by Jay Hogan
He shook his head. “I’d bore you. Too many restrictions. Or worse, I’d wear down your patience and good intentions, but you’d stay just to prove a point”―he waved his hand between us―“about all this, about me being wrong about you, and I don’t need your pity or your good intentions.”
Did he really think I was that much of a dick? “What the hell? You know zero about me.”
His jaw set. “And you think you have a handle on me and my condition after a fifteen-minute summary. Well, think again. I haven’t even given you the edited highlights of the romance slash sexual compromises. How my libido can tank without a moment’s notice. How I have to choose my sex role based not on what I love but on how crappy my arse feels on any given day. And how some days I’m so damn exhausted I can barely get out of bed, let alone find the energy for a blow job, and….” He stopped and sighed pointedly. “Look, it really doesn’t matter. Just trust me. You don’t want this in your life. I sure as hell wouldn’t.”
He sat there, head down, refusing to meet my eyes while the fingers of his free hand tapped out some nervous rhythm known only to himself, his other hand—look at that—closed tight around mine. I didn’t even remember it happening. Neither did he, apparently. He noticed about the same time I did and went to pull back, but I held firm. He narrowed his gaze in warning, which I duly ignored.
“Simple question,” I said.
He huffed. “Nothing with you is simple, it appears.”
I bit back a smile. “Do you like me?” My words caught the attention of a server passing our table at that very moment. Her head panned sideways, her gaze lingering for a second on our joined hands before sending me a smile and moving on.
Drake said nothing straight off, clearly conflicted about giving me any encouragement, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. I wanted to lean across and kiss every concern he had away, but he was right. Truth was, I knew bugger all about his life.
“Yes,” he finally said, sounding like the admission had cost him an arm and a fucking leg. “More than I want to. But it’s not as simple as you make the question sound, and my answer only complicates things. It means if I take a chance and you run scared, it’s gonna hurt more, and the last time I got hurt, I ended up in hospital for three months. So I’m still saying no.”
Fuck. “So you’re gonna spend the rest of your life alone, then?”
He bristled but still didn’t move his hand from mine. It was all I was holding on to. “Not sure that’s any of your business,” he said.
“Fair enough.” I wasn’t, however, giving up without a fight. “But we’ve already established that I’m no picnic, so how do you know it won’t be you that runs scared? And isn’t that exactly what you’re doing now? Don’t answer that. Just food for thought. You’re not the only one with something to lose here, but yeah, I get how it’s complicated for you. So, a suggestion. Why don’t you let me decide what I can handle and you work on whether I’m worth the risk?”
He snorted dismissively but I caught a glimmer of amusement in his eyes before he shuttered it. “And just how do you propose we do that?” he said, finally extricating his hand from mine, though it didn’t feel like a rejection as such, more like he was needing to shore himself up.
I tapped my nose. “That would be telling. You just do your thing and leave me to work on mine. No promises, no dates, not yet. We’re gonna do this old-school. Agreed?”
He looked at me like I’d lost my mind, which I was seriously beginning to wonder if I had. Truthfully, I had no clue what I meant by what I’d just said, only that it felt like the right way to go.
He narrowed his gaze and pinned me with a level stare. “All right. Agreed. But I retain the right to review and cancel out at any time. Is that agreed?”
I nodded. “Goes both ways.” I stood and proffered my hand.
He stood and accepted it with a bemused smile.
“Till we meet again, Mr Park.” I pumped his hand, my fingers trailing up his wrist.
“Till then, Mr Ashton.”
We held each other’s hands and eyes long enough to garner a few curious stares from nearby tables. Maybe it was just me, but the whole formal eye-fucking thing felt ridiculously sexy as shit and every piece of me tingled.
Outside, we exchanged numbers and headed different directions. If Drake Park expected me to run, he didn’t know me very well. I might be clueless about relationships, but I never backed off from a challenge.
Let the games begin.
Chapter Five
Drake
“GET YOUR game face on, Brenda, we’re ready for the big push,” I said, widening my stance for balance.
