Blindsided by Love: The Bold and the Beautiful

by Hilary Rose

  “The point is, I want you to help me with this mission just like I’m helping you with the fashion show.”

  *

  Ridge sat back in his chair and marveled at her, at the miracle of her. Who was this woman, this beautiful young creature who vibrated with a kind of dynamism he’d never seen in anyone—a woman who’d suddenly become the only ray of light to penetrate his darkness? He’d heard people ramble about things happening for a reason and he’d always thought it was just a bunch of New Age mumbo jumbo, but he was beginning to wonder if the reason for his blindness, as traumatic as it had been for him, was to bring Caroline Spencer back into his life. And then there was the fact that he wanted her and probably had since that night at Luc’s. There was no denying the attraction she held for him. He wanted her with every part of him—mind, body and soul. He wanted her energy and her creativity and her light—and yes, he wanted her voluptuousness, her ripeness. He hadn’t been with a woman since the fire—and for some time even before then; he hadn’t felt that sort of charged connection with anybody enough to make the effort. But Caroline wasn’t just anybody. He knew that now.

  “I’m flattered that you took my suggestions seriously,” he said after clearing his throat so he wouldn’t betray his desire. “But has it escaped you that I can’t see very well and that my poor eyesight might put a damper on your trip to, say, the ballpark? I can’t explain the mechanics of a sport I can’t watch.”

  “Not true at all,” Caroline asserted. “How about we go to a hockey game? We’ll sit right down near the ice and one of the players will hit the ball with the bat and—”

  “The ‘ball’ is called a puck,” said Ridge with a grin. “And the ‘bat’ is a stick.”

  Caroline smiled. “You see? You taught me a couple of things already and we haven’t even gone yet. As I was saying, we’ll sit there and they’ll score touchdowns and you’ll tell me—”

  “Goals,” he said, laughing outright. “They’re called goals.”

  “I’m more convinced than ever that this will be great—a terrific learning experience for me—and it’ll get you out of the house,” she said. “Which is amazing. Your house, I mean.”

  “I’m glad you like it. You’ll have to stop by again.”

  “Oh, I’ll be back—for my music lesson. And after we cross that off the list, we’ll tackle the other items and they’ll entail field trips. I’ll research the wheres and whens, we’ll get Pam or Donna to clear our schedules and my driver will take us to our destinations. Done deal?”

  He didn’t answer. He honestly didn’t know what to say. Her idea was enticing and yet completely unworkable. While it was true that there were pockets of time in his schedule, even with the fundraiser looming, and that his nights were always free, it was preposterous to think he could manage the activities she was proposing, not with red spots clouding his vision. And his eyes were still sensitive to bright lights, although he supposed if he wore the dark glasses and a baseball cap with a good-sized bill he’d be protected enough. He allowed himself to be swept up in her nearness and enthusiasm. The sweet scent of her perfume and the melodic sound of her voice were a tonic for him, no matter how badly he wanted to resist. He could hear the rustling of her dress, even the tinkling of her earrings, and he wished he could see her, not just in some odd mosaic of images, but all of her—with crystal clarity. But what good was any of it? He was damaged goods and she belonged to Rick.

  “Come on,” Caroline urged. “You’re my boss, so it makes perfect sense that you’d be my coach too.”

  “Your boss,” he said. “You’re the one who does the bossing, if you ask me. Are you always like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “So determined to get your way?”

  She smiled. “When I want something badly enough. Part of this assignment is to get me out of the bubble, but the other part is to get you out of your comfort zone. The man I ran into in New York wouldn’t be hiding behind a desk, Ridge.”

  “The man you ran into in New York had twenty-twenty vision.”

  “Maybe, but since you keep bragging about your memory, do you remember what you said to me that night? I do. You said using all the senses—sight, hearing, smell, feel and taste—was the key to enjoying life to the fullest.”

  “I said that, huh? What a pompous ass.”

