How Much I Feel

by Force, Marie

  I’m thankful to Tony for teaching me to drive a stick in high school. That skill is about to come in handy.

  If my palms were sweaty before, they’re downright wet now as I navigate onto the busy interstate in a car that costs more than I’ll make in ten years. Dr. Northrup told me to park it, not drive it nine miles each way to the airport. What if I crash it or hit something? The thought makes me sick to my stomach, as does pondering what the humid breeze is doing to hair I spent an hour straightening earlier.

  It occurs to me in a sickening moment of dread that I never got the chance to tell his royal highness to steer clear of the executive suite. He won’t go there, will he? Oh God, please let him be more interested in operating rooms and laboratories than conference rooms.

  Mr. Augustino instructed me to babysit Jason Northrup. In turn, he asked me to babysit Betty. So in reality, I’m just following orders by driving Betty to the airport, right? This has to fall somewhere under “other duties as assigned,” doesn’t it?

  In the highly unlikely event that Betty ever returns to South Florida and encounters a medical crisis, she’ll remember the fine treatment provided by the staff of Miami-Dade General. There. I’ve done my part for public relations today.

  “This is really nice of you,” Betty says as we take the airport exit.

  “No problem at all.” I pull up to the curb at the departures level a few minutes later and release a sigh of relief that I didn’t hit anything on the way.

  Oh my God!

  My purse, wallet, driver’s license and cell phone are stashed in the top drawer of my desk back at the office. So on the return trip, I can also worry about being arrested for driving a “borrowed” car without a license. Fabulous!

  The cop directing traffic at the drop-off area picks that moment to blow his whistle, which startles me and causes my foot to slip off the clutch. The car lurches forward and stalls. I miss hitting the car in front of me by less than an inch. It’s official—before this day is out, I’m going to suffer a nervous breakdown. Hopefully I’ll be back at the hospital when that happens.

  Betty leans forward, stretching her neck to view the distance between the two cars. “That was a close one.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I’ll get out of your hair so you can get along back to work.”

  “It was nice to meet you. I’m sorry you had such a lousy trip.”

  “It wasn’t all bad,” Betty says with a shrug. “I found out there’re still nice people in the world willing to help a stranger in need.”

  First impressions, I’m finding, are often misleading. “Take this.” I hand the fifty from Northrup to Betty. “He gave me this for your breakfast and cab fare.”

  Betty eyes the money with uncertainty. “I wouldn’t feel right taking his money after all he did to help me.”

  “Look at his car. I bet you need it more than he does. Take it. Get yourself home, and then you can write to him at the hospital and pay him back.”

  Betty brightens at that idea. “I’ll do that. Thanks again, Carmen.”

  “My pleasure.” I watch Betty scurry into the terminal, as well as anyone can “scurry” on four-inch heels. Her jerk of a boyfriend missed out on a gem, that’s for sure.

  I return my focus to the task at hand, which is getting Dr. Jason Northrup’s Porsche back to the hospital without a scratch or dent and without getting myself arrested.

  CHAPTER 2

  CARMEN

  The metal door slides shut with a loud clank that makes me jump out of my skin. Looking through the bars, I begin to laugh hysterically. This was not how I pictured the first day of my professional life unfolding. It wasn’t even my fault. The car in front of me swerved, startling me into swerving, too. Of course, the cop behind us only saw me swerve and pulled me over.

  When I couldn’t produce my driver’s license or proof that I had permission to drive the car, the officer said he didn’t have any choice but to take me in and impound the Porsche until I can produce my license and prove I didn’t steal it.

  At the thought of my parents finding out I’m in jail, I choke on my laughter while my hands tremble uncontrollably. I’ve never even been to detention, let alone jail. How can this be happening?

  They let me call my office at the hospital—you know, where I started my dream job today—to leave a message for Dr. Northrup. I asked him to call the station to confirm I didn’t steal his Porsche. That was a tricky proposition—having the admin in the executive offices track down the new neurosurgeon, whom I’m supposed to be babysitting, because I need him to confirm I didn’t steal his car.

  I’m wondering how that sentence will look on my first performance appraisal.

  If or when he makes that call and gets me out of lockup, then I’ll retrieve the car he calls Priscilla from wherever they towed it. God, what if they damaged it? Will he expect me to pay for the repairs? How much will it cost to get the car back?

  And what if he says I did steal his car, since he didn’t exactly give me permission to drive it off the hospital campus? When it settles in that I’m probably going to be here awhile, I turn away from the bars to examine the tiny cell. At least it seems somewhat clean. The second I notice the toilet sitting against the back wall, I feel the urgent need to use it. But the thought of going where anyone can see me is unimaginable, so I’m determined to hold it until I have some privacy.

  I lower myself gingerly to the narrow bunk. What if no one comes for me? What if Northrup reports the car stolen? What if I have no choice but to call my parents to bail me out? The thought of them coming to get me here has my stomach surging with nausea.

  I have no idea how long I’m there. Judging by the discomfort coming from my overtaxed bladder, it has to be more than an hour.

  The tingling sensation that dances over my skin is the first indication that Jason Northrup has materialized outside my cell. I have my own cell. Awesome.

