and I look up from my planner. His eyes capture mine and a little piece of my heart cries out, “Why?”

Why does it have to be this way?

What is wrong with me that he can’t love me?

Why the hell do I care?

“Don’t baby me, work me hard. I need to get back on the field.”

I sit up straight in my seat and close the planner with a slap.

“Don’t worry, you’re probably going to hate me before this is over.”

“Not possible.”

“We’ll see.”

There’s a quick rap on the door before Dr. Moto enters.

“Good morning, how’s our star quarterback today?” he asks with entirely too much cheer.

“Fine, when can I go home?” Adam’s face is as flat as his tone.

“You don’t sound fine. Are you still having a lot of pain?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” His eyes dart to mine and back to Dr. Moto. The good doctor must have mentioned what I said about Adam’s fear of addiction.

“Can you handle him at home?” Dr. Moto says to me, gesturing to Adam with his clipboard. I swear Adam bites his tongue to stop himself from saying something inappropriate. Good, I hope he bleeds.

“Yes, we were discussing his plan of care. I think we’ve covered everything here, haven’t we?” I ask Adam.

“Yep. Pills, range of motion, physical therapy, work my ass off, got it.”

“All right then, I’ll meet you at your house in a couple of hours.”

“Where are you going?” Adam says, jolting up in bed. He winces in pain.

I stand up, frowning, and swing my purse over my shoulder. What’s it to him where I’m going?

“I have to go buy some clothes. I was supposed to be in Florida for several weeks—not Virginia. I’ll be at the house when you get there.”

“The Rolls has a check engine light on. My phone notifies me,” he says, holding up his phone as if to prove it. “My driver, Grant, will take you wherever you need to go.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m quite capable of taking a cab or an Uber.”

“It’s necessary to me. If you’re going to work for me, I want you to be driven by Grant. Everything else is negotiable, but this is not.”

His authoritative tone surprises me. Adam always used to be a laid-back go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Something about having this Grant guy drive me around has him acting serious.

“Okay.” I’m not arguing. He’s the boss, and he’s paying MBS. So if he says Grant drives, then Grant drives.

“Thank you. He’ll meet you outside.”

I turn to Dr. Moto, who is as interested in Adam’s strange disposition as I am. The tension in the room is thick, and I’m more than ready to get the hell out of here and do something normal—like shop for a coat.

Dr. Moto shrugs when I pass him on my way out.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Amero.”

“It was nice seeing you too. I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m flying back to California tomorrow. Dr. Balls will be taking over Adam’s care.”

I stumble and catch myself on the doorframe. He didn’t say “Dr. Balls,” did he? I don’t know why, maybe it’s all of the recent tension and confusion related to Adam, but a smile spreads across my face. I sputter and cough, trying to swallow back laughter.

Adam’s expression of shock tips me over the edge. I burst out into a fit of giggles. It’s so unprofessional and childish, but I can’t control it. I cover my mouth and look at Dr. Moto with wide, watery eyes. This is so embarrassing. What is wrong with me?

Adam is laughing too. We always did share the same sense of humor, however inappropriate it may have been, and now is no different.

“Sorry doc, but you gotta admit, that’s some ballsy name,” Adam says, laughing even harder at his stupid joke.

Stupid, but hilarious. I’m gasping for breath and swallowing back the hysterical fits of laughter that are threatening to escape my mouth.

“I’m, I’m so sorry,” I say, trying to slow my breathing and keep from snorting like I do when I laugh really hard.

“That’s much better. I could have cut the tension in here with a knife,” Dr. Moto says.

“You mean there’s no …”

“No, Adam. There’s no Dr. Balls. The two of you are intense. You needed a stress-busting moment, so I gave it to you. You’re welcome.”

That Dr. Moto, I knew he was a good guy.

I blink back the tears of laughter and ask, “So are you really leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes, that part is true, but it’s Dr. Narime that will be taking over. Dr. Balls was too busy to come to Virginia,” he says with a warm smile.

