“Sure, Margo,” I mutter to my allied health travel director who is safely tucked into her office somewhere in Minnesota. She’d been the one to contact me about this ‘exciting opportunity’. You’re right, Margo. It’s the perrrfect position for me. If I want to feel like a fish out of water. I look at my surroundings again. More like a tadpole out of a hot tub full of champagne.
I straighten my ponytail and try to force my curls into submission before brushing the wrinkles from my scrubs. I look down at my shoes and wish I’d taken the time to spit shine them earlier. Or put on a little make-up. Natalie would be furious at me if she saw how little attention I’d been paying to my appearance.
I jump when the wooden door clicks open and an older man wearing khaki’s and a sweater vest stomps out. He takes one look at me and huffs, “Good luck in there.” Then he keeps stomping down the wide hallway.
Pressing my fingers together, I slowly breathe in and breathe out. I remind myself that this job isn’t a deal breaker and life will go on if I’m tossed out on my ear. I don’t need this job. If they don’t hire me, there’s a traveling nurse position ready for me less than an hour away. The Duffys and their big house need me more than I need them.
“Grace Johnson?”
I jump to my feet at the sound of my name, almost groaning at how good it feels to get out of that chair. I turn to a very distinguished looking gentleman in a nearly black three-piece suit. His blue eyes take me in as I step forward and stick out a hand. He accepts and gives it a very brief but brutally strong squeeze.
Gesturing for me to enter the office, I step into a room that’s as big as most people’s houses. Lined with floor to ceiling shelves, it’s more like a library, except for the massive wooden desk placed in front of a wall of windows. A gaudy looking rug, probably worth millions, covers the floor.
Next to the desk stands a ramrod straight woman wearing a pink wool suit, her blonde hair perfectly combed back from her face. Her blue eyes are like ice and her thin lips form a perfectly neutral line. At first, she looks like a wax statue and I nearly squeak when she finally moves one tiny step in my direction.
“Ms. Johnson, please have a seat.” The woman waves me toward a leather chair and I’m thrilled that it actually looks habitable.
“Thank you, Mrs… Duffy?”
She looks down her nose at me, which can’t be easy since I stand at least five inches taller than her. But she manages it and says, “Yes, Olivia Duffy and my husband Charles Duffy. How good to make your acquaintance.”
What the hell do I say to that? Glad to meet ‘ya too? Likewise, I’m sure? I’ve never felt more like a hillbilly until this moment. I settle on, “Good to meet you too.”
She dips her head politely and gestures again for me to sit. I follow her directions and lower myself slowly … very slowly … into a seat.
“Ms. Johnson—”
“Grace, please call me Grace.”
Reptilian eyes gaze at me, then she sniffs. “Ms. Johnson, as I’m sure you’ve been told, we are seeking both nursing and physical therapy support for our son who was wounded eleven days ago in an unfortunate incident overseas.”
I nod, afraid of opening my mouth again.
“You seem to be unique in that you offer both of these skills. Might I ask as to why you chose to train in both these areas of expertise?”
Holy heavens! A question I can answer! Now, if I can keep the hick out of my voice.
“I see humans as a holistic unit and I deeply wanted to care for my patients in a variety of ways. In nursing, I assist physicians in disease management, infection control, monitoring and ongoing assessment of care. I can help a baby be born, hold the hand of someone taking his or her last breath, or even help bring someone severely injured back to life. I can help manage pain and provide creature comforts. I can educate people too and hopefully make a difference in their lives, not just in that moment, but give them lifestyle tools that will positively affect their families for generations.”
For the first time, Mr. Duffy speaks up. His eyes are much warmer than his wife’s, but he’s inspecting me just the same. “And why physical therapy?”
I smile at him. “Rather than explain why I love the challenges of physical therapy, let me share with you a brief glimpse into my life last week while I was in Oklahoma on a physical therapy assignment. May I?”
Whew. That sounded okay. I think.
He inclines his head. “Of course.”
