My Fair Brady

by K. C. Wells

  Dan laughed. “Let me guess. You’re missing Brady.”

  “Does it show that much?” Jordan sagged into his chair. “Talk about not knowing how much you’ve got till it’s gone.”

  “Yeah, I can understand that. Brady’s extremely… capable.”

  “That’s one word for him.”

  Dan chuckled. “You better keep hold of that guy. And I know you might not wanna think about it, but if you ever decide you could survive without him as your PA, he’d make a fantastic exec. He might only have been here three years, but he knows how this company runs—and what it takes to keep it running efficiently.” Dan smiled. “Best decision you ever made, taking him on.”

  Jordan arched his eyebrows. “So glad you approve,” he remarked dryly.

  Dan flushed. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. But it’s not just me who thinks that way. We all deal with Brady every day, and we’ve been here long enough to remember what life was like before he arrived. You work damn hard, Mr. Wolf. Having someone alongside you to share the workload? That’s gotta be a good thing.” He gave Jordan a single nod, then left the office.

  Jordan got up from his desk and walked over to the door that led to Brady’s office. He stared at the empty chair. It was gratifying to know his staff thought so highly of Brady. And Dan was right. Jordan intended keeping hold of Brady for as long as he could. And if that meant promoting him? At least he knew there’d be no objections.

  I hope he’s back tomorrow.

  WHEN Wednesday evening arrived, along with an email to say Brady wouldn’t be back at work for the remainder of the week, Jordan decided to take matters into his own hands. When his car arrived, Jordan told him to take a detour via Harlem.

  He wasn’t really sure why he was going there. Did he really need Brady to sort out the increasing number of problems arriving on his desk? Or was it more a case that, deep down, Jordan was concerned about his PA? And what did he expect Brady to do when he got there—shrug off whatever was ailing him and sort out Jordan’s problems?

  This last thought made him pause as he sent away the car, having no real idea how long he’d be there. He could always get a taxi home. Jordan sighed. When had he last taken a taxi? And what he was about to do started to sound like a really bad, selfish move on his part. The man was ill, for God’s sake.

  Jordan stared at the light brown wood door with its inset glass panels. Well, I’m here now. Might as well find out what’s wrong with him. He was about to ring the bell, when the door opened and a young woman came out.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for apartment 2B. Brady Donovan.”

  She nodded. “Second floor. Is he okay? I haven’t seen much of him lately.” She narrowed her gaze. “Who are you?”

  “His boss. And he’s ill. I’ve just come over to check up on him.” He could understand her apprehension. After all, he was a stranger to her. Her suspicious gaze hadn’t altered, so he took out his wallet. “Did you know Brady works for Jordan Wolf Accounting?” When she nodded, he withdrew his ID and held it up for inspection.

  The young woman’s eyes widened. “Oh. You really are his boss. Okay. I’ll let you in. Just be sure you don’t give him any grief. He’s sweet. Tell him hey from Phil on the third floor.” When Jordan stared at her, she rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m hardly gonna stick with Philomena, am I? Parents and their ideas….” She held open the front door for him. “Go straight up the stairs. He’s on the left.”

  “Thanks—Phil,” Jordan said with a smile.

  She laughed. “Just be sure to say hi for me.” She glanced at his hands, empty but for his briefcase. “Where’s the chicken noodle soup? That’s what you bring if someone’s ill, my mom always says.”

  Jordan gave a guilty start. She had a point.

  Let’s see what he needs first.

  He thanked her again and proceeded up the wide staircase to the second floor. There were two apartments, and Brady’s door was painted a glossy black, with a spy hole set into it. Jordan rapped on the door, listening for any movement within.

  Nothing.

  He rapped again. This time he caught a shuffling sound, growing louder, then a bolt being drawn back, the click of a lock….

  The door swung open, and Brady stood there, wrapped in a comforter, holding on to the doorframe. “What are you doing here?” he croaked. His hair was unkempt and his forehead glistened. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and he looked like he was about to fall over at any moment.