  “That too,” she said, “but it’s true, Ridge. Losing your sight was a serious blow, but it’ll come back and in the meantime, you’ve still got the other senses. Don’t neglect them.”

  How did she get so wise at such a young age? Wise and beautiful, smart and sexy—and funny. Yes, funny. She made him laugh at a time when no one else could, even when she was mocking him. “Fine,” he said. “You win. I don’t know how this scheme of yours could possibly work, but I’ll do it.” She was impossible to say no to, he’d discovered.

  Caroline bounced up and down on the loveseat cushion. “You won’t be sorry,” she said.

  “What about Rick?”

  “What about him?”

  “Rumor has it that you two are back together—and so quickly. Won’t he mind you spending non-business hours with me?”

  “Number one: don’t believe everything you hear. Number two: I came to LA to make sure the fundraiser goes smoothly. I intend to fulfill that promise, and if it means keeping the peace between you and Rick then that’s what I’ll do—whatever it takes. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Chapter Nine

  The following week, Caroline juggled her work at Forrester Creations with another dinner with Rick as well as an outing with Ridge—without either of them knowing about the other. Her friend Gigi was totally spot-on when she’d warned Caroline that she’d be walking right smack into the middle of the forever-battling Forrester brothers by returning to LA.

  Rick was waging a nonstop campaign to win Caroline back—from the evening out at yet another romantic, insanely expensive restaurant (this time he’d arranged to have her serenaded by a trio of operatic waiters and a violinist) to the daily delivery to her hotel of a single sunflower for her breakfast tray. He was sweet. He was solicitous. And he was eager for some sign from her that he was winning her over. For her part, Caroline was careful not to promise too much or string him along or seem duplicitous in any way at the same time as she was also careful to express her gratitude for his attention, keep an open mind about him and give them at least a chance for a reconciliation. He still meant something to her, of that there was no doubt, but she didn’t know exactly what. Were her feelings those of nostalgia for what they’d once been as a couple, a reflex borne out of habit and history? Or were they real in the moment and an indication that her love for him was still there, the embers buried under the hurt and mistrust but still flickering? She didn’t know and, she reminded herself, she didn’t need to know. Not yet. She had just over a month to see the fundraiser to its conclusion before having to decide whether she’d stay in LA or go home, and she intended to take every bit of that time to process her feelings, ticking clock or not.

  As for Ridge, her own campaign to provide entertaining distractions for him and make him feel whole again, let him see that he had value in spite of his sight loss, show him he should take his own advice and use all his senses for a full life, didn’t get off to a promising start.

  She’d decided to take him to Staples Center in downtown LA for a hockey game since he’d suggested she introduce herself to the world of professional sports. The LA Kings were playing the Arizona Coyotes and she’d bought two tickets. It was at the last minute, so the premier section down in front near the ice rink was sold out, and they had to sit way up in the stands, wedged between two very beefy, very drunk groups of fans. Staples Center had an elevator, which was helpful in getting them to the Upper Concourse, but Ridge had refused to allow Caroline to arrange for a wheelchair or a special escort—“My legs are just fine,” he’d reminded her—so walking him to their row and guiding him to their seats was a
rduous. He’d tripped numerous times, stepped on toes and, just as he was settling into his seat, moved his elbow onto the armrest he shared with a large man clutching a large cup of beer, collided with the cup and quickly found his lap soaked with the man’s Bud Lite.

  “I’m so sorry,” Caroline must have said a thousand times as she swabbed frantically at his jeans with a wad of napkins. “I promise I’ll plan better next time.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Had he actually smiled when he said that? Caroline asked herself. Yes, he had, and she was overjoyed, relieved too. He’d been a good sport in spite of her miscalculations and she was grateful.

  “Besides, I like having you clean me up,” he’d added with the faintest hint of a laugh. “I feel like a toddler with an overturned bowl of applesauce. Perhaps I should have worn a full-body bib.”

  “You’re being a very sweet toddler. No tantrums,” she’d said and threaded her arm through his, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world.

