Blindsided by Love: The Bold and the Beautiful

by Hilary Rose

  Her limo took her to the market to buy all the ingredients. Then it was up to Bel Air, where she met Ridge’s attendant, Ben, at the house so he could show her around the kitchen and help her locate the necessary pots and pans. And then she was on her own.

  She peeled all the potatoes, a thankless job she didn’t care to repeat, and then boiled them in a big pot of water. The recipe said to drain them after twenty minutes and mash them through a sieve or food mill. Ridge didn’t have a sieve or food mill. “Such a nuisance,” Caroline sniffed as she opened drawers and cabinets searching for equipment about which she didn’t have a clue.

  Fine, I’ll use a fork, she thought, and spent nearly an hour trying to mash a pound of potatoes with the lone utensil. Her hand cramped and her arm ached and she was so frustrated when she stared down at the lumpy potatoes that she doubled the heavy cream and butter the recipe called for and dumped them into the pot. The end product was soup. Lumpy, cold, potato soup.

  The scallops were supposed to be cooked at the very last minute before serving, so Caroline waited until Ridge came home to deal with them. She greeted him, brought him a glass of wine, set the table in the dining room and hurried back into the kitchen to finish up.

  She dredged the scallops in flour and stuck them in a hot skillet with the rest of the ingredients. They were supposed to cook for only four minutes, but she was distracted by the confit, which she’d completely forgotten about.

  Okay, they’re just onions, she thought, rereading the recipe. I’m supposed to “sweat” them in butter and balsamic vinegar until they’re caramelized. Does that mean they should turn the color of caramel candy?

  While she waited for the onions to look like caramel, the scallops were morphing into shoe leather. Or maybe small white hockey pucks was more like it. She sighed as she poured them over the lumpy potato soup and onions. The white blobs upon more white blobs in her dish did not look like the photo in Luc’s cookbook, not at all.

  “Smells great,” said Ridge as she carried the dish into the dining room, her mood as funereal as though she were carrying a body in a casket. “What are we having, if I may be allowed to ask?”

  “Vichyssoise.”

  “Chilled potato soup?”

  “You got it.”

  Caroline slumped down in her chair next to Ridge’s and pouted. As he fumbled for his spoon and began to bring the food to his mouth to taste it, she grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t! It’s like wet cement.”

  He laughed. “Bad as all that?”

  “It is and I’m sorry. I’m failing miserably at broadening my horizons. How can you be my coach if I don’t give you anything to work with?”

  Ridge reached for her face and held her cheek in his sturdy yet graceful right hand, the hand that had conceived the dresses of the world’s most fashionable women—the hand that had caressed the faces of the world’s most beautiful women too. “You’re very hard on yourself, you know that?” he said.

  “You’re hard on yourself too, Ridge,” she said, her body vibrating from his touch. It had been so unexpected and yet, if she was really honest with herself, it was a natural extension of the warmth and playfulness that had developed between them and, yes, of the sexual energy between them. She’d always known her attraction for him was there, even when they were sparring, even when it was lurking underneath all the harsh words. They were both passionate people. And now she was giving in to that passion as his fingertips danced across her cheek and the heat rose up from every part of her. What was it about being near him that fired her up, made her feel so alive, so desirous? Why did every single cell in her body pulsate whenever she came within a few feet of him? Was it the conquest, the challenge of ensnaring the great and powerful Ridge Forrester? No, she wasn’t the kind of woman who attached herself to a man just because he had money and prestige; if that were true she wouldn’t have fallen in love with Rick when he was struggling at Forrester Creations and searching for his place in the company.

  “All I was trying to do tonight was lighten your burdens. I can’t even feed you properly.”

  “Nonsense. I’m hardly malnourished. I thought one of the purposes of these activities was for me to expose you to new things,” he said. “Since you tell me this dinner isn’t worth salvaging, why don’t we get the hell out of here and have some real food?”

  Caroline brightened, thrilled that it was Ridge who was suggesting they venture out of his safety zone for a change. “At one of those off-the-beaten-path places you mentioned?”