  “Fancy meeting you here.” He flashes the sexy grin that made my heart race and my panties go damp earlier.

  I’m in the biggest fight with my heart and my panties.

  I jump to my feet, which I immediately regret thanks to the aforementioned bladder situation. “I didn’t steal your car.”

  “Then how’d it end up getting impounded on I-95?”

  “I gave Betty a ride to the airport. You told me to take care of her. She said her flight was at ten thirty. If I’d called a cab or Uber, she would’ve missed the flight.”

  His eyes drop to my chest, and just like that my nipples react.

  Now I’m in a fight with them, too.

  He returns his golden-eyed gaze to my face. “What happened to your jacket?”

  Okay, so he was looking at the stain the portfolio left and not at my breasts. Try telling my breasts that. “Industrial accident.”

  His eyebrows come together in a stern expression that’s just as sexy as all his other expressions. “And why are you dancing around like you’ve got ants in your pants?”

  “Because.” I can’t believe I’m going to have to say these words to him, of all people. “I have to pee, if you must know.”

  He glances at the toilet in the cell and then at me.

  “Not happening. Tell me you brought my purse so I can get out of here.”

  He points to the purse tucked under his arm, which I hadn’t noticed.

  A guard materializes and unlocks the cell door.

  I’m so anxious to get out of there that I bolt forward and tilt awkwardly on my heel.

  Northrup reaches out to stop me from falling, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I nearly lose control of my bladder.

  “Please find me a bathroom with a door.”

  He takes me by the elbow and steers me through the corridors to a restroom in the lobby.

  I have to go so badly I don’t take the time to contemplate the wisdom of allowing him to touch me, but my body has plenty to say about it. Tingling, goose bumps, pebbling, moistening. And all he did was place h
is hand on my elbow. This is not good—and it’s so, so bizarre. I’ve never in my life reacted to anyone the way I do to him, and that makes me doubly mad. My late, beloved husband deserves far more respect than what he’s been getting from me since Jason Northrup showed up.

  In the restroom, I manage to tear my hose in the urgent quest for relief. Afterward, at the sink, I catch only a brief glance of myself in the mirror, but it’s enough to see wild, frizzy dark hair thanks to a convertible and the South Florida humidity.

  Resting my hands on the sink, I take a moment to gather myself, to summon the fortitude to resist the ridiculous attraction to Dr. Jason Northrup, who is so not my type it’s not even funny, and prepare to face my new coworkers after a brief stint in jail. Hell of a way to start a new job.

  My reaction to him has me rattled. It’s been years since I’ve experienced anything resembling desire. I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like.

  Tony has been gone so long sometimes it feels like we happened in a dream. The memories of him and the time we had together are fading with the passage of time, as much as I wish that wasn’t the case. I’m terrified of forgetting him, and my reaction to Dr. Northrup makes me feel disloyal to the man who loved me with his whole heart.

  I can’t be attracted to Jason Northrup. Not like that. He’s a professional colleague, and thus off-limits.

  Besides, any guy who looks like him, drives a car like his and carries the title of “brain surgeon” has to be the romance equivalent of poison ivy. It would serve me well to remember that and keep my focus on repairing the damage I’ve done to my fledgling career in one calamitous morning.

  I do what I can with my hair, which is basically nothing, and leave the room with a brisk, determined stride—barreling straight into the unyielding chest of Dr. Jason Northrup. Damn, of course he smells as good as his car. Better, if I’m being honest. Releasing a choppy sigh, I take comfort in the knowledge that this day has to end at some point.

  “Feel better?” That teasing grin sends shivers down my spine—and probably the spine of every red-blooded woman in the universe.

  I step back from him, forcing him to drop the hold he has on my arms. “Much better. Am I allowed to leave?”

  “You have to pay the ticket and sign some stuff.”

  “I’m getting a ticket?” My driving record is impeccable—or it was until now.

  “’Fraid so. Driving without a license.”

  “But I have a license. I just didn’t have it with me.”

  “And therein lies the problem.” Nodding to the window where a stone-faced cop waits for me, Northrup withdraws my purse from under his arm and hands it to me.

  “How did you, um, get here?”

  “Took an Uber.”

  “And your car?”

  “Impound lot. We’ll go there next.”

  I do some fast mental math and figure that after the recent apartment deposit and wardrobe spending spree, I have about four hundred dollars available on my credit card. Beyond that, I’m in deep trouble. “How much will it cost to get it out?”

  “No idea. I guess we’ll find out.”

  Swallowing hard, I step up to the window, hoping Northrup isn’t zeroing in on the tear in my hose. Almost as if I gave him the idea, I can feel the heat of his gaze on me and wonder if he is having the same puzzling reaction to me. Then I decide I do not want to know the answer to that question.

  “Sign here,” the cop says gruffly.

  My signature is as wobbly as the rest of me after my hour in jail.

  “That’s three hundred twenty dollars.”

  I gasp. “For driving without a license?”

  “And swerving out of your lane.”

  “But I swerved to avoid hitting another car that swerved into my lane!”

  The cop looks up at me, his mouth falling open. “Carmen?”