  Jordan didn’t waste a second. “Looking after you, it seems.” He stepped into the apartment, a long room with beautiful hardwood floors and one wall of red brick. From the look of things, Brady had been lying on the couch, which was covered in blankets and pillows. DVD cases were scattered over the floor, but the TV was off.

  Jordan put his arm around Brady’s shoulders and guided him back to the couch. “Now lie down before you fall down,” he said firmly. Brady dropped onto the cushions like a stone, and Jordan grabbed the blankets to cover him. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  Brady gave a single nod. “Flu. Apparently there’s a… nasty strain going around New York.” He broke off to cough, his face reddening.

  Jordan had seen the reports on the news. “Brady, people are dying from that one!”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not.” Brady gave another racking cough. “I thought a few days… in bed would do the trick… but I guess not.”

  Jordan perched on the edge of the seat cushion, shaking his head. “Real flu—not some bad cold—puts you on your ass for at least a couple of weeks.” He reached to push Brady’s hair back from his forehead, but Brady tried to shrink away.

  “No… you shouldn’t be here…. You’ll catch it….” Another fit of coughing erupted, followed by a violent bout of sneezing, and Brady grabbed the box of tissues from their spot on the floor beside the couch.

  Jordan regarded him closely. “No, I won’t. Well, I probably won’t. My doctor made me get the flu shot a couple of weeks ago, so I’m less likely to catch it.” He glanced around the room. There was a tiny kitchen area with a stove, fitted into a corner. The lack of dishes—dirty or otherwise—led to a growing suspicion. “Have you been eating properly? Is there anyone who can come over here to make sure you’re all right?”

  Brady huffed. “Like I’m gonna… call on my neighbors… just so I can give them the flu.”

  Jordan folded his arms. “What have you been eating?”

  Brady shrugged. “Ramen, mostly. Toast. Tea. That’s about it.”

  Jordan had heard enough. He got to his feet. “Okay, I need to go buy a few things, but I’ll be back.” Brady struggled to sit up, his expression alarmed, but Jordan gently but firmly pressed him back down. “And you are going to lie there and do nothing until I return. Except maybe drink a lot of fluids.” He walked over to the cabinet above the sink, found a clean glass, and filled it with water. Then he took it over to the couch and placed it on the floor within reach. “I want to see that all gone by the time I get back.”

  Brady narrowed his gaze. “Excuse me? Did you perhaps mistake my apartment for your office?” Whatever else he was going to say was lost in a coughing fit.

  “See? That’s what you get for trying to sass the boss. Now do as you’re told, mister.”

  Brady gazed up at him, his forehead still slick with sweat. “Yes, sir.”

  Jordan found the bathroom, wrung out a cloth under the faucet, then returned to Brady’s side. He crouched down next to the couch and gently wiped Brady’s brow. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Jordan said softly.

  Brady swallowed. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

  Jordan placed the cloth in his hand and rose to walk over to the door.

  “Sir?”

  Jordan stopped and turned. “Brady. We’re not in the office, as you so succinctly pointed out. So call me Jordan, okay?”

  Brady nodded. “Hook by the door. My keys. The one with the yellow tab. And the code for the main door key pad is one-two-five-seven.” He
paused, swallowing once more. “And… thank you… Jordan.”

  “You’re welcome.” Jordan grabbed the keys and left the apartment. As he walked down the stairs, he got out his phone and pulled up a search engine.

  Knowing what stores were available in Brady’s neighborhood was probably a good place to start.

  BRADY waited until he was sure Jordan had gone before throwing back the comforter, hoisting himself off the couch, and stumbling over to the bathroom. No way was he about to pee while Jordan was there—the door didn’t shut properly.

  When he’d finished, he leaned on the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Christ, he looked a mess. He wondered briefly if he had time to take a shower before Jordan got back, but reasoned he didn’t have the energy to stand for that long. Brady sniffed cautiously and grimaced. He smelled disgusting. Okay, maybe not a shower, but at least he could sit on the toilet and manage a quick washup. Anything to get rid of the smell of stale sweat.