  “If you promise not to fall asleep on me. Grab that nice bottle of wine you brought and let’s beat it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Ridge took Caroline on what he called a “Strip Crawl.” And he wasn’t talking about Hollywood’s famous Sunset Strip or a string of girlie lap dance clubs. He advised her limo driver that they were heading for East LA.

  “I assume this is new territory for you,” he said to Caroline, who was staring out the window during the drive like Alice in Wonderland peering through the looking glass. They were whizzing past empty parking lots, abandoned buildings, convenience stores and modest houses with tidy lawns and children’s swing sets. “Not Beverly Hills or Bel Air, is it?”

  “A whole different LA for me,” she agreed.

  He was tempted to put his hand on her knee. He was still ignited by the way he’d touched her cheek earlier, couldn’t stop thinking about it, just as he couldn’t forget when he’d brushed his fingers across her lips at Luc’s party. Touching Caroline at last, expressing the tenderness he’d felt toward her, allowing himself the pleasure of making contact with her flesh, had nearly overwhelmed Ridge and it had been all he could do not to move closer and press his lips against hers, crush his body against hers. His attraction for her was like a wave that kept rising and rising and threatening to swallow him whole. “It’s a real neighborhood, as in real people,” he said. “Lots of young families and working class folks who’ve been priced out of the high-ticket areas you see on the pretty postcards with all the glitter and palm trees. Not the Forrester Creations couture market, in other words.”

  Soon they arrived at a street that was dotted with Mom and Pop stores as well as a row of food trucks—a “strip,” hence Ridge’s name for their jaunt.

  “What’s our first stop?” asked the limo driver.

  Ridge gave the driver the name of one of the trucks and turned to Caroline. “Have you ever eaten goat?”

  “Goat, as in ‘baaaah?’”

  He laughed. “That’s sheep—goats make a sound like ‘maaaaah,’ which is close. You would know that if you’d gone to a petting zoo when you were a kid.”

  “Obviously, I led a deprived childhood. But to answer your question, no, I’ve never eaten goat. Why?”

  “Because you’re about to.”

  With help from Caroline, Ridge made his way over to the truck and conversed in fluent Spanish with the Mexican man at the order window, who explained that his parents had a similar birria stand in Nochistlan, Zacatecas and that cooking was a source of both income and family pride. Within minutes, he handed Ridge a hearty helping of piping hot roasted goat meat smothered in onions and spices and wrapped in a tortilla.

  “I figured we should share,” he said, feeding Caroline the first bite, “since we’ll be making several stops and we need to pace ourselves.”

  Caroline sank her teeth into the moist and juicy tortilla and moaned with pleasure. “Oh my God. This is totally delicious and I don’t even care that the sauce is dribbling down my chin. Tastes like lamb, only richer, stronger.”

  “Best goat around,” Ridge agreed, savoring his bite. “Are you getting all the flavors of the spices?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said, taking her time chewing every morsel. “It all transports me to some exotic place. I’ll tell you right now—you can’t get anything like this in New York.”

  “Sure you can,” said Ridge. “When you get home, hop on the subway and take a ride to the Jamaican part o
f the city. You’ll get incredible curried goat there.”

  “I’ve never taken the subway anywhere,” she said. “And I didn’t know we had a Jamaican section in New York.”

  “It’s called getting out of the bubble, Caro.”

  “What if I decide not to go home at all?” she said teasingly. “Not that anyone’s asked me to stay,” she clarified, realizing she’d put him on the spot. “Well, I mean Rick has, but—”

  “I’d rather not bring Rick into the discussion if it’s all the same to you.”

  Caroline went silent, and he wished she hadn’t mentioned his brother’s name—it had cast a temporary pall over the otherwise lighthearted evening. He didn’t want to think about how she’d gone back to Rick and how these outings were nothing more than him helping Caroline explore the wider world.

  “Here we are,” said Ridge when they’d arrived at their next destination, a truck serving up a deep-fried corn taco stuffed with shrimp and enveloped in a fiery tomato salsa.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” said Caroline, her eyes watering from the peppery heat of the salsa. “This should be illegal. The shrimp is so succulent. It explodes in your mouth, doesn’t it? And the taco is so freshly made I can practically smell it coming out of the fryer, and it provides just the right amount of crunch and texture, like a chip.”