She eyed me dubiously from the hospital delivery bed, beads of sweat freckling her flushed brow. I threw her a big grin, understanding her doubt. We’d been at this for hours. First babies often took their merry old time getting born.
“I’m serious,” I said. “He’s right at the door, ready to make his stage debut, red hair and all.”
“Really?” Brenda’s husband, Jackson, suddenly perked up and muscled alongside for a better look. He lifted his misty eyes to lock with his wife’s over her raised knees and swollen belly. “He’s right, babe. The little tacker’s a ginga. He’s gonna look just like me, poor little bugger.”
Brenda scowled. “Nothing wrong with red hair. Now get back here, you idiot. I need your fucking hand.”
“You got it, hun.”
I stifled a laugh as Jackson nearly tripped over himself to get back into position in record time. Sensible man. Orders from a woman in labour were no trifling matter and you ignored them at your peril. Even a midwife wasn’t immune to the odd plastic water glass, balled up facecloth, or curse being thrown our direction. Came with the territory, and we were all friends after.
To be honest I was surprised it didn’t happen more often. Especially being a male midwife giving instructions about something I had no actual personal experience in and was never going to. But surprisingly the clients who chose me said that in fact made it easier. It allowed them to put me in a separate category. The more I worked with women, the more I realised what curious creatures they were, and I’d discovered that even in labour they still had this weird competitive female thing going on. Being a male midwife excused me from that one-upmanship and some women much preferred it that way.
Some said the fact I wasn’t a female midwife meant they didn’t feel judged on how they handled things, not that any midwife I knew would ever do that. Others said they felt they could boss me around more; they soon learned otherwise. A few said they felt they could ask for pain relief without feeling they’d let the side down ’cause, hell, being a man, they knew I was in fucking awe of them as it was. That was probably closer to the truth than I wanted to admit.
All of it left me in this odd “other” category that some women simply couldn’t deal with, and those ones avoided me like the plague, good for them. But others felt a lot more comfortable with me simply because of it, for whatever reason, novelty included. Regardless of the reason, as the only male midwife in the Northland region, Crohn’s restrictions and all, I wasn’t lacking for clientele and even had a cancellation/waiting list. Go, me.
I rubbed Brenda’s leg to let her know I was there and ready to welcome her son. Her labour had run textbook smooth so far, and Mum and baby were in great shape. “You ready gorgeous?” I asked, glancing up at her. “’Cause the landing lights are on and it’s all go for the next contraction, if you are.”
Brenda nodded, wide-eyed but determined. Awesome courage for a first-timer.
“Hey, you’re gonna do great,” I reassured her. “Worst part’s done, so they say. Cord’s clear and you’re gonna hold your son in your arms any second.” I eyeballed Jackson to make sure he knew to keep an eye on the action between her legs. He nodded, looking exhausted but also excited as hell. I couldn’t blame him. Didn’t matter how many births I’d witnessed, every single one left me gobsmacked in wonder and delight. Best. Job. In. The. W
orld.
“Right, we’re going for the big bucks here, Brenda. The final question for the million dollars. Big breath and then I need you to bear down… and now, two, three, four, five… here he comes… six, seven, eight… great work, keep it going… nearly there…. ten, eleven, aaaaand… relax, you can stop pushing…. Jackson, keep her panting. Head’s out, Brenda, just gotta wiggle his little shoulder down… there… now one more tiny little push… and that’s it… here he is.”
The slippery bundle of miracle flesh almost fell into my hands, and I immediately lifted him up and onto Brenda’s belly, covered him with a warm cloth, and rubbed his back gently, holding tight till I was sure Jackson and Brenda had him secure in their hands. Seconds later, a series of heartwarming squawks filled the delivery room, and I let the family triangle close around each other with accompanying cooing and relieved sighs. I stood back and took a moment to marvel at what our bodies and a bit of divine fairy dust were capable of before doing recordings and ticking all the check boxes to ensure we had a healthy wee boy, and everyone was safe and sound while we waited for the delivery of the placenta.
