by Caro Carson
Alex got up, too, and went outside. In the dark, the inanimate rocks that made up his garden were precisely as he’d arranged them. Next week, when Grace and her sister were back in LA, he would take some satisfaction in imagining the women living well, just as he imagined for the patients he helped for a brief time in his emergency room.
I’d go crazy wondering how everyone is. How do you handle the not knowing?
He’d have more than his imagination in this case, actually. He’d be able to see Sophia’s success, and he’d know for certain that Grace was doing well then, too. It would be more than he ever had with his patients, closer to what he had with his mother. He didn’t have to imagine that his mother was doing well. He knew for certain she was chairing the university’s engineering department and traveling on her personal quest for better education around the world.
His mother, his emergency patients and Grace Jackson. He helped them, then they left. He wished them well.
He put his foot on a low limestone wall, so like the one he and Grace had worked on at the nursing home this week. When Grace left, he’d carry on exactly as he had before he’d ever seen her brown-gold eyes looking at him like she hoped he could save her. His well-balanced life would be unchanged. This week had not derailed his life.
Perhaps nothing could.
He shoved at the wall with his foot, a sudden burst of frustration that accomplished nothing. The wall did not budge. What had he expected? The pattern was set.
I could change it.
To what? He had no other pattern to follow. He helped people in need, and then he moved on. Next patient. Next garden.
But there’d never be another Grace.
It was only one kiss.
He kicked the wall once more, and headed back into the house.
* * *
Alex knew Grace needed his help with one last thing: the Black and White Ball.
More accurately, her sister needed his help, but Grace and her sister were inextricably linked. What helped Sophia, helped Grace. And so, on one of the last days Alex would have Grace in his life, his house was invaded by a team of stylists and seamstresses.
They rearranged his furniture and brought in entire clothing racks of evening gowns and tuxedos, all carefully wrapped in plain cloth bags in case there were paparazzi hiding in his bushes, trying to get a scoop on what Sophia Jackson might wear to this gala. The secrecy wasn’t necessary. No one had thought to look for a movie star in the home of an ER doctor, and surely no one would care whether that doctor wore Armani or Tom Ford or Calvin Klein.
These people cared, though. It could not possibly matter in the grand scheme of life whether his pockets were slit or had flaps, whether his coat had one button or two, whether the satin of the lapel would reflect well in photographs. It could not matter, but the stylists were deadly serious about every detail, Sophia almost as committed. Grace, ever supportive of her sister, offered thoughtful opinions.
She’d done the same for him, this week in the garden. Did it really matter if he trimmed back an overgrown peach tree by two feet or three? And yet, Grace had stood patiently on the ground, pointing out each branch that needed to be evened up, so that he didn’t have to keep climbing down to judge for himself.
His sense of fairness demanded that he treat this project with the same respect. When they asked for his opinion, he gave it: he’d wear the Armani.
Once that was decided, he was expected to stay and give an opinion on the gowns. On colors and hems and accessories—good God. It was beyond frivolous.
Sophia was spending her first day out of the boot, adjusting to the ankle wrap. She didn’t want to put her ankle through the standing and sitting and stepping in and out of multiple gowns. Grace was acting as her double. To him, the sisters were so different, with Grace’s warm gold so much more appealing than her sister’s platinum, that he hadn’t realized they were nearly the same build and exactly the same height.
With Grace as the model, the succession of gowns became an excuse to openly admire the woman he should have kissed a thousand times this week.
Too late.
The only purpose he served was to stand by in his tuxedo. He wasn’t treating illness and injury. He wasn’t clearing a garden path so a wheelchair could fit easily. He wasn’t even reading clinical studies on trauma methodology. Instead, when a gown received general approval from the team, he stood next to Grace so everyone could evaluate how their clothing would photograph together.
“Now put your arm around her. Hmm... I see the problem, the skirt gets pushed off center if she gets close to him.” The stylist walked to the other side of the room. “Especially noticeable from this angle. Grace, move a little bit to your left.”
Sophia scrutinized them. “But I’m going to need to stand very close to him. Put your arm around his waist, Grace. Let me see what that does to the silhouette of the gown.”
The feast for his eyes became a feast for his senses every time he touched Grace. The scent of her each time she cuddled into his side was like rain in the desert that had been his week in the friend zone. Every gown left her shoulders and arms bare, and the feel of her skin whetted his appetite for more.
More what? A one-night stand with a woman you know will disappear the next day?
It would be a novel twist in the pattern of his life, at least.
The next gown had plenty of more. The skirt was full and fit for a princess, but the plunging neckline was scandalous, revealing Grace’s body all the way to her navel. The V was too wide just as it was too deep. Instead of revealing her cleavage, the dress exposed the full curve of each perfect breast, modesty only barely maintained by the fabric strapping that covered the center of each breast.
Alex said nothing. He could hardly think straight. Mere mortals didn’t wear gowns like that in the real world. She looked like a movie star.