“Thank you. I find the world of bionics immensely fascinating, and jumped at the opportunity to work with a high school athlete who lost his foot in a car accident. He was on track to receive a football scholarship, and, as you can imagine, was pretty devastated when he lost his ability to walk naturally.”
The Duffys look at each other and then back at me.
“This young man was determined to walk again. No, run again, but was being so aggressive with his prosthetic that he continued to abrade and injure his remaining leg. I was hired as an in-home therapist to assist him in training and growing stronger while also honoring the healing process. In my physical therapy training, I took special emphasis in working with advanced technology.”
I pull a folder from my purse and take out a letter, handing it to Mr. Duffy. “He made tremendous strides during that week. This is a copy of his thank you letter to me.” I smile and look at Mrs. Duffy. “I’d read it to you, but I’m afraid it makes me cry.”
She doesn’t look impressed.
I sit up straighter and go on. “I also minored in psychology because I believe the emotional component to healing is as necessary as the physical. Now, I’m not a psychologist and don’t pretend to be even close, but I believe that if I can support the mental anguish a patient is suffering during their healing process, then their body can expend more energy on being well.”
Mr. Duffy reads the letter and passes it to his wife. Then I volley the rapid-fire questions they hurl at me. Education. Goals. Greatest strength. Greatest weakness. I feel my voice go southern again as I tire of the ‘typical interview’ questions.
“Ms. Johnson,” Mrs. Duffy says and I turn my attention back to her. “If we choose to hire you for this position, you will be asked to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Would you have issue to that?”
Uh. Why?
I wisely keep that to myself and say instead, “Of course. No issue at all.”
“Very good. The agreement is standard. All employees who work in the Duffy homes are required to sign and abide by this agreement. As I’m sure you’re aware, we Duffys are scrutinized at every angle. Behind our closed doors, we should enjoy an element of privacy. I’m sure you understand.”
I hate to burst their bubble, but I’ve never heard of The Duffys before.
“Of course. And as a licensed health care worker, I assure you that I abide by all HIPPA regulations and would prefer to cut off my own tongue than violate a patient’s privacy.”
She looks at me. “Let’s keep your, uh, tongue intact, shall we then?”
I feel like I’m five years old.
I’m saved by Mr. Duffy. “What questions do you have for us?”
“Can you explain better the nature of your son’s injuries? Your human resource director also was unsure as to the length of time he will be needing therapy.”
“Lincoln was injured when an IED exploded within feet of him. He received multiple wounds, as you can imagine. Surgery to remove his spleen. A collapsed lung. But most grievous is the loss of his left leg. Like your football player patient, he too is eager to be mobile again. He is very strong headed, determined to walk again and resume his work overseas. He will be returned to us here today, actually any moment now, and wishes to begin therapy immediately.”
“How soon could you begin,” Mrs. Duffy asks and then clarifies, “If we choose to hire you?”
“Immediately is perfect.”
Mr. Duffy nods. “And to answer your second question, we anticipate needing additional support for approxi
mately thirty days.”
“Many in-home nurses also help with home needs such as cooking and light household cleaning. I’m happy—”
“Oh gracious no,” Mrs. Duffy interrupts me, looking aghast. So aghast her hand spiders its way to her throat. “We have servants for that.” Then her eyes flick from my face, down to my shoes and back up. “Our personal chef will prepare healthy meals for Lincoln, of which you may also enjoy. If we choose to hire you, you may let him know of any allergies or personal preferences you may have, barring chicken and dumplings, of course.”
I take in a breath. Love in. Hate out. Acceptance in. Stupid egotistical and bigoted bitches out.
I nod, a gentle incline of my head. “Of course.”
Breaking into the stare-down going on between me and the ice queen, Mr. Duffy claps his hands together and says, “I believe that is all for now. We plan to make a decision by this evening and move our chosen candidate in tomorrow morning.”
I stand and reach out a hand, giving Mr. Duffy a warm smile. “I look forward to hearing from you.” I look over at Mrs. Duffy. “Very good to meet you.”