“What a relief. You had me a little worried there, doc. Thought you gave me to a porn star doctor or a urologist or something,” Adam says.

Adam is all boyish charm and dimples now, opposite the cold serious man from a few minutes ago.

“You’re in good hands. I wouldn’t worry,” Dr. Moto says, glancing at me.

“Thank you for all you’ve done, and maybe I’ll see you again if I have a patient in California.”

“That would be lovely, and you’re welcome.”

Adam clears his throat, drawing our attention back to him. “Grant’s probably waiting for you.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. He thinks we’re flirting, and his obvious attempt at subtly getting rid of me would be sweet if I thought he really gave a damn. As it is, it’s pathetic and irritating. Why are men like that? I don’t want you, but I don’t want anyone else to have you either. It’s so cave man.

I’m about to leave the room when an ornery streak zips through me, and I step toward Dr. Moto and hug him goodbye. He is a lean man, a runner maybe, not at all unattractive—and muscular in all the right places. Surprised, he is stiff at first, but softens and returns the embrace until I pull back and hold him at arm’s length.

“See you in Cali,” I say and without another word, I turn, leaving both men in a quandary.

Right outside Adam’s door is a rugged black man with a close-cut goatee and a bald head wearing a black leather jacket and jeans that hug him in places I try not to notice.

“Hello, Ms. Amero. I’m Grant.”

“Nice to meet you, Grant. I’m told you’re my only option for a ride around here from now on.”

He nods, his face devoid of emotion, seeming to look through me—not at me. Flat affect, zero charisma. Oh well, a little peace and quiet sounds great right about now, anyway.

Grant steps aside, allowing me to lead him through the hospital. Something feels off about this man. I can’t put my finger on it, but he doesn’t seem like the driver type, whatever that is.

I use Ubers and taxis when I travel, and those drivers aren’t exactly personality experts, but at least they do have facial expressions.

Waiting warm and idling right outside the front doors of the hospital is a shiny black Range Rover. Grant opens the back door for me and I slide in, silently thanking the god of heated seats. Maybe being driven isn’t such a bad idea after all. I don’t have to walk through the parking lot, and the car is warm and toasty.

I melt into the soft leather seat and wait for Grant to ask where to, but he never does. I end up at Bloomingdales just the same and rack up a decent bill. It’s been ages since I’ve shopped, so I take my time buying more than I should. I live modestly for my income. I can afford it, and MBS is picking up part of the bill, so that helps.

A helpful saleswoman has been holding the things for me at the register and when I try to pay, she holds up her hand.

“No, everything has been taken care of.”

I screw up my face and hand her my credit card anyway.

“Mr. Silver?” I ask and with a broad smile, she nods her head up and down.

“I’ll pay for my own things. Tell him thanks anyway.”

The pretty woman jerks her head back, stunned. What? Can’t a girl buy her own stuff? I shake my card at her to get her attention, and she slowly takes it from my hand, reversing the sale and charging me for the clothes and shoes.

When I’m ready to leave, Grant appears out of nowhere and removes my bags from my hands and off of the counter. I glance at the pretty saleswoman and find her staring at my hunky driver with her mouth agape. I wonder what she’s thinking right now. A professional football player tried to pay for my clothes and a sexy Chippendale stripper lookalike won’t let me carry my own bags. If I were she, I’d think I was a high-end call girl, and that’s funny, because it couldn’t be further from the truth.

“It’s not what you think,” I whisper to her and wink before turning to walk away.

Grant steps aside to let me lead the way like he did at the hospital, and I feel a bit like a royal being chaperoned around by a security guard. And just like at the hospital, he has the car ready and waiting for me at the door.

The ride home is a quiet one. I didn’t expect Grant to be chatty, but the radio would have been nice. He’s not the warmest guy, so I don’t feel comfortable asking him to turn it on, so I watch the world go by out the window instead.