  “That it does.” He nodded at her approvingly. “Listen to you, going all poetic about the food. Using all your senses too, am I right?”

  “Aren’t you always?”

  He laughed. “Pretty much.”

  I’m laughing again, Ridge thought. She’s made me laugh and I’m enjoying myself. She may be getting out of the bubble, but I’m getting out of the darkness too.

  It was onto more trucks and their specialties, from sushi burritos, Korean barbecued short rib tacos and lobster slathered with extra-garlicky aioli in a split bun to the best buttermilk Southern fried chicken Caroline said she’d ever tasted. Topping off the tour was the truck that was scooping out artisanal ice cream.

  “I feel like I’ve just died and gone to heaven,” said Caroline, as she patted her full belly on the drive back to Bel Air. “My mouth is still talking to me.”

  “What’s it saying?” He could see how satiated, how secure she felt in the back seat of the limo, where the privacy screen provided an almost cocoon-like atmosphere, as though Caroline and he were the only two people alive.

  “Take a closer look. At my mouth, I mean,” she said invitingly.

  He was emboldened by the heat of the food and the rush of experiencing wonderful things with someone he would never have considered spending even five minutes with before she’d made it her mission to know him better. This night, like all of their nights, wasn’t about any promise Caroline had made to Forrester Creations; it was strictly about her and Ridge, about his growing attraction to her. He couldn’t deny it, didn’t want to deny it—or resist it. He was never one to sit around passively waiting; he felt something for her—and it wasn’t purely professional—and he needed to act.

  As he leaned in, his face nearly touching hers, Caroline removed his sunglasses. He tried not to show how she’d startled him by taking away his protection, his barricade against the lights, the elements, the pitying expressions of others, but he didn’t grab them back. It was dark in the limo, as dark as the starless night sky, so he didn’t think she’d be hurting his eyes by leaving them bare, not for just a few moments. He let his eyes rest on her face, hoping their vacant appearance, the white part around his iris no longer white but rather a startling reddish-pink, wouldn’t repel her.

  “Tell me what you see, Ridge,” she said softly.

  He was overcome by need—a need to banish all obstacles between them: Rick, the fundraiser, the blindness, the glasses; all of it. He didn’t want anything to come between him and this woman who stirred his passion in a way that he’d never have anticipated.

  “I see spots and shadows,” he said solemnly, his damaged eyes searching her clear ones, her nose, her cheekbones and her mouth before roaming across the rest of her. He broke into a smile. “But—what do you know—I can make out a hint of pistachio ice cream in the left corner of your lower lip.”

  They both laughed. “I left it there just to test your vision,” Caroline joked. “But seriously, it was the most incredible ice cream ever. You’re not going to let it go to waste, are you?” She was daring him to do more than look at her.

  Ridge accepted the challenge, holding her face in his hands and bringing it toward his, and then he licked the ice cream off her luscious, pouty lip. Hearing her slight intake of breath, her gasp of desire, aroused him even more and he kissed her—hard.

  “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you in New York,” he murmured, before kissing her again. Her body yielded to him, arching toward him, beckoning him to do more than kiss her.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, running her fingers through his long wavy hair, her breathing coming in short spurts.

  And he didn’t. He hadn’t kissed a woman in a long time, not like this, maybe never like this, and it was as if a dam was breaking inside him, flooding him with feeling. The sensation of her hot, open mouth inviting him deeper and deeper inside her erased all the months of pain, all the self-doubt, all the darkness, and he reveled in it.

  He slid his lips down the silky slope of her neck, beneath the curls of her golden hair. He kissed her in that sweet spot behind her ears, so redolent with her perfume, as she continued to bend against him, her arms winding around his strong, muscular torso, pulling him toward her, as if she couldn’t get close enough to him, didn’t want a single inch of air between them.

