Bad Boys for Hire_Nick_Christmas Holiday

by Rachelle Ayala

  It was Alexa Ames, a test engineer, who was her running partner, or in their case, Alexa ran and Carol pushed her wheels.

  Carol whipped around. “Secrets? What are you talking about?”

  Alexa hooked her thumb at the receptionist’s desk. “See that huge flower arrangement? It’s for you.”

  “Me? From who?” Even as she asked, a sinking feeling dropped inside her chest. It wouldn’t be Nick, would it? Maybe she’d misjudged him. Was he even capable of sending a woman flowers?

  “We didn’t read the note,” Alexa said. “Come on, let’s go see.”

  Carol’s heart thumped like the rotors on a helicopter as she approached the counter. Obviously it was set too high for her to reach.

  Alexa picked up the bouquet and placed it on her lap while a few of her other coworkers lingered, feigning interest in the candy bowl, but no doubt wondering who would send a paralyzed woman flowers.

  “I have no idea who would have sent these.” Carol inhaled the fragrance of the white roses interspersed with holly, pine branches, and poinsettias.

  “Open the envelope,” Alexa said. “I’m curious, too.”

  Carol noticed the conversation had stopped between the other coworkers and the receptionist.

  “I’ll take it back to my cubicle and look at it later,” Carol said. “I have another meeting in fifteen minutes, and I have to prepare the bug report.”

  Without waiting for any protests from the curiosity seekers, Carol made tracks back to her cubicle with the flower arrangement perched precariously on her lap.

  What should she do if Nick was the one who sent her the flowers? She couldn’t continue to ignore him, but then, his request of following her around was unreasonable. He certainly couldn’t expect her to take him with her to the bathroom or shower and show him how impaired she was with basic bodily functions.

  Why couldn’t he read a book?

  Carol swung her chair around the corner and behind the partitions of her cubicle. With shaking hands, she placed the bouquet on her desk. No one had ever given her flowers before, especially at work.

  Why, there was even a piece of mistletoe perched on the top of the arrangement. A ribbon was tied to it, and the note was affixed to a plastic cardholder next to it.

  She extracted the note from the envelope and read the card.

  Dear Carol, I loved meeting you at the toy drive last weekend. Perhaps you’d like to have dinner with me. Your friend, Jason

  Jason? Carol tilted the note and squinted at the signature. Nothing changed. Still Jason, along with his phone number and email address.

  Heat flooded her face and she peeked around, feeling like she’d been caught with her pants down. She could hear Nick’s jeering laughter in her mind.

  What an idiot she was for believing even for a second that someone like Nick could possibly be nice enough to send her flowers, or even want to. His pestering of her for a follow-around, a Take Your Jerk to Work, was a form of mockery. He knew how awkward it would be for her, and he was determined to rub it in—how much out of her league he was.

  Meanwhile, she supposed Jason would be about the same as her, both wheelchair bound, although she had the use of her arms and hands, and he didn’t. Which meant he would have had help ordering the flowers.

  Carol studied the writing on the note. It was too feminine with curly letters and a circle dotting the ‘i.’ Jason was Marisa’s patient, and the note had her stepsister’s fingerprints all over it.

  Why was she so eager to set her up with Jason? And how the heck was she going to have dinner with him if she had to cut up his meat and feed it to him?

  Something didn’t ring true. Why would any man want to have dinner with a woman who had to feed him and wipe his mouth with a napkin? It would be an embarrassing ordeal, especially at a restaurant where she was sure people would stare.

  Two paralyzed people on a date. Imagine that.

  “Either escort me to the party or see me in court.” The sharp female voice grated Nick’s ear. It was one of his former clients, a lawyer named Brianna Barrister. Not only was she spectacularly bad in bed, she also spewed bad breath over everything within spitting distance.

  Fortunately, this was only a phone call, and the air near Nick was spared of her stench.

  “You have nothing on me,” Nick insisted. “We went on a date and that was it. No contract. No legal entanglements.”

  “And you’re a lawyer now?” Brianna screeched. “You’re going to need one to keep you out of jail.”