Virginia is gorgeous in the fall. I was here once for a medical conference a few years ago. Several colleagues and I took a tour around the countryside to experience the beauty of the changing leafs. The entire trip, I worried about accidently bumping into Adam. It wasn’t realistic, but it was the closest I’d been to him in a long time, and he was always in the back of my mind.

I lean my head against the window and heave a heavy sigh. The knot that’s been forming in my belly tightens the closer we get to Adam’s house. I can tell myself I’m over him all day long, but the truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever be over Adam.

Grant turns onto the long driveway that leads to Adam’s house, and I watch the mansion grow larger and larger until we are parked in the circle outside the front doors.

“Is he home yet?” I ask, not entirely sure I’ll get an answer. He hasn’t spoken since we were at the hospital.

“Yes.”

Well, that’s something, I guess.

“I should probably find out if he needs anything.”

“Yes.”

I wonder if Grant is such a party pooper all the time or only when he’s on the job.

“Would you mind taking my things to the guesthouse?”

“No.”

He exits the car, and I wait for him to open the door for me, because well, I’m not sure what he would do if I did.

“Thanks,” I say, pulling up the collar of my new coat and rushing to the door. He nods. “Nice talking to ya,” I say over my shoulder. I couldn’t help it. Grant needs to loosen up.

Casey magically opens the door when I approach, making me think of Alice in Wonderland. Everywhere I go today, I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole into a strange new world where a surprise is around every corner.

“Welcome back. Mr. Silver wants to see you right away,” she says, sounding out of breath.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, shrugging out of my coat. Casey takes it from me and drapes it over her arm.

“Oh yes, he’s grumpy. This way,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her upstairs.

“How did he get up here?” I ask, climbing the wide curved staircase to the second floor.

“There’s an elevator. The house was built by an elderly billionaire. I don’t get why he wanted such a huge house when he was, well, you know,” she cups her hand around the side of her mouth and whispers, “gonna die.”

I’m not sure whom she thinks is going to overhear her. I’ve yet to meet any of Adam’s other employees.

At the top of the stairs, there is a marvelous stained glass window that must face the rear of the house. I’ve never noticed it from the guesthouse, but I’ll make a point to look the next time I’m outside. The sun filters through the window, throwing streaks and spots of teal and dark blue light across the floor and down the steps.

“Wow, that’s breathtaking,” I say, stopping to admire the window. “Did the old billionaire have this custom made?”

Casey stares up at the work of art as if it’s nothing. She’s probably so used to seeing it that it doesn’t seem so spectacular anymore, and that’s a shame.

“No, Mr. Silver had it made last year; it was kind of weird. All of a sudden one day, he sat down and drew how he wanted the window, and the next week it arrived. I thought maybe it meant something to him, but I never asked.”

I drag my eyes from the mesmerizing glass to look at Casey.

“Why not?”

“I, uh, I don’t think he likes me very well. He told me once that I was a rambler, so I try to keep to myself around him. I need this job.” Her head tips to the side and one corner of her mouth lifts in a “it-is-what-it-is” smile.

Casey is a rambler, but it’s rude to point it out. I’ve only known her for two days though; I can’t imagine Casey’s mouth on a regular basis.

“He can be a jerk. Actually, he is a jerk. Don’t let it bother you.”

“Oh, I don’t. I’m still chatty, only not around him.”

Casey continues to the end of the hall where a set of double doors is open and knocks softly on one of them.

“Mr. Silver, Amethyst is here to see you.”

When I step inside, I’m taken aback at the size of the room. Adam is a tall, muscular man, but this all-white winter wonderland dwarfs him in his king-sized bed. I think my whole apartment would fit in here.

“Got something against color?” I ask, walking to look out the wall of windows that faces the rear of the house.

“Nah, I let the decorators do what they wanted, and this is what I got. Probably should have told them my favorite color is …”

“Blue, cobalt, and teal.”