  My eyes dart to his name badge. PAULSON. Oh dear God. He was Tony’s sergeant during his first year on the job.

  “What the heck are you doing here? Hey, you guys, it’s D’Alessandro’s wife, Carmen.”

  A couple of other officers I don’t recognize come over to the window to say hello, each of them asking me how I am and what I’m doing here.

  Before I can respond to the barrage of questions, Paulson rips up the paperwork. “You should’ve said something. You’re free to go, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, um, thank you.” The gesture and the reason for it bring tears to my eyes that I can’t deal with right now. I force myself to hold it together, to not let the grief overtake me. Not when I have too many other things to contend with, such as the doctor standing behind me who turns me on just by breathing.

  “Your friend, Dr. Northrup, assured us it was all a big misunderstanding.”

  “Did he, now?”

  “I did,” Jason says from behind me. “She had permission to use my car.”

  “I can’t do anything for you at the impound lot, though,” the sergeant says. “That’s out of my hands.”

  “Not to worry,” Jason tells the kind sergeant. “We’ll take care of it. Come on, Carmen. Let’s get going.”

  “It’s real good to see you, Carmen. I think about you and . . . Well, I think of you often. I hope you’re doing all right.”

  “Thank you. I’m doing okay. Today being a notable exception.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The sergeant gives me a sympathetic smile. “Don’t be a stranger, you hear?”

  “Well, I hope I don’t see you again in this capacity.”

  Paulson laughs. “If you ever get arrested again, tell us who you are. We take care of our own.”

  “Good to know.” I was so freaked out by being arrested, it never occurred to me to tell them who I am. Tony and I weren’t married long enough for me to get around to changing my name, which was why the intake officers didn’t recognize me. That and the fact they were probably in high school when Tony died. “Thanks again.”

  “No problem. Impound lot is two blocks that way.” He points to the left.

  “We’ll find it.”

  Once again, Jason takes hold of my elbow to guide me out of the police station.

  I tell myself to shake him off, to tell him off, to let him know I’m perfectly capable of walking without his assistance. But the minute I step out of the frigidly air-conditioned station into the warm sunshine, I begin to tremble again as the reality of my time in jail sinks in.

  “You’re fine.”

  I latch on to his soothing tone despite my resolve to keep my distance from the temptation he represents. As he runs a comforting hand over my back, I tell myself it’s of no consequence to me that he immediately tuned in to my distress and said just what I needed to hear.

  “It’s over. No big deal.”

  “Sure. No big deal. And when my mother calls tonight to see how my first day went, should I mention my stint in jail?”

  “You might want to leave that part out. You could tell her you went joyriding in a Porsche on company time. That’s exciting.”

  I scowl up at him and find him looking down at me with a warm, friendly expression and the potent grin that makes me want to climb all over him. Our eyes meet and hold as a zing of awareness passes between us like an electrical current, confirming he feels it, too. Doubly fabulous and all the more reason to keep my distance.

  Over my body’s strenuous objections, I move away from him. “I can walk on my own.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “Someday you’ll laugh about all this, you know.”

  “I highly doubt it. Giordinos don’t get arrested. They don’t get handcuffed and fingerprinted and photographed. They don’t get searched and tossed in a cell.”

  “They searched you?”

  I can’t bear to relive the humiliation of it. “Yes.”

  “Strip-searched?”

  “Just about. They made me remove my outer garments to ensure I wasn’t concealing any weapons.” Single most humiliating m
oment of my life.

  “Huh.”

  “What does that mean? Huh?”

  “I’m getting a visual of you in sensible white cotton underwear, and it’s rather . . . appealing.”

  I whirl on him, prepared to punch him or at least smack the smug grin off his face, but his grin isn’t smug. It’s not smug at all. It’s rather tortured, and when I venture a glance below the belt of his black dress pants, smug isn’t at all the word that comes to mind. Impressive is more like it. Very, very impressive and very, very aroused. Over the thought of me in my underwear. Oh God.

  “I do not wear sensible white cotton underwear,” I spit at him, furious at myself for letting my eyes venture down there. For reasons I’ll ponder later when I’m far, far away from him, it’s important he know that my underwear is neither white nor cotton.

  “All the more interesting.” He runs a finger over my cheek, the caress sending a torrent of heat and light and energy to every corner of my body.

  Stunned and totally unnerved by my reaction to him, I take a step back. “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing—”

  He drops his hand. “No game. The last thing I need right now is any kind of romantic entanglements.”

  “Good. We have that in common. So don’t touch me again.”

  “I apologize.”

  We walk the two blocks in uneasy silence that he breaks right before we reach the gates to the impound lot. “What was that about back there? Why did he tear up your ticket?”

  “I . . . um . . . I used to know someone with the department.” The most important someone in my life, someone I loved and lost in the worst way imaginable. A shudder of agony goes through me, transporting me right back to the darkest days of my life. Grief is funny that way. It can come at you out of nowhere, smacking you in the face with memories so painful they can still take your breath away five years later.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nod, because that’s all I can do.

  Inside, we learn they want six hundred bucks for the car. Before I can process that number, Jason hands over a black American Express card.