  When the game got underway, Caroline had asked Ridge to explain the basics of what was going on. Why were there red and blue lines on the ice? How many players were on each team and what was their function? Why did they fight so much? Every time Ridge had tried to answer her questions, the drunks on either side of them had drowned him out. He’d been remarkably good-natured about it all, Caroline thought, even cracking a joke: “They’re loud enough to make me deaf and blind.”

  Caroline had really enjoyed his story about growing up rooting for the Detroit Red Wings. The Kings were a mostly mediocre team when he was a kid and the Red Wings were the best, he’d said, and told her how he’d idolized a Russian superstar named Sergei Federov, how Americans didn’t appreciate hockey the way fans did in countries like Canada, Russia and Scandinavia and how he and father had taken the Forrester jet to see the Red Wings win the Stanley Cup in 1997. But their drunk and disorderly seatmates had made real conversation nearly impossible.

  At one point, Caroline had left Ridge to buy them food at the concession stand. She came back with two hot dogs and two beers, figuring that since sandwiches were easy for him to manage at meal times, he’d have no problem with the arena’s so-called “Skyscraper Dog,” which was simply an extra-long frank on which she’d spread mustard, ketchup and relish. She’d handed him the container with the hot dog and placed his beer cup on the floor in front of his seat—only to have him inadvertently knock the beer over with his foot, drenching his shoes.

  Worse for Ridge, the lights flashing on the scoreboard, combined with the glare coming off the ice, had inflamed his eyes and though he’d tried not to show it, Caroline had been able to tell he was in pain, despite the protective cap and glasses.

  “Let’s go. This was a boneheaded idea,” she’d said when she realized that he was too polite—or too macho, she didn’t know which—to admit they should head for the exit.

  “You sure?” Ridge had asked. “It’s only the second period. There are three, by the way, unless they go into overtime.”

  There had been a roar from the crowd and the announcer on the PA system yelled, “Score!”

  “What happened?” Ridge had shouted over the din to the neighbor to his left.

  “Kopitar scored a goal,” said the man. “Kings up by one!”

  He high-fived Ridge and for a brief moment, Caroline had thought, the night was saved from being a complete disaster. The look on Ridge’s face was pure bliss, like a little boy getting a red fire truck for Christmas.

  “Anze Kopitar is their center from Slovenia,” he’d told her. “He’s not Wayne Gretzky but he’s good.”

  “Who’s Wayne Gretzky?” she’d asked, thrilled to see him so energized despite all that had gone wrong.

  He’d thrown his head back and laughed with such unadulterated pleasure that she hadn’t even minded that it was at her expense. “He’s the Babe Ruth of hockey,” he’d informed her. “And don’t ask who Babe Ruth is.”

  “I know who he is,” she’d sniffed. “I’m from New York, remember? He had a candy bar named after him.”

  “Among his other accomplishments.” Ridge had smiled as she reached for his hand and helped him up.

  Thinking about the evening now, Caroline took a mental inventory of how her first effort had gone. In the negative column were the bright lights, the placement of their seats and the difficulty of maneuvering Ridge around the enormous arena. On the plus side were his love for the game, the fact that the home team won, his interest in teaching her about the sport and, most importantly, his willingness to step out of his comfort zone. She was determined that their next adventure would go more smoothly.

  *

  “You are cordially invited to your own house for dinner tonight,” Caroline announced to Ridge two weeks after the hockey game, placing her hand on his shoulder. Ridge warmed whenever she made physical contact, and all aggravations dissipated for him. She was the opposite of a cool blond. She was a toucher, demonstrative and spontaneous and at ease with her body, whether it meant giving him a poke in the ribs or a gentle rub on his shoulder. Nothing about her actions felt rehearsed or designed to elicit a specific response, nothing felt premeditated. And he loved when she was near him. He inhaled the cloud of her perfume, the scent that reminded him of how beautiful she was at Luc’s that night when he’d last seen her clearly. He ached to hold her now and couldn’t, not when he was incapable of getting safely into a seat at a hockey game and not when her heart belonged to Rick, who needled him about her at every opportunity. Only that morning, his half-brother had bragged that he’d made a reservation at some swanky resort in Mexico for him and Caroline—“a possible surprise honeymoon for after the fundraiser.” Rick was full of surprises, most of them deceitful and cowardly, Ridge grumbled to himself, but if Rick was what Caroline Spencer really wanted in a man, Ridge wasn’t in a position to stand in her way. In the meantime, he’d go along with this Pygmalion routine she’d cooked up for him. Being around her was better than not being around her, even if he did have to keep his desire for her in check.