I gaze out the window at the bare, cold branches of the trees surrounding Adam’s house. At home in my apartment, I would feel a chilly draft leaking through the windowpanes, but not here. These windows are expensive, top of the line and soundproof.

We are such different people now. The old Ame and Adam had modest tastes. We had no idea the wealth and fame that came with being an NFA player, or the stipulations.

This enormous mansion is nothing like the home I envisioned us raising our children in one day. But then again, I didn’t realize I was the only one really having those dreams and aspirations. Adam misled me for so many years; it’s unbelievable I didn’t sense his insincerity.

“You remember that?” he asks, and I turn to face him, blinded by all the stark whiteness of the walls, art, furniture, and comforter.

“Of course. You had that ridiculous cobalt blue superhero costume hidden in the back of your closet for years. I could never get you to throw it away or give it to the Goodwill.”

Adam’s eyes sparkle and dance when I mention the costume. He would never tell me why that stupid thing was so important to him.

“That was my second grade Halloween costume. Everybody thought I was so cool when I wore it for the costume parade through the classrooms. I never told you why I loved that costume so much, did I?”

“No.”

“See that door over there?” he says, pointing to the opposite side of the room. When I look, I realize Casey is gone and she had closed the doors behind her.

“Yeah.”

“Go look inside.”

I tilt my head to the side and frown.

“Why?”

He rolls his eyes, “Go look. It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

His promises hold no weight with me, but I pad across the plush thick carpet toward the door. Carpet, crap, this carpet is pure white; I should probably take off my boots.

“What’s the matter?” he asks when I stop mid-step.

“I’m wearing boots on your perfect carpet.”

Adam shakes his head back and forth and waves me on.

“It’s no big deal. Maybe you’ll ruin it and I can finally get some color in here.”

He may think it’s no big deal, but I’m not about to ruin thousands of dollars worth of carpet. I slip off my boots and carry them with me through the mystery door.

Inside is a room starkly opposite his bedroom. It’s a long narrow room that opens into a semi-circle at the end. It’s his trophy room.

The aisle leading to the semi-circle is lined with lit cases holding special balls from championship games, bowls, playoffs, you name it; there is a ball to commemorate it. I wander down the row, looking at photographs that are mounted behind every ball of the moment Adam made the play that won that specific game.

He is truly an amazing athlete. The photographer captured shots of him with his arm cocked back, and the rain or snow pelting him in the face ready to throw the ball. A few are of him slithering down the field in his amazing form for a touchdown.

In the main part of the room, there are jerseys encased in glass hung around the semi-circle. Red and gold Redking paraphernalia has been preserved to showcase everywhere, and there are helmets in glass slots, lining the space under the crown molding.

A large brown plush ottoman is positioned in the center of the room for the onlooker to sit on while admiring the accomplishments of the great Adam Silver. I sit down and gaze in awe at all he has achieved in our years apart and wonder if he would have done all of this if we had been together.

I pull my feet up and turn to face the small wall behind me at the end of the hall, before the semi-circle begins, and smile at what Adam wanted me to see.

Encased in glass exactly like his winning America Bowl jersey is the cobalt blue Halloween costume that he cherished all those years.

It sticks out like a sore thumb in the sea of red and gold, but I’d be willing to bet it’s his favorite thing in his trophy room.

I scoot to the opposite edge of the big ottoman and lean forward to get a better look at the superhero costume. It’s in perfect condition, except for a tear where the cape connects to the back of the neckline.

“You get lost in there?” he calls from the bedroom.

“Coming,” I say and cringe when the word leaves my lips. The inappropriate Adam would make a lewd comment, but true to his word, he keeps it professional.

He’s got the television on to football naturally. The TV is a monstrous thing that takes up nearly the entire wall opposite his bed. He holds up a remote and mutes the game.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“The trophy room?” I say, hitching my thumb over my shoulder.

“It’s amazing. You’ve had an amazing career so far.”