He was aware, suddenly, that Grace was looking right at him, her unique blend of worry and hope bright in her eyes. What reaction was she looking for?
“That’s the one,” Sophia declared.
Alex bit out the phrase the stylist had been using all morning to dismiss Grace from the room. “You can change now.”
Sophia laughed. “No, she can’t. I want to take a picture of you two together first. I need to see how this one photographs.”
“You’re not wearing that tomorrow, Sophia.”
“Oh, yes I am. Every man who sees me will have the same reaction as you. You can’t take your eyes off her.”
He tore his gaze from Grace and rounded on her sister. “If you wear that, the deal is off. This is real life. My real life. I’m not going to introduce you to my coworkers and have them not know where to look while they’re trying to eat a damned dinner with their wives.”
“This is about making a statement. And that dress makes exactly the statement I want to make.”
Alex knew what message that dress sent to men, because he was hearing it loud and clear. Grace looked deliberately provocative, yet she looked like a woman who was all the more powerful because she could send men’s thoughts in the direction she chose—as if he needed to be provoked to want to take Grace to bed.
He gritted his teeth. “Not tomorrow. That dress says—”
“It says Oscars,” Grace interrupted. “Maybe even Met Gala. But for this week, it’s too much, Sophie. You’re reestablishing your reputation as a smart, mature—”
“Would you quit using that word? Yo, Alex.” Sophia bumped him with her shoulder. “Stop drooling on the Armani. That’s my baby sister you’re staring at.”
The stylist thrust a metallic silver gown between them. “I was saving the best for last, but maybe we should try it on now.”
Alex and Sophia waited in frosty silence.
Grace returned to the living room in a column of silver. It c
overed her from a simple circle at the base of her throat to the tips of her polished toes, skimming over her body without clinging. There was something innocent about it—short sleeves, Alex realized, almost a schoolgirl look. Although the sleeves and the neckline appeared demure at first glance, they were made of silver netting that allowed the warmth of her skin to show through. She didn’t look like a sexual fantasy and she didn’t look like an untouchable movie star. She looked like an incredibly lovely Grace Jackson.
“That’s the one,” Alex said. When he felt Sophia’s stare, he realized he’d said it almost reverently. He ignored Sophia.
“Isn’t it perfect?” the stylist asked. “An echo of that Audrey Hepburn spirit we captured during last year’s award season, but the column dress says modern and smart.”
Alex didn’t wait for a request to stand next to Grace. He walked up to her, tuning out the cluster of people who’d invaded his house. “You look very, very beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Princess Picasso gave an order. “You two should dance. I need to see if I’ll be able to move in it. What kind of music are they going to be playing, anyway?”
Grace didn’t look away, so neither did he, but she answered her sister. “Some country-western bands. Pretty big names. We have a dance lesson scheduled later today.”
“I know how to waltz and two-step.” Alex stepped closer and picked up her hand. “Do you?”
“I waltz.” They assumed the traditional position of a man and a woman in a ballroom dance, and Alex took the first step.
Grace’s voice was as lovely as everything else about her. She counted to three over and over in a little nonsense melody, smiling at him, his beautiful golden girl, silver in his arms, glowing with happiness.
He realized he was smiling back.
So this is happiness. He recognized it, although it had been a very long time since he’d felt it. It was not equilibrium. There was no balance. He was absolutely at the far end of a scale, a feeling of pure pleasure unadulterated by pain—yet.
There was always pain. He knew that, but at this moment, he couldn’t imagine ever feeling pain again, not with Grace in his arms.
“One, two, three. One, two, three.”
“You look wonderful,” the stylist said, clapping. “Sophia, what do you think?”
He and Grace had to stop, or risk looking like fools. She gave his hand a friendly squeeze as she stepped out of his arms. A friendly squeeze. Friends. There was pain in being friends with someone he desired so keenly.
“Two things,” Sophia announced. “First, you can cancel the dance lesson. He’ll do. Second, as pretty as that dress is, I don’t think it’s for me. Grace should wear it.”
For once, Alex thought Sophia was absolutely right.
Grace was less sure. “Me? I couldn’t. It’s too...gorgeous.”
Sophia rolled her eyes impatiently. “Do you have a dress in the suitcase for the ball? No, you do not.”
“But I’m not doing the red carpet. I never do.”
“That doesn’t mean you can wear slacks and a beige sweater. Just take that one. It’s pretty, but it’s not my style. I’m getting too old for that innocent look. You want me to be more mature, remember?”
The stylist protested. “But the designer provided it for Sophia Jackson. It’s a courtesy loan with the understanding it would gain some exposure.”
“Tell the designer I’ll owe him one next season. Let her wear the dress.”
Chapter Seventeen
The dress shone on its hanger, waiting for tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Time was running out. Tomorrow would be her last day with Alex. He’d traded in this morning’s tuxedo for green scrubs and left for the hospital. He was covering someone’s half shift in order to have tomorrow off for the Black and White Ball. She could tell he was nonplussed at the concept that it might take an entire day to prepare for five minutes of photographs, but to humor her, he’d traded shifts.