  They were in his office alone after getting a production status report from Thomas and Hope, and the atmosphere was easier, more relaxed, between them now. Not that he didn’t snap at her on occasion the way he snapped at the others, but for the most part they had crossed over into a territory that was somewhere between a cordial business relationship and an actual friendship, and he was enjoying it. “May I ask what the occasion is?” said Ridge, perking up at the thought of spending another evening with Caroline, of having her all to himself whether Rick liked it or not.

  “My continuing education,” she said. “One of the interests I’d like to explore is cooking, so I’m planning to cook you dinner. It’ll be in your own deluxe abode, so you won’t have to worry about crowds or lights or me falling asleep on you.” Their outing the week before had been to the LA Philharmonic at the Walt Disney Hall. She’d wanted him to teach her about classical music and she’d asked the concierge at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel to arrange the tickets this time, the best seats in the house. But after twenty minutes of Beethoven’s 6th Symphony, which Ridge had touted as one of the composer’s most important works, her head had lolled back and dangled from her shoulders as she’d drifted off into some peaceful netherworld.

  “You certainly have me curious,” said Ridge of her invitation. “But—and correct me if I’m wrong—I don’t picture you with a whisk in your hand, elbow deep in pastry dough, anymore than I pictured you with a beer at the Kings game.”

  “See that? You have these preconceptions of people, Ridge.”

  “No, just of you, Caro.”

  “Caro? Is that my new nickname?” she asked with a wry smile. “Or is it the name of one of your tragic Italian operas I don’t know anything about?”

  He laughed. “You mocking me again?”

  “Yes. You’re very mockable.”

  Ridge adored when she poked fun at him. It suggested there was something personal and intimate
between them, a language only the two of them spoke with each other, something not even his dim vision could take away, and it made their chemistry, their connection, that much more charged—at least for him. “The name ‘Caro’ just came to me,” he said. “It’s spunky, feisty, a little offbeat, like you—a woman who dresses in Forrester Creations couture but downs beer and Skyscraper Dogs. ‘Caroline’ was more fitting for your aunt. She was so lovely, but she glided into a room—you bounce into it.”

  “Right. I forgot you think I bounce. So how’s tonight? Is your calendar free?”

  “I’ll have to cancel the sixteen other dinner invites waiting for my RSVP, but sure. Just don’t give me stomach poisoning, Caro. I’ve got enough to deal with.”

  *

  Caroline went straight to Ridge’s favorite chef for inspiration: Luc Bergeron, whose first cookbook sounded the least intimidating of the three he’d published. Not that Caroline had ever prepared a French dinner for two; her idea of cooking was stopping for takeout at one of Manhattan’s gourmet food emporiums and then reheating it in the microwave when she got home. Although she had felt ambitious at Thanksgiving one year and decided she would make the turkey. The recipe said to wash it inside and out, and she had taken the directions literally, dousing it in lemon-scented dishwashing liquid. The result had been a soap-infused bird. Since then, she’d watched a couple of cooking shows on television and was intrigued by the challenge of combining flavors for a delicious meal. Luc’s recipe for sea scallops with potato puree and onion confit seemed like the perfect way to go. The scallops would be in small pieces and, hopefully, easy for Ridge to spear with his fork, and the puree was basically mashed potatoes and how hard could they be for her to make and him to eat? She had no idea what confit was but she’d figure it out.