He turns away from me and looks out the window. It’s snowing now, not the heavy blizzard sort of snow they’ve been predicting on the news over the past twenty-four hours.

It’s a gentle sort of slow motion snow, like every flake wants its fifteen seconds of fame before melting into the earth or melding with a zillion others to form a blanket that warms nothing.

“Adam? You okay?” I ask, moving closer to the bed.

“Thanks for not referring to my career in the past tense.”

“Past tense? Of course not, Adam. We will have you playing again in no time.”

I don’t know if that’s true or not, but the fear in his voice is uncharacteristic. He can’t be losing hope already. That’s not the hardworking man I used to know.

“I’m scared, Ame,” he says, still not meeting my eyes.

I can’t help it. Even after all he’s put me through, my heart aches for him.

“I know, Adam, but if anybody can do this, it’s you.”

I walk to the edge of the bed and sit next to him. He finally turns to face me, and I’m shocked to find his eyes brimming with unshed tears. This big, strong, tough football player has allowed doubt to seep into his confident spirit, and it kills me to watch it happen.

I’ve chosen a spot near his feet to sit, far away from his ever-tempting hand. But, I’m a compassionate person, all good nurses are. Against my better judgment, I slide closer, our hands instinctively reach for one another. His hand is warm and calloused when we touch, and I feel the familiar transmission of what I used to identify as love flowing between us.

If this isn’t love, what the hell is it? I’ve never had feelings like this for anyone but Adam. It’s different and utterly specific. I could swear it goes both ways.

I must be imagining the reciprocation though. Actions speak much louder than words, and his actions in the past have more than proven he doesn’t love me.

“Thank you for coming, or for staying I should say. I know you were sort of tricked into this, and I also know you’d love to be anywhere else right now. I want you to know how much I appreciate you not abandoning me the way you think I abandoned you.”

That’s it, his words melt my resolve, and he pulls me against him before I can protest.

I start to cry as I wrap my arms around him, like I swore I would never do again.

Ever.

“Shush, don’t cry. I’m sorry, Amethyst, so sorry,” he whispers. His hand moves up and down my arm as if he’s trying to rub the pain away. I tilt my face up to tell him I’ll be all right before I try to untangle my body from his embrace and my heart from the spell he has cast on me.

I haven’t been this close to him in years, but his minty breath and woodsy scent are overwhelmingly familiar. Memories of us making out in the back of his truck in high school and making love in our dorm rooms in college flood my mind. I’m dizzy with reminiscent thoughts and yearnings that I’ve squashed for so long. And most of all, I’m weak, very weak.

When his lips touch mine ever so tentatively, I can’t say no. My lips part, inviting him in and when he obliges, an electrical shock stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced zings through my body, ending in a concentrated bundle of crazy between my legs.

He moans when our tongues meet, and every sensible professional thought I’ve ever had dissipates like steam into the air. The only things that matter in this moment are his lips and hands on my body.

His mouth leaves mine, and I whimper, but I find solace in where it travels next. I’m pretty sure every woman has her “wet spot,” and I am no exception. Right behind my ear and down my neck is mine. He’s always played that as his ace in the hole. And it always worked, today included.

Adam pushes my hair off of my shoulder, and I move away to allow him access. I can feel his pounding heart under my right hand that is resting on his chest. I feel like this isn’t me, like I’m floating above the bed, watching two people on the precipice of making love. That hand on his heart is on the move now over his rock-hard abdominal muscles, hesitating at the drawstring of his sweat pants.

Adam nips at my skin, and I gasp. Something between us clicks, like we’re being sucked back in time to the back of his Ford truck. His lips find mine again, and he kisses me into a fog I’ll never find my way out of. My hand slides around his neck into his shaggy hair, and I pull him closer when he roughly swings me into a straddling position over him. He slides his hands up my thighs and around to cup my ass, aligning my primed and ready core with his rock-hard cock.