He’d left; Martina had arrived. By the time Martina and the rest of the team had left, Alex’s vodka had been poured, declared to be an authentically Russian brand and poured again, and the decision had been made: Sophia and Grace would catch a red-eye back to Los Angeles after the ball. The plan was simple: the press began covering the red carpet at six. Sophia would arrive at seven. The dinner would be served at eight. Sophia would dance with Alex just after nine and then the job was finished. They could strike the set, pack up and go home. End scene.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to come back to the house and spend one more night?” Grace had asked, feeling that stone in her chest once more.
But the stylists volunteered to pick up their suitcases tomorrow after they stitched her and her sister into their dresses. It was no problem at all for them to take back the gowns and give them their suitcases and send the limo to the airport in plenty of time for a late night flight to the West Coast.
Sophia had pulled her aside and given her the real reason for the rush. “Martina says Deezee is flying in to catch the rest of South by Southwest. I’m not going to be here when he arrives. Haven’t you been following his Instagram the last couple of days?”
Grace had not. She’d been out in the sun and fresh air, working shoulder to shoulder with Alex on his days off, trimming peach trees and lemons and figs. She’d worn new garden gloves to handle the cactus, and taken them off to return hugs from great-grandmas at the nursing home. After work, she’d loved watching Alex’s hands as he’d whipped up omelets with the same easy dexterity that he must use to tie off a stitch at the hospital.
But they hadn’t kissed.
It hadn’t been for lack of desire. How many times had their laughter faded away as his gaze fell to her lips? In the silence, she would hold her breath, but he’d turn away. Every time, so far.
If they had more time...but Sophia had decided their time was up.
Grace held her phone and flipped through Deezee’s public photos, full of exaggerated pouting expressions and his hands making the shape of a heart over his chest, and she’d understood the red-eye flight. They were running. Whether her sister was running from the possibility of more bad publicity or running away from temptation, Grace wasn’t sure.
She only knew one thing for certain: she didn’t want to go.
* * *
A pane of glass stood between Grace and the man she wanted.
It might as well have been a stone wall.
Alex had returned home from the hospital as darkness fell. Sophia had looked up from her movie and made what was, from her, a friendly overture. “You’re going to gag when you hear this medical dialog. Even I can tell it’s fake.”
Alex had nodded, walked right past her, and headed for the shower.
For half an hour now, he’d been sitting outside in the dark, his hair shower-damp on an evening that was probably a degree too cold for it. Grace thought about bringing him a jacket, but that might make her seem too motherly. She could offer him a cup of hot coffee, but she didn’t want to seem like a waitress—or even a personal assistant. She didn’t want him to keep seeing her as a friend.
Grace watched him through the sliding glass door, studying the set of his shoulders. He wasn’t sitting at the table, but on the edge of the patio, where it dropped off a couple of feet to the garden beyond. His dark hair almost blended into the night.
“You need to fix that.”
Grace hadn’t realized Sophia was next to her. Now that her sister wasn’t wearing the plastic boot, she was as quiet as a cat.
“Fix what?” Grace asked.
“He needs to look like the happiest man in the world when he stands next to me in less than twenty-four hours, and he’s no actor. Go find out what’s bugging him. Cheer him up.”
“I think we’ve invaded his pe
rsonal space enough this week.”
In the glass, she watched the reflection of Sophia as she shook her head. “Grace, you’re no actress, either. You’re dying to go to him. So go.”
Grace knew herself. She was going to need a prop to get through this scene. She turned around to pick up her laptop from the couch. “I did make him a little going-away present. Since this is the last time we’ll have any peace and quiet, I could show it to him now.”
“You’re going to go out in the dark to see a man and you’re bringing your laptop? What did you make for him? A collage of you in that plunging dress, I hope.” Sophia laughed at Grace’s scowl. “Take your laptop and do your thing, sis. But trust me—whatever you’ve got on there isn’t what that man really wants. I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”
With her laptop in one hand, Grace slid open the door with her other. Alex turned his head immediately, his profile highlighted by the light that spilled onto the patio from the living room, the handsome angles of his face defined against the black night beyond.
What a pleasure it had been this week to be able to look at him whenever she pleased. Twenty-four hours from now, she might never have that privilege again.
No, no, no...
She set the laptop on the table with a new feeling of determination. She’d give him her gift, and if it worked, she’d have a connection to him, a reason to contact him after she returned to LA.
“Do you mind if I join you?” She rubbed her arms as she strolled over to where he sat on the edge of the patio. Her gray cardigan and blue jeans were warm enough for now, but he’d been outside for a long while. “I could run back inside and grab a jacket for you.”
That sounded just as motherly as she’d been afraid it would, the impression made worse by the way she was standing over him. He stopped watching her and turned back to his view of the night.
“Or I could bring you a cup of coffee?” There was the waitress vibe.
Alex gave her some kind of negative-sounding syllable.