  Once he’d done the best he could, Brady shuffled into the bedroom in search of a clean pair of sweats and a T-shirt. His body ached like a son of a bitch, and somewhere in his head, a tiny band was stomping and beating out a military tattoo. The flu had well and truly kicked his butt.

  He sank back onto the couch, pulling the comforter over him as he shivered. Thank God the couch was near the radiator. He popped the cap on the bottle of Tylenol and chugged a couple down with water. Then he closed his eyes, lamenting that of all the people to see him in such a sad state, why did it have to be the one man who frequented Brady’s dreams?

  God sure had a weird sense of humor.

  Chapter Four

  JORDAN carried the two bulging plastic bags up the steps to the front door, then put one of them down on the doorstep while he keyed in the code. Why the hell couldn’t Brady live somewhere with more stores? He’d finally found what he wanted—three blocks over and eleven streets down, on Columbus Avenue—but that had necessitated a taxi. Both ways. And thank God the store was still open; it was getting late.

  Jordan arrived at Brady’s door, fumbled in his pants for the keys, and finally got into the apartment. Brady was asleep on the couch, his glasses still perched on his nose. All the lights were off, except for a lamp beside him. As quietly as he could, Jordan crept over to the tall refrigerator and began to fill it with his purchases. He’d bought enough to see Brady through at least the next three days or so, not that Jordan planned on staying away that long.

  “Wha…?”

  Jordan turned around. Brady had propped himself up on one elbow and was blinking at him. “Sorry,” Jordan apologized. “It took me a little longer than I’d anticipated.”

  Brady stared at the bags. “You went to… the Whole Foods Market? Which one?”

  “I figured the one on Columbus was closer than the one on 125th Street.” Jordan turned back to the fridge and continued unpacking his groceries. He snickered. “Probably not that much to choose between them, when you think about it.”

  “You didn’t walk all that way, did you?” Brady’s voice was laced with incredulity.

  Jordan chuckled. “I took a cab.” When silence fell, he peered over his shoulder to find Brady gaping at him. “What? I’ve taken cabs before.”

  Brady chuckled. “Not since I joined the company. I’m the one who books your car service, remember?”

  Jordan ignored that last remark. “Okay, when I’m done unpacking, I’ve got some soup for you, which you’re going to eat before you go to bed. There’s a good selection of fruit here, too, and vegetables. I picked out a couple of cartons of freshly made pasta and sauce to go with it. Oh, and there’s juice too.” He’d tried to choose food that wouldn’t require much preparation.

  “Wow. You really went to a lot of trouble for me,” Brady said quietly. “I don’t know what to say.” Then he frowned. “Wait a minute. Have you eaten yet?”

  Jordan shrugged. “I grabbed a burger and some fries. I’ll heat ’em up when I get home.”

  Brady’s eyes widened. “You’re not supposed to eat shit like that.” When Jordan stared at him, Brady flushed. “Why do you think your food at work is always so healthy? I’m trying to watch your diet, to keep your blood pressure in check.”

  “Well, just once won’t kill me, so deal with it.” Jordan went back to filling the refrigerator. “And seeing as you’re so concerned, why don’t I ditch the burger and share some soup with you instead?”

  Brady blinked again. “Oh… okay. I can live with that.”

  Jordan shook his head. “Trying to organize my life from your sickbed, huh?” He snickered. “Well, guess what? When I finish work tomorrow, I’m coming here again. I’m going to make sure you eat properly at least once a day.”

  Brady let out a throaty chuckle. “You just want me back at work ASAP, don’t you?”

  Jordan rolled his eyes. “Of course! How the hell do you expect me to get through my week without you there, sorting out the mess?” He grinned.

  Brady laughed softly. “I was afraid to ask how things were going. How did the meeting go yesterday with Roy McCullock?”

  Jordan closed the door of the refrigerator. “You mean, the meeting that wasn’t on my schedule? The meeting I didn’t know about until his secretary called me?”

  Brady gaped. “But… I told you weeks ago about that. It was in your planner. Did you even look there?”

  “Well… no.”

  “And I reminded you about it at least a half-dozen times. Plus, there’s a Post-it on your blotter.”