I look down into his hooded, blue-rimmed irises, and there he is, my Adam. The Adam who never had eyes for anyone else. The Adam who stood behind me in everything. The Adam who pledged to love me forever repeatedly.

My eyes dart back and forth between his, and I find love there. I don’t care what he did or what he said. There’s no way I could have misinterpreted this for all those years.

I rise up carefully and hover over him so I don’t touch his leg. I take the hem of his t-shirt and lift it an inch or two. Never taking his eyes from mine, he helps me remove it and tosses it aside.

Good God almighty, he’s the epitome of male perfection. Every sculpted, rippling muscle of his chest and abdomen call out to me to touch him. My eyes roam over the tattoos that are new since I’ve seen him without clothes.

I trace my fingers over the large letters arching over his pectorals that spell out, “Faith.” He shivers under my touch, and I look back into his eyes for a brief moment before continuing my exploration. Under “Faith,” in much smaller font, are the words, “It does not make things easy; it makes them possible.” Luke 1:37. It surprises me that he has a biblical quote on his skin. His family was Catholic, but Adam separated himself from the church when he went away to college.

I can feel his eyes on me, watching me take him all in. I drag my finger over the head of a snake on his sternum that coils around his ribs to his back and around to the front several times. It’s so intricate and detailed; every silver scale glimmers in the light. It’s an optical illusion. When you look long enough, it actually appears to be slithering around his torso, squeezing his body.

I like his nickname and what it represents, but this tattoo speaks of darkness and pain and suffering. It brings worry to the forefront of my mind, replacing the lust that was so blinding only seconds ago.

Adam hooks his finger under my chin, tipping it up until our eyes meet. He reaches up with his other hand to smooth the frown lines from between my eyes, watching his fingers as he does it.

“Don’t think, just feel,” he says.

Just feel. The idea of letting go of everything in our past for a few moments is appealing, so appealing that I can’t resist.

I scoot back and lean forward until I’m hovering on my hands and knees over him. I take his advice and feel—although it’s hard to ignore the stupid, beady-eyed snake staring me in the eye.

With my eyes closed, I kiss a trail down his torso, taking care not to miss one ridge in his eight-pack. His length brushes against my chin when I reach his navel and swirl my tongue around it.

I’m sure I must be clear of the snake, so I open my eyes and freeze. There on the inside curve of his well-defined V is a tattoo of a cell phone text box with a message in it.

Amethyst –Congratulations baby!

Adam – Thanks, I love you.

Amethyst – I love you too, always and forever.

Adam – Forever and always.

It’s the last text we exchanged the night before he left, and it’s tattooed on his body, permanently. What the hell? I try to move away, but his fingers thread through my hair on either side of my head as he gently pulls me up until we are face to face again.

“Why?”

“Because I loved you. I didn’t want to go, Ame,” he says, focusing on my lips as he holds me in place, hypnotically stroking my cheeks with his thumbs.

“I didn’t want to go …” he whispers before covering my mouth with his again.

I don’t want to be one of those fickle girls who will forgive and forget when a hot guy drops his pants, really I don’t. But Adam and I share a special connection, including thirteen years of history, and it’s physically impossible for me to pull away from him.

When we are this close, he could tell me he killed my favorite childhood pet, and I would shrug it off and beg him to kiss me. His lips move against mine, and his tongue does magic things to my nervous system.

He unties the tie of my sweater and pushes it off of my shoulders, and somewhere inside a relieved voice says, “Thank God, it’s getting hot in here.” His nimble fingers have my shirt unbuttoned in seconds, and he is pulling down the cups of my bra, exposing my breasts.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. God, I’ve missed you so much,” he says, sucking one hard, taut nipple to the point of pain. I gasp, arching against him, and he releases it immediately, licking and soothing it with his tongue.

On his way to claim the other one, he softly says, “There are so many things I want to do to you, Ame. I want to be inside of you again. I want to fuck you for days. I want to make you scream my name again. I want to taste every inch of you, claim every part of you, make you mine again please, Ame …” he’s seducing me with words and feelings from our past when a loud buzzer sounds over an intercom.

