In the month since Emmy’s birthday party, I’ve done nothing but work. Nothing new for me. I’d been picking up as many shifts as I could, until the charge nurse started asking why I was working so often. Since I had no logical answer, other than the old standby of “I need the money,” I begrudgingly resumed my old schedule. A schedule which leaves me multiple days each week to stare at the wall and figure out how to entertain myself.
This is not something new either. I spend a lot of time filling my off-work hours with menial tasks to keep myself extra busy. I’m not normally a TV watcher, but I’ve found myself doing more and more of that as each day has passed. I’ve read and re-read a stack of books I’d been wanting to get through, developed a new appreciation for so-called binge watching, and eaten my way through two boxes of microwave popcorn.
I do work out. A lot. I suppose some would call it excessive, others might call me determined. I prefer to think of myself as someone who simply likes to stay busy and physically fit. I’m the only one who knows that any quiet downtime is cause for panic. Being alone with my thoughts is not a good a thing. I’m a dweller, a worrier, even though I tell myself repeatedly that worrying will get me nowhere. And I’ve always chosen to do my dwelling and worrying alone. I bet not one member of my family believes I worry … about anything. I’m just that good at allowing them to see only the parts of me I feel comfortable with.
Since I’ve been so busy with all the extra shifts, I’ve missed many Sunday dinners. Today will be the first weekend day I’ve had off in weeks and while I’d rather spend it at the gym, I find myself in my car driving to my parents’ house.
There are bound to be questions. Where have you been? Why haven’t you returned my call? What’s the matter? Ninety percent of the time, I adore my family for all their care and concern. But the other ten percent is enough to drive a girl insane.
Roman, thankfully, has given me a wide birth. He’s stopped by my apartment once, staying only long enough to learn that I’m alive and well. He didn’t attempt to pry, didn’t try to fix me like Marco always does. Instead, he pulled me into his massive chest and just held me. Little did he know that his simple, silent show of support meant more to me than anything else ever could.
Today is a completely different story. I’ve got my game face on, and I’m ready to yammer with the best of them. I fully intend to leave no one doubting my sanity or my happiness. For all they know, I’m a content woman who is enjoying her life. I suppose I do, as long as I’m enjoying that life either at work or at the gym.
Mama’s head is stuck in the refrigerator, and she’s mumbling to herself when I stroll into the kitchen. Laughing under my breath, I prop my hip up against the counter and pull my arms across my chest. “Watch out for the mayo. If it answers back, you’re in big trouble.”
She sends me a narrow-eyed look over her shoulder. “Funny girl. Niña, will you go ask Papa where he hid the cilantro?”
The real question is what was Papa doing with the cilantro in the first place? I didn’t think my father even knew where the kitchen was. “Sure.”
Papa is snoring softly in his usual spot at the end of the couch. He looks good, considering the numerous health scares he’s had the past few years. Even though I know he’s clinically a healthy man, I still can’t help but worry about him. After skimming the back of my hand over his forehead, I gently press my fingers against the inside of one wrist taking his pulse. These little things calm my fears—fears someone in my profession shouldn’t have. The odd thing is I’m not the least bit fearful when I’m on the job. In fact, a few of my coworkers have commented that I must have a heart of stone I am just that unmoved by it all. But with Papa all that training and years on the job instantly fade away. I’m nothing but a scared daughter concerned for her father.
“Stop nursing me,” he grumbles, a smile lighting his face as his eyes open.
“Sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Come here, little one,” he states, pulling me down across his lap like he did when I was a child. I fall into his embrace resting my head against his shoulder. “We’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
He kisses my forehead. “You work too hard.”
Not hard enough, I think to myself. “I’m off for a few days now.”
His large hand comes up to pat my arm. “Good. That’s good.”
I stay perched there on his lap until I hear the front door open. Then I hustle to my feet, ask about the missing cilantro, and as I expected I get a thoroughly blank and confused look. My mama … always with an ulterior motive.
By the time I return to the kitchen, Mama has Sabrina and Emmy hard at work helping her with the meal. Roman is directed to entertain Papa while I’m charged with setting the table. We all work easily together, and as most conversations go with a seventeen-year-old in attendance, the subjects are vast.
She tells us about her car, the newish one her parents surprised her with a few weeks ago. She prattles on about some crisis one of her best friends is having while Sabrina rolls her eyes behind her back, unimpressed with all the drama. I’m such a darn good auntie, I stop what I’m doing and stand right next to her listening dutifully and commenting here or there when I can get a word in.
“…and you know what else, Auntie? Jace works at my school. How cool is that?”
My gaze slides over to Sabrina, who just shrugs and raises her blond brows. “You remember Jace don’t you, Bella? Jack’s twin.”
“Uh, yeah. I remember him.” How the heck could I forget? I spend most of my time worrying that I’m going to run into him in the elevator.
“He’s such a cool guy,” Emmy continues.
Finding something to say without sounding like an idiot is a challenge. “So, is he one of your teachers?”
She nibbles on a carrot stick and shakes her head. “No. He teaches sophomore English.”