  Jordan sighed inwardly. He hadn’t even looked. He was so used to Brady telling him every morning, he hadn’t bothered to do more than a cursory glance when he got into the office, too desperate for a decent cup of coffee to even get his brain engaged.

  He came over to the couch and sat down. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. I should have looked. It’s my business, my responsibility. I’ve just gotten so used to the way you do things, I guess.” He smiled. “It’s taken this past week to show me what you really are.”

  “And what’s that?” Brady asked, his voice hushed.

  “A treasure. And that’s why I’ll be here after work tomorrow, and the next day, and on the weekend, to do all I can to help you mend.” Jordan peered at the glass beside the couch. “I thought I told you to drink all that water.”

  Brady bit his lip. “That’s my second glass.” Then he sagged against the cushions.

  Jordan picked up the cloth, poured a little water onto it, then placed it on Brady’s forehead. “You look after me in so many ways, so I guess it’s only right that I look after you.”

  When Brady’s eyes glistened, Jordan’s throat tightened.

  “Thank you… Jordan. Seriously.” Brady cleared his throat. “Can I ask… what kind of soup are we having?”

  Jordan smiled. “As recommended by Phil on the third floor, chicken noodle.” Then an awful thought occurred to him. “Oh, Lord—please tell me you’re not a vegetarian or vegan or something like that.”

  Brady shook his head. “All those times we went on business trips, and you never once paid attention to what I was eating?” He flashed a grin. “Relax. I’m a regular little omnivore.”

  Jordan wiped his brow dramatically. “Thank heavens.” He tilted his head to one side. “But you’re right. I should have noticed. I promise to do better from now on.” He lurched across the floor and grabbed the box of little pouches from the countertop, holding it up for Brady to see. “Theraflu. I’ll mix one up for you. This should help you feel a lot better. You can take this now, and then I’ll heat up the soup. And the bakery had the most amazing-smelling rolls. I got some of those too. I got butter as well, just in case you didn’t have any.”

  Brady smiled. “I feel better already.” He coughed, his face red again.

  “Yes, I can see that,” Jordan commented dryly. “No more talking for a while. Let’s get you fed.” He began the task of preparing the Theraflu.

  Brady needed taking care of,
and Jordan aimed to make sure that happened.

  BRADY opened his eyes and peered at the clock beside his bed. He’d fallen asleep the instant his head had hit the pillow. He guessed from the hour and the silence in the apartment that Jordan had left.

  Brady still couldn’t believe Jordan had turned up like that. At first he was convinced Jordan had come by merely to check that he really was sick. Then he thought maybe Jordan had visited to pick Brady’s brains about work. Neither turned out to be true. Jordan hadn’t spoken about work, other than the reference to the meeting that almost never was. Instead, he made sure Brady ate all his soup, and then he’d gone into the bedroom, found fresh linens, and changed the sheets. Brady had gotten into bed that night surrounded by the clean smell of cotton.

  A shower would have to wait until he could stand in it without his legs shaking like they were made of Jell-O.

  What do you know? Jordan Wolf turns out to be a really nice guy. Not that Brady had thought otherwise, but it was good to know the inside matched the exterior. His brain dimly recalled Jordan saying something about coming back the next few evenings, but Brady wasn’t going to hold his breath. Jordan had enough to do running his company without spending time with a sick employee.

  Still, it was a pleasant thought. Jordan had a nice bedside manner, and the way he’d stocked Brady’s refrigerator and cabinets? Just… wow. Brady had no idea how he could ever repay him.

  The last thing to flit through his fevered mind before he fell asleep was that he wished he hadn’t been so ill. That way, he might actually have remembered more of Jordan’s visit. Because having him that close had been wonderful.

  BRADY tottered out of the bathroom, wrapped in his bathrobe. He was still pretty wobbly on his feet, although his aches had dissipated a little since he’d been taking the Theraflu. Twenty-four hours since Jordan had dropped by, and Brady was starting to feel a bit more human.

  The door buzzed, and he shuffled over to the intercom. “Hello?”