Then, with as much grace as my giraffe legs can muster, I stride out the double doors and promptly get lost.
Shit.
Which way do I go?
Right. I go right I’m quite sure. I turn, looking for an exit sign before remembering this is a private home.
“Rich bitch woman,” I mutter to myself as I peek into rooms that seem to serve no purpose. “Chicken and dumplings indeed.”
I’m fuming now. I’ll have her to know my granny could probably out cook her hoity toity chef all day long. He probably makes things pretty while granny makes things taste like heaven. Besides, I’m a pretty good cook too. I might not make snails or spoon caviar over quail breasts the size of a quarter, but I’ve not poisoned anyone yet and…
Crap!
Where the heck am I?
I look out a window and see a huge swimming pool and then gasp as I take in the view of the ocean beyond it. Wow! Cliffside living is the bomb, but I’d prefer a little house versus this behemoth of a mansion. The plus side is that you’d never gain weight. You’d have to walk all day just to get to a bathroom.
Turning from the view, I attempt to retrace my steps and heave out a sigh of relief when I see that horrid chair next to the double doors. I walk more quietly, hoping I can sneak past and find my way out. Then I hear the Duffys talking inside…
“I quite liked candidate number four,” Mr. Duffy is saying. “The last girl was quite acceptable as well.”
“But darling, I thought we agreed a male therapist would be a better solution. Why Helen would send that girl, I’ll never know.”
“Yes, Livvie, I know we said a man would be more appropriate, but—”
“No buts dear. We want Lincoln’s therapist focused on his recovery, not on his looks and charm. Didn’t you see how that nurse at Walter Reed looked at him?”
Oh good grief, I think, rolling my eyes. Did the Duffy ego have no limit? Do they seriously believe no woman could keep her hands off their, apparently, god-like son? Please.
“Of course,” Mrs. Duffy is saying, her voice a bit lower and I take a step closer to hear better. “She’s so tall and, ah, big boned. Very plain looking, don’t you think?”
I look down at my wrists. Big boned? Plain? The bitch!
“I thought she looked quite pleasant, my dear.”
Mrs. Duffy goes on. “Doesn’t her resume say she played sports in high school and college?”
“Yes, well yes,” he says and I hear the ruffling of paper. “I believe so.”
“Then she’s probably a lesbian, don’t you think?”
My jaw drops open, then I just about jump out of my skin when someone giggles behind me.
I whirl and a beautiful blonde woman with the most gorgeous blue eyes is holding a hand over her mouth. She immediately holds up a finger in a ‘ssshhh’ motion and then beckons me to follow her.
A few minutes later, we’re outside by the pool and that spectacular view of the ocean. The blonde turns and bends over, letting out the laugh she’s been trying so hard to hold in. I can’t help it. She’s contagious. I’m soon laughing too.
She finally stands and wipes at her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m exhausted and that just struck me as funny.” She sticks out a hand and I accept it. “I’m Camille. You must be the lesb … I mean nurse …” She doesn’t finish. She starts laughing again and plops down on a lounge chair.
“I have to thank you for making the last hour worth it,” I tell her, wiping at my own eyes. Wow. It feels so good to laugh.
“Where are you from?” she asks.
“East Tennessee.” I draw out every vowel even longer.
“That’s so cool. I love your accent. How did you end up in California?”
I keep my answer brief, talking about wanting to travel and see the country. “My manager thought I’d be perfect for the position available here. Do you know Mr. Duffy, the patient, well?”
She grins at me. “Oh yeah. He’s my brother.”
I stare at her. This gorgeous, fun, open person is the offspring of the woman in that room? A miracle. A true halleluiah, praise the Lord, walk on water miracle. Maybe working here wouldn’t be so bad.
“Well, Camille, thank you so much for the laugh and for helping me find the way out of your home. I can’t imagine living here. I’d be lost all the time.”
She rolls her eyes. “Totally outrageous isn’t it. But don’t worry. Link is staying in one of the cottages, which is where you would live too. Much smaller, but nice. I like the cottages much better too.”