Somehow I find it difficult to imagine nerd-surfer boy Jace standing in front of a classroom full of teenagers, droning on about the Bronte sisters or Jane Austen. I pictured him as more of an artist or painter or a writer perhaps. Seems to me someone that laid back wouldn’t be able to teach a bunch of energetic, impressionable teens properly, but then who the hell am I to judge.
“Jack tells me that Jace lives in your building,” Sabrina comments, smirking at me like she knows something I don’t.
Uneasiness scurries up my spine, and I turn my back to check the pan of enchiladas in the oven. “Yeah. I ran into Jack and he told me that.”
“Have you run into Jace?”
Oh good lord, save me from all these questions. “Nope.” I give the pan a whirl and shut the oven door. “Mama? How much longer do these have?”
Since Mama has never set a timer for anything, she does her own whirling and checking while I risk a glance at my soon to be sister-in-law. Her curious expression tells me a truckload of questions waits on the tip of her tongue, but thankfully she just smiles and stays mum. Emmy is still yapping and eventually her mom shoves her out of the kitchen and tells her to go entertain her grandfather.
“I’ll go hang with her,” I offer.
“Chicken,” Sabrina murmurs under her breath.
Emmy is the perfect shield against any other questions my siblings want to hurl at me. And I use her to my full advantage, even taking the seat next to her at dinner. Thankfully, there is no more mention of Jace, his job, or his residence, saving me from more uncomfortable questions and knowing looks.
Seriously, they all act like he’s the first single man I’ve ever been around. They seem to forget that Damian and I were a … a … thing for quite a while. I know my brothers weren’t that fond of him, but that’s no excuse to act like Jace is suddenly the second coming of Christ. Geez. I can smell the matchmaking from a mile away.
By the time I head for home, I’m irritable from trying too hard to avoid all the questions. I head inside my apartment, quickly change into spandex pants and a sports bra, and throw a zippered sweatshirt over it so as not to scare any of the old people in the elevator. Track shoes on, bottle of water in hand, I take the stairs down to the main floor and move swiftly to the fitness center.
An hour later I’m clocking a good running pace on the treadmill, and Bruno Mars keeps me company from my phone. As usual, I’m the only one in the room, so I think nothing of playing my music loud and tying up machines for long periods of time.
I’m drenched with perspiration and shed the sweatshirt I wore when I first walked in. I’ve got enough energy to keep going for at least another hour, but I remind myself not to overdo it. Otherwise, I won’t be able to hit the gym tomorrow.
Begrudgingly, I lower the speed of the machine and slowly begin to bring my heart rate down. I’ve just slowed to a semi-jog when the door opens and in walks Jace, who shoots me a warm smile as he glances around the room with a curious look. Like me, he’s soaked with sweat. The tank he’s wearing is stuck to his torso outlining his abs. His very flat, very hard abs, I’m quick to notice. And not the standard six-pack either. No. Mister Teacher-nerd is rocking a full-on eight-pack—much to my surprise—and silent delight.
He’s wearing loose basketball shorts and neon green sneakers. His long legs are tanned and thick with muscle. Like the first time we met, his hair is pulled back. The glasses are missing, which in retrospect I realize made him appear to be much less imposing. Now, looking directly at me with those intriguing hazel eyes, I will admit he’s gorgeous. The sort of gorgeous that makes your head swim and your knees knock together. The sort of gorgeous that screams “trouble” in big, bright, flashing neon letters.
Today he’s not clean-shaven, rather sporting a few days’ worth of scruff on his jaw and above his lips. If he wasn’t smiling at me, I’d venture to say that he’s a bit intimidating, but his casual manner offsets some of his intensity. Some of it, mind you, but not all of it.
Sweat has never looked as good as it does slowly dripping down the side of his face, tracing a path down his neck into the soaked material of his shirt. I suppose some women are turned off by seeing a man perspire, but this is something you might want to, I don’t know, lap up with your tongue perhaps.
With a gulp, I consider that maybe, just maybe, my staring has passed the point of casual curiosity and somehow strolled into the lady-is-a-pervert category.
Jace smirks at me, as if he’s all too aware of my inner turmoil. “Well, hello Nurse Isabella. How are you?”
Stepping off the treadmill with shaky legs, I reply, “Uh, I’m okay.” Good, be sure that the guy thinks you have zero IQ.
Wait … what?
Who gives a crap what he thinks about my IQ?
“You okay there, Miss Moran? You look a little winded?”
Winded my ass. I’m out of breath because he scared me. He caught me off guard. Nothing else is going on here. It certainly has nothing to do with his semi-clothed body. Or the eight-pack. Or the sweat that I want to …
What, Isabella? What do you want?
Ugh. My internal musing is driving me crazy. He must think I’m a loon, standing here with my mouth wide open, staring at him like I’ve never seen a man in shorts before. A sweaty man at that. A really hot sweaty man.
Good lord … enough!
“I’ll just get out of your way,” I state, muting the music on my phone and gathering up my sweatshirt. “Have a nice evening.”