  He kissed her throat and then the hollow just above her collarbone, letting his lips and tongue linger there in that glorious valley that belonged to her and only her.

  “Oh, Ridge,” she whispered, running her hands down his chest.

  And then suddenly, as if someone had conspired to douse the flames of the sexual fire that had ignited between them at long last, Caroline’s cell phone rang.

  “It’ll go to voicemail,” she groaned. “Let it ring. I couldn’t care less who it is.”

  “Not even if it’s Ricky boy?” said Ridge, lifting his head up to try to see into her eyes.

  “No, not even then.” But it was she who pulled away, she who sat upright. “But oddly enough, this is a good time—the right time—for me to clarify the situation with Rick. I understand there’s been a miscommunication.”

  “Not interested in hearing about the guy, honestly.” But Ridge knew he had to hear about him; it was the right time, before they went any further. He’d let himself get carried away by the moment, by Caroline’s infectious enthusiasm for life, by the way she made him feel, and he needed to get a grip, needed to face reality. Rick was a jerk, but he wasn’t damaged, didn’t need an attendant to take care of his daily needs, didn’t spend hours in dimly lit rooms waiting for an array of numbing ointments to lessen the burning in his eyes. Yes, he needed to hear whatever she had to say.

  “Rick and I haven’t gotten back together, Ridge. Just so you know. It’s important to me that you know.”

  “You spent the night with him, Caroline. He’s planning your second honeymoon and he spoon-fed me the gory details, for God’s sake. I may be blind but I’m not dumb.”

  “A second honeymoon? Are you joking?”

  “Not in the slightest. He said he’d booked some swanky resort.”

  She shook her head. “There’s no honeymoon because there’s no wedding. And there’s no wedding because he and I are not a couple again. We’ve had dinner a few times. Oh, and he did spend the night at my hotel suite with me—in the other room.” She told him about the fog and some woman whose car was in an accident, who Rick hadn’t been able to resist rescuing. “I’m glad he and I aren’t estranged anymore, aren’t fighting and hurling accusations at each other. But I guess he was trying to one-up you when he told you all that, the way you one-upped him when you took away his title at
Forrester Creations, the way you two have been one-upping each other forever. I’ve been trying to stay out of it, like Switzerland.”

  “Switzerland hasn’t always been neutral,” he said with a smile. “They went to war in the nineteenth century. Maybe you should forget about food trucks, classical music and hockey and take a course in world history.”

  “Fine. Let’s make that our next expand-Caroline’s-horizons field trip.” She hesitated, then said: “Besides, the old Ridge wouldn’t have let Rick stand in his way if he really wanted something.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m not the old Ridge,” he said, placing his sunglasses back over his eyes and securing them at the top of the bridge of his nose, signaling that the romantic portion of their excursion was over. The truth was he didn’t care about Rick, what Rick wanted, what Rick thought he was entitled to. What Ridge cared about was Caroline and what was best for her—and it wasn’t him.

  I won’t be a burden to any woman, least of all a woman like her, he vowed. She’s so vital, so young, with such a promising, full life ahead of her. It would be selfish to deprive her of the happiness she deserves, and that happiness includes a man without physical limitations.

  And yet, he wanted her. Of that there was no doubt.

  Chapter Eleven

  Despite his brief chill toward her at the end of their drive home from the Strip Crawl, Caroline was pleased that Ridge approached the final two weeks before the fundraiser with renewed gusto. It would have been difficult for him not to get caught up in the excitement. The scene at Forrester Creations was what she described as “controlled chaos,” as harried employees from all departments worked overtime to ensure that no detail was left unattended. Everything had to be perfect for the big night when two hundred guests would fill the ballroom at Forrester Creations, be served an elegant dinner courtesy of Luc Bergeron and treated to an exclusive presentation showcasing Forrester Creations’ spring collection. The guests had paid top dollar for tickets to the event, the profits from which would go toward cancer research in honor of Stephanie Forrester. The international media would be covering the fashion show in force and, with any luck, the company’s luster and prestige would be on full display. A united front was essential, which meant that there could be no infighting between Ridge and Rick, especially not over her.