Three hours later at that 3.00 a.m. bewitching hour, I left the hospital in a warm cloud of fuzzies, as always happened after a great, problem-free delivery. The hospital midwives would call if I was needed until my revisit to check on mum and baby much later in the morning, hopefully after a bit of sleep. Not that I’d been getting much of that lately. Attending the second antimining protest down Queen Street in Auckland the previous weekend had left me exhausted and barely able to crawl out of bed on Sunday even without the two late-night baby deliveries to add to the mix. The semiregular appearance of a certain sexy detective in my dreams both sleeping and waking may have also played a part, but you didn’t hear that from me.
It had been a week since I’d taken Caleb for coffee, and I hadn’t heard a fucking dickie bird from him since. Surprising? No. Disappointing? Bloody oath it was. Goddammit. That he’d gotten under my skin so quickly came as somewhat of a nasty surprise. I was so used to not even allowing myself the possibility of interest in a guy, let alone having any interest reciprocated, that the whole thing had caught me unawares. And the truth was, I’d wanted to believe Caleb.
I was taken in by his apparent sincerity and the way he wouldn’t take no for an answer, wouldn’t let me push him away. Hell, I’d even agreed to his stupid idea, whatever the hell he’d meant by it. For a few blissful minutes, I’d basked in the feeling of being desired and wanted enough by a guy that he was willing to overlook or at least try to work with my disease. Someone interested enough to really give it a go.
I should’ve known it would likely go to hell. Shit. My throat tightened and my gut cramped as it had been doing all day, a reminder of exactly why I didn’t do this to myself. Caleb wasn’t a bad guy, he was just… unprepared for what being with me might mean. Clearly, since our talk he’d done some more research and discovered I was gonna be more trouble than he’d bargained for. Couldn’t blame him, really, but… yeah, it sucked… again. Lesson learned, idiot. God, I needed to sleep.
WITH FIVE hours of sleep under my belt, I managed a return trip to check on Brenda and little Sean, a good name for a boy of redheaded Irish stock, and two prenatal visits before calling it a day at four and heading back to the clinic. I was barely functioning and seriously reconsidering the safety of driving home in rush-hour traffic when I blindly barrelled straight into the ridiculous floral monstrosity blocking the door to my office.
What I didn’t fail to see were the smirks and rapt gazes of my fellow midwives watching my gobsmacked reaction from behind the front desk as I attempted to extricate myself from the demon arrangement’s spiny grasp.
The whole thing stood about two feet tall and was without doubt the ugliest floral arrangement I had ever seen. Red hot poker thingamajigs harpooned dangerously out from three sides, a load of what I thought were marigolds (mum would be proud of me for that one), some purple tendrilly flowers that looked like passionfruit randomly shoved here and there, amidst large tracts of fresh mint and what looked like chamomile dotted with skewered orange cube thingies. And to top it off, the entire base was surrounded with a lot of dangerous-looking green spiky shit that I guess passed for architectural structure or some such rubbish. Its only saving grace was a single beautiful cream peony emerging resplendent from the middle of the madness, a kitschy brown kiwi clutching its stem and holding a card in its beak.
“What the hell is this doing here?” I directed the stunned question to my fellow midwives.
They crossed their arms and raised their brows in creepy unison. “It came for you,” Carly said.
No way. My eyebrows hit my hairline as I stared at the eyesore in disbelief. It truly was hideous. “But who in God’s name…?” Oh. No, surely not…. I plucked the card from the disturbing kiwi and turned it over.
Old-school XO C.
Well, shit. I gaped at the ugly arrangement. What the hell was Caleb thinking? If he was trying to win me over, the man was in serious trouble. Snorts of laughter broke from behind the desk, bringing a warmth to my cheeks.
“They arrived by courier about an hour ago,” Dana explained with a giggle. “My God, whoever did you piss off?”
I stared at her, speechless for once.
“And don’t think you’re gonna leave it out here,” she warned, still laughing. “It’ll scare new clients away and put the rest into early labour.”