His eyes lock onto me as I move toward the door. The door he just happens to be standing directly in front of. He’s looking at me just as he did that day at Roman’s: a mix of curiosity and intrigue. And maybe a bit of lust too, but that’s probably my imagination.
What I’m not imagining is the way he thoroughly checks me out, just like I did him. His eyes drift away from my face and land on my breasts. His gaze stays there for a long moment before he lowers it once again. He takes it all in, takes me in. Every bit of bare skin and all the parts in between. Strangely enough, I feel my body respond. It warms in a way that has nothing to do with exercise. There’s an odd tingling taking place in my stomach that suddenly drops between my legs, and then I’m blinking furiously trying like hell to deny what I just felt.
“Would you … um … would you move please?”
Jace grins at me and steps aside with a small bow. “Of course. You have a nice night…” he lowers his voice to something between a whisper and a groan “…Isabella.”
My name on his lips causes the tingling to intensify and with great effort, I move quickly past him and out the door. I walk swiftly to the stairwell and take the stairs two at a time up to the seventh floor. By the time I arrive at my front door, I’m fairly certain I might pass out. Not from the workout but from the sensory overload that is Jace Austin.
Once I’ve guzzled down two glasses of water, I lock up and head to my bathroom. Keeping my mind still takes great effort and since I’ve never been one who has mastered the art of meditation, I concentrate on listing all the bones in the body. That’s a go-to for nurses if you need to sleep or to simply avoid thinking about an unwanted subject. But as I shower, I find that even something as menial as the wrist bone drums up images of Jace in my mind.
He has beautiful, thick wrists, I think whimsically as I roll the soap around in my hand.
“Oh for crying out loud,” I snap, shoving my face under the water. By the time I’m dried off and pulling on pajamas, I’m exhausted from trying not to think about him. Instead, as I slide beneath the sheets, I give in and think of nothing but him.
Not that it does me any good to ponder how incredibly handsome he is or admire the fact that he’s chosen a profession where he can help children’s minds grow. That’s to be commended. Applauded even. In this day and age of always looking to make a quick buck, he’s chosen one of the toughest, most thankless jobs—second only to that of nurse. I have no idea how it is for him, but I’m always forced to sit back and let the doc take credit for something I did, forced to bite my tongue when one of the arrogant, over-impressed doctors decide I’m nothing more than crap he or she stepped in. There are a thousand great things about what I do and an equal number of rotten things I put up with to do it. I’d venture to say Jace probably has similar issues in his job.
I can only imagine what the flighty teenage girls thought when he walked through the door the first day of school. I bet he stirs plenty of gossip without even opening his mouth. Maybe that’s why he wears those glasses, not because they are a necessity. Is that also why he pulls his hair back? To give the illusion of being clean cut? What would he look like with his hair down?
Rolling to my side, I blow out an agitated breath. Why am I thinking about him? Why am I allowing this man of all men to permeate that thick wall of reserve I’ve held tightly around me for so long? I’ve felt more real, honest reactions to Jace in the short time I’ve known him than in the entire year and a half I spent with Damian. Before Damian? Well, the one or two actual dates I had before him never amounted to anything more than a few dinner invitations and one lackluster makeout session in the front seat of a car. Nothing to brag about, that’s for sure. The others…the ones I ended up in bed with? Well, I most certainly wouldn’t categorize them as dates. Definitely nothing that stirred the weird tingling I experienced in the fitness room.
My stomach jumps nervously as I consider what he must have thought of me all tongue-tied and awkward. At least I held my own at Emmy’s birthday. Tonight I just looked like any other dimwitted woman who loses her marbles when she’s around an attractive man. He probably forgot about me the moment I walked out of the room.
I hate feeling so insecure. I pride myself on my ability to go toe to toe with men, to keep my boundaries set in stone, and to never give any of them the impression that I’m available. I am always the one in control.
Closing my eyes, I beg sleep to take over. The sleeping pill I swallowed after my shower will help, but so far nothing has been able to erase the foreign response I’ve had to this stranger. Caution has always been my friend, my salvation. Deviating from that and allowing feelings and emotions to guide the way will only add additional heartache to what I’ve already been carrying around. Sadly, Jace threatens everything good that I’ve created for myself over the years. But mostly he compromises my steadfast belief that by remaining alone, by remaining single, I’m protecting not only myself, but my family as well. Sure, I jumped off the wagon with Damian, but that relationship—if you can even call it that—was nothing more than a ruse. Someone to spend an occasional evening with once in a while. Someone my family believed meant more to me than he actually did. The handful of times we slept together were for his benefit only, since he craved control as much or more than I did. Once he realized I was never going to respond as he expected me to, he turned to others to quench that thirst. We kept up a good show that worked for us both; it kept the single nurses off his back and it kept my family off mine. How sad is it that I spent over a year lying to not only those I love but to myself as well? My time with Damian only proved to me what I’ve known since my first year in college: the only person I will ever be able to trust with my whole heart is myself.