“If your mother hires me, you mean?”
She winks. “Let me see what I can do about that.”
“Just so you know, I’m not a lesbian. Just big boned and plain.”
Camille’s eyes grow wide. “Please tell me she didn’t say that.”
“Oh yeah. And told me I couldn’t order chicken and dumplings from the chef.”
She groans and slaps a hand over her face. “I’m so sorry.” Then she stands, the grin back on her face. “Let me show you to your car and then I’ve got to have a little chat with my mom and dad.”
Chapter 5 – Duffy
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I force myself to press up and down. I’ve grown weak over the past days. Too weak. I’ve got a lot of retraining to do.
I raise up onto my knuckles and press down again. Up. Down. Up. Then I curse when I totter sideways a little. Fuck! Even doing push-ups without my leg has me off balance.
Regaining my center, I do fifty more push-ups and then turn onto my back and start on crunches. I stare at the wall in front of me, refusing to look at my lower body.
Ding. Ding.
Shit.
Who can that be? I ignore the doorbell and keep crunching. My ribs are on fire, but I ignore them and keep crunching. The healing wounds all over me threaten to break open, but I keep crunching. I keep crunching even as the sweat pours from my forehead and into my eyes.
Ding. Ding.
Dammit to hell.
Pulling myself over to the wheelchair I loathe, I heave myself up into a sitting position and then roll myself to the door, yanking it open.
“What is—?”
Words fail me. Actually, the words are sucked from my reality as I stare at the woman on the other side of the threshold.
Mattie.
Oh god, it’s Mattie.
She’s never been so beautiful as this moment.
Gazing at me with those eyes—those eyes. The eyes that had captured me as a teenager and capture me now just as surely.
Those eyes.
My Mattie.
She’s here.
She’s here!
Why the fuck is she here?
I’d forgotten for a moment that I hated her.
“What do you want?” I say, finally finding my voice.
She pulls in a breath and takes a step toward
me, those eyes growing shiny with tears. “I needed to see you,” she says, her voice so small. “I heard you were … back … and I needed to see you. I have things I need to say to you.” She looks from my eyes to my lips, down to my shoulders and then to my legs … leg. She shudders and then pulls her eyes back to mine. “Please, let me come in.”
Every instinct tells me to slam the door in her face.
Instead, I roll backward and let her in.
Closing the door behind her, I roll over to the sofa and heave myself from the wheelchair to the plush leather. I hate the wheelchair and feel at a disadvantage in it. I could grab my crutches, but that isn’t much better. They both scream ‘disability’. Screw that.
I wave at the chair, silently inviting her to sit, but she moves to the sofa and sits down beside me.
“Say what you need to say and leave,” I bark at her, feeling like a teenage boy in the middle of a tantrum, but unable to stop myself. I can’t believe she’s here. I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long, but she only shows up when I’m half a man.
Reaching out, she places a hand on my good thigh. The muscle reacts as if an electric wire just touched my skin. I feel the pulse of her. The pull of her. It’s like the clock has rewound the past ten years.
“I’m sorry, Link. I messed up so bad and I don’t know how to undo it.” She begins to cry again. “But it’s always been you. You I loved. I was stupid and I messed up.” She looks at me and I’m lost. “Can you please forgive me?”
What the hell do I do?
This is my dream girl. The girl.
I do what feels right. I pull her into my arms.
She moans as my lips take hers. I moan as her hands slip under my shirt and pushes it up and over my head.
Oh god. The smell of her. The texture of her skin. I remember it. I remember it all. I fist my fingers in her hair and pull her head back to gain better access to her neck. My neck. The neck I’d licked and kissed a million times in reality and in my dreams.
“I need you,” she says, her fingers clutching and unclutching my shoulders. “I need you inside me. Please … be inside me.” Then her fingers are at the button of my shorts.
She cries out when she sees my … stump … for the first time. “Your leg. Your poor leg. Am I hurting you?”
Badass - The Complete Series: A Billionaire Military Romance Page 17