“Fuck, nobody is supposed to even know I’m home yet.”

The noise yanks me back through a wormhole to reality. The common sense and self-respect that’s taken me six years to build to a healthy level return in a rush. What the hell am I doing? This is horribly unprofessional—not to mention damaging for me emotionally.

I swing my leg over and scurry around, frantically looking for my sweater and his t-shirt. When I find the fuzzy plum sweater, I throw it on and hand him his Radiohead t-shirt. He grabs my wrist, but I can’t look at him. I keep my eyes trained on the floor while he speaks.

“Don’t, Ame. Whoever it is, I’ll send them away. I want you to stay, please.”

“Maybe if you’d given me a chance to say those exact words, we wouldn’t be where we are now. I can’t do this, Adam. It has to be professional from this second on, or I’m leaving.”

He holds out his hands, palms up in surrender, “Okay.”

“You mean it? No more hanky-panky. Keep your hands to yourself, and all that jazz.”

“Yes, if that’s what it takes for you to stay.”

“It is.”

“Hey, man, when were you gonna tell me …” A mammoth bald man wearing jeans and a tight red Henley, showcasing his perfect NFA physique, busts through the door, stopping short when he catches sight of me.

“Aw shit, sorry, you busy? I should have waited for Casey to let me up, but dude, you never have women up here. And uh, I still have a key,” he says, holding up a gold key.

Adam slips his t-shirt over his head, and I feel a fiery hot flush creep up my neck to my cheeks. I used to love the thrill of getting caught when we were younger. Now? Not so much. This is embarrassing. People in the sports world know me, and they have loose tongues. If this guy interprets this the wrong way, or the right way rather and opens his mouth, the whole world will think Adam and I are a thing.

“Roman, this is my nurse, Amethyst Amero. Amethyst, this is, for all intents and purposes, my best friend, Roman.”

“Oh, cool. Okay. Gotcha, the nurse,” he says, shaking my hand a bit too hard with a grin as wide as a football field.

“You’re one fine nurse. Maybe I’ll get myself hurt one day, so you can come take care of me?” he says, wrinkling the skin on his head when he waggles his eyebrows.

“Knock it off, Roman. She’s off limits, and that’s workplace harassment, you know? She could sue me.”

Roman’s hands fly up in surrender. “Sorry, can’t blame a man for trying.” Roman shrugs, and his original cocky pig persona switches to boyish charm.

Roman is the best linebacker for the Redkings. He’s talented, beyond handsome, and he’s a worldwide heart breaker. Always the flirt, but he refuses to be tied down. Huh, sounds familiar. Maybe the NFA forces a lot of its athletes to be “players.”

“It’s fine. I work with professional athletes every day. I’ve got pretty tough skin.” I smile at him, and he stares at me until I look down at our still joined hands.

“Oh shit, sorry,” he says, dropping my hand. When I look at Adam, he’s glaring at Roman, but Roman is oblivious.

“So how long ‘til I gotta protect your ass again, Snake?” he asks.

“You didn’t do a good job the first time. Maybe the team will replace you,” Adam says.

“Nah, I’m way too pretty to trade,” Roman says, waving his hand dismissively.

Adam chuckles and I begin my retreat to the hallway.

“Where are you going?” Adam asks, his words full of worry.

“Downstairs to sort through your medication and get my schedule. I’ll be back in a while.”

“Bye, Roman,” I say with a little wave.

“Later pretty nurse,” he says, and Adam punches him in the leg.

“Ow man! I gotta earn a living with that leg!” he says, rubbing out the sting.

I shake my head and turn to leave when Adam stops me. “Ame, could you bring me something to drink with my pain pills, please?” he asks.

“Yep,” I say without turning around. I hustle down the hall to the nearest door, open it, close it, and press my back against it to take a million deep breaths.