“Well it can’t go in my office either,” I stated flatly. “It’s like freaking Day of the Triffids. It’s either me or it, we won’t both fit.” I pointed to the green spikes. “Not to mention I’ll end up skewered in my chair… and not in a good way.”
Carly snorted her tea down the front of her shirt and Dana grabbed some tissues to mop it up. “Jesus, Drake,” she said. “We can do without the visuals, yeah? And please don’t tell me this is our boy in blue? We had such high hopes for him.”
“The very same.”
“Holy shit. Well, you might wanna reconsider based on this.”
“You were damn hot on encouraging me just last week,” I reminded them with a level stare.
Dana’s gaze slid to the arrangement, which now sported a serious lean to the left. “Yeah but… well, shit, Drake.”
As it continued on its slow pitch sideways, I was debating whether to rescue the abomination or just let it topple to the floor, giving me a legitimate reason to trash it, when Carly piped up.
“Still, no one in their right mind would order a train wreck like that without reason, right?” she pointed out. “And no florist would dare come up with it on their own and expect to remain in business. So, if you didn’t piss the sweet detective off, then it must mean something?”
Dana snorted. “Yeah, like the guy’s a sandwich short of a picnic.”
“And there’s nothing sweet about that man,” I grumbled, sounding less convincing than I’d hoped. “Still….” I turned my attention back to the arrangement and thought hard for a minute. Nothing came to mind. The man was a lunatic, plain and simple.
I reached down and absently fingered the mint. “And what’s with all the damn herbs, anyway? Who gives someone mint, for Christ’s sake…?” And suddenly it hit me. “Oh, no. He wouldn’t… fuck, no.” My gaze skipped over the rest of the eyesore and it all made sense. “That bastard.” I wanted to be furious so why was I smiling.
“What?” Dana sprang to her feet. “You just got it, right? Come on, spill.” She appeared at my side and studied the arrangement. “I’m not seeing anything.”
“Look,” I said, pointing as I talked. “Mint for diarrhoea. It was one of the first things Mum learned about that helped me when I was first diagnosed. And those strange orange cubes there—turmeric. It reduces intestinal inflammation. Same with the marigolds, or calendula as they’re also known.” My finger continued to travel. “Extract of passionflower, helps with anxiety. Chamomile for stress relief and digestion, and the pièce de résistance, the pe
ony. Its root is used for controlling diarrhoea and cramping.” There were few natural remedies for Crohn’s that I hadn’t tried.
“Oh. My. God,” Dana spluttered. “Fucking epic.” Then she frowned. “But what about those?” She pointed to the red hot pokers.
I merely looked at her and waited.
“Oh.” She blushed to her roots. “Riiight.”
Carly appeared from behind the desk looking seriously impressed. “The guy’s a fucking genius. But you left out those tall green spiky things.”
Yeah, good question. They sure didn’t look familiar. Then it struck me, and I sniggered. “The little shit. He might have said I was a bit… spiky… or prickly I think was the exact word he used.”
Carly made no attempt to hide how hilarious she thought it all was. “Oh, he did, did he? Fucking awesome.” She laughed her way back to the desk to continue filing her notes. “Well you better get on and thank him, then,” she finally choked out between hoots. “Or whatever it is you do when someone sends you something like that.” She waggled her eyebrows at me. “Spiky, huh? Jesus, he’s got you nailed.”
Dana clapped me on the shoulder. “Yeah, what she said.” She chuckled and headed for her office with a final reminder to get the damn thing out of the foyer before it injured a client.
I dragged the overblown excuse for a herbal pharmacy into my office, losing half the free space in front of my desk, and sat in the chair behind just staring at it. What did you say to the man responsible? I blew out a sigh.
I hadn’t said anything to the girls, but once I understood the message, I actually found the whole thing kind of amazing and, well, fucking touching, to be honest. Aside from the twisted humour, there was a lot being said in what he’d done and I was far from ignorant about it.
For one, the ridiculous delivery said Caleb hadn’t forgotten about me. He hadn’t run away as I’d assumed he would, and I didn’t know quite what to think about that.