I can’t believe I let that happen. I was wrong to think I could do this I should leave. I’ll call Brea and have her meet me in Florida ASAP.

When I open my eyes, I find I’m in Adam’s office. The light scent of a cigar lingers in the air. It’s in keeping with the rest of the house.

I walk toward the enormous cherry wood desk in the center of the room. The placement of furniture reminds me of the Oval Office. There are two couches that face each other in front of the desk and a huge gold rug that stops two feet from the wall showing glossy hard wood floors underneath. A floor-to-ceiling window is behind the desk and faces out over a garden in the yard.

I walk aimlessly around, dragging my fingers along the backs of the couches and over the wood of his sturdy desk. I sit in his Italian leather office chair and spin toward the window, sliding my phone from the pocket of my sweater. I dial Brea.

“You sure do make a lotta personal calls when you’re at work,” she says without a hello.

“I can’t tell the difference between work and personal anymore, Brea. I need help.”

She blows out a long breath and groans, “You have to stay.”

“What? No, Brea, it’s too hard I can’t control myself around him.”

“Control yourself how?”

I bow my head and pick at a loose thread on my sweater.

“Never mind, that pregnant pause says it all. You’ve crossed the line, haven’t you?”

“Well, not completely, we kissed and it would have gone further if his friend hadn’t barged in.”

“Thank God for untimely friends.”

I can imagine Brea in the break room at work flicking a pen between her fingers while she thinks about my situation.

“Can you stay a little longer? Like give me a couple hours until I’m off work to think on it?”

“I dunno, I really think I should go now and cut my losses …”

“You can’t go, Amethyst,” Adam says. I swing the office chair around to find him in a wheelchair being pushed into the room by Roman.

“I gotta go, Brea, call me when you’re off work.”

I lower the phone, clicking the end button before she even says goodbye.

“I’m sorry Adam, I would have told you but you know as well as I do this is impossible. We have too much history, too much unfinished business.”

“Exactly, unfinished. We need time to work through everything.”

“We can’t work through everything between the sheets, Adam. I can’t go there with you again.”

“Uh, yell when you need me man, I don’t wanna be intruding on relationship stuff,” Roman says, backing out the door. Adam doesn’t acknowledge him, he keeps all of his attention on me, watching like I’m about to bolt.

I sit up, straighten my spine, and lift my chin before I begin to reason with him.

“I’m sorry Adam, I can’t.

“What happened today,” he waves his hand in the direction of his bedroom. “It’ll never happen again if you don’t want it to, I swear.”

“That’s the problem, Adam. I don’t know what I want, I mean yes I do, I think I do anyway. I can’t think around you. You have no clue, no idea at all how bad you fucked me up when you left me,” I say, throwing my hands into the air and spinning the chair around so I don’t have to look at his face.

He draws a deep breath, blowing it out slowly.

“You’re right, I have no idea how much you hurt when I left you, but can you trust me when I say that it’s extremely important that you stay with me for a while?”

The tone in his voice strikes me as urgent. It’s as if he would beg if I put up a fuss.

I tip my head to the side and narrow my gaze. “This has nothing to do with your recovery, does it?”

His eyes dart away and back, and I know there is something else going on here. His expression presses me to agree with him, my staying feels personal and desperate. My belly fills with angst and my imagination begins to wander all over the place.

“Of course it does, it’s imperative that I get back to work and I can’t do that without you, but …”

“But what?” I say, leaning forward anticipating his answer.

“But nothing. I don’t want you to leave.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not. If you do this one thing for me, I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just please stay.”

Wow, he is desperate, and a desperate man is scary. The only time men are desperate is when they are in serious trouble or in love, or if it’s really bad, both.

“One week. I’ll try for one week and if it’s too difficult, I’m out.”

I watch every muscle in his body simultaneously melt in front of my eyes. His relief worries me even more, but it’s obvious he’s not about to tell me the real reason he wants me to stay. I’ve got one week to get it out of him. I hope seven days will be enough.