  “What do you want? When is this going to end?” Nick was sick and tired of Brianna’s continued harassment. “What you’re doing is blackmail.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’m only getting what’s mine, and that’s you.”

  “Oh, give me a break.” Nick rubbed the back of his neck and winced. “You signed a waiver.”

  “Which wouldn’t hold up in court. I’ll say it was signed under duress.”

  “Because I wouldn’t fuck you without a waiver? Look, Brianna, you’re an attractive woman. I’m sure you can find someone else to take you to the party.”

  “You don’t get it, Nick the Dick. I have depositions from many of your clients about you. You’re a whore. What would your brother do if his entire station found out he has a whore living under his roof? Do you think they’d allow you contact with that precious new baby? Uncle Whore?”

  “You’re nuts.” Nick ended the call. He needed a new job and fast. Personal training of horny women who wanted massages and more was lucrative, but not if it meant overly satisfied customers like Brianna who would continue to hound him.

  The problem was, nothing paid as much, and the last few days, he’d been aching and congested, thanks to those children’s germs he caught playing Santa. Besides, this gig would only last until December 24th at the latest.

  Maybe it was time to try something serious. He examined his face in the mirror. Twenty-seven years old was too young for the faint wrinkles around his eyelids. Wait. What the heck? He plucked a white hair from the top of his head. This Santa thing was contagious.

  After showering and scrubbing himself thoroughly, Nick bagged the dirty beard, Santa’s hat, jacket and pants into a dry cleaning bag. He’d have to get the entire thing disinfected. Whoever said playing Santa for kids was easy was lying.

  His stomach soured and he tried to push Carol from his mind. She was playing hard to get and ignoring his text messages and phone calls. Ordinarily, he didn’t much care if an uppity female ignored him, but Carol was different.

  Carol needed more persuasion before she’d offer her delectable self up as a dish for him, and judging by everything he read online about women in wheelchairs, she probably didn’t think she was good enough for him, an able-bodied man.

  He picked up the phone and texted her, then he called her.

  No answer.

  Maybe he was going about this the wrong way.

  He stepped out of the bathroom and tossed the bag of Santa clothes in his room, then went to the kitchen where his sister-in-law was cooking dinner.

  Heather was a woman, and so was Carol. Maybe Heather could explain what was going on with Carol ignoring his calls and text messages.

  Nick grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. “Sam not home yet?”

  “Nope, safely back from the beat and doing paperwork.” Heather threw vegetables into the stir-fry.

  The two of them kept in touch every few hours by text message throughout the day. It was their way of reassuring each other that they were okay.

  “What have you been up to all day?” Nick looked for a way to segue the conversation to asking about women.

  “What’s going on? You never care how my day went unless you want something.”

  “I do care how your day’s going. Just wondering how the baby’s doing and whether you’re tired or not.” Nick bristled at the implication that he was a self-centered asshole.

  “Doing very well. Thank you very much. Baby’s kicking. My blood pr
essure’s normal. Got in my walking today.”

  Nick pulled out a bar stool and sat at the counter where the cooktop lay. “That’s great. I mean it. You’re being so healthy and walking around.”

  Heather narrowed her eyes and looked sideways at him. “You want me to talk to Rex? You got into some sort of trouble again?”

  “No, nothing at all. Except he needs to pay me more for children’s parties. I’m going to have to dry-clean my costume to keep you from catching any germs.”

  “How considerate of you.” Heather rolled her eyes and poured the sauce into the sizzling wok, coating the meat and vegetables. “Sam should be home any minute now. Can you be a doll and set the table?”

  “Sure. Setting the table’s something I can do.” Nick bumped into her while reaching for the plates. “I’ve never noticed how high everything is.”

  “You’re not the short one around here.” Heather tipped up on her toes. She was a little over five feet tall, and more than a foot shorter than Nick’s six-foot-two-inch frame.

  “I’m just thinking in terms of a wheelchair.” Nick carried the plates to the table. “How hard it would be for someone in a wheelchair.”

  “I might be pregnant, but I don’t think I need a wheelchair. Not even in the ninth month. What’s really going on?” Heather turned off the flame under the wok. “You’ve been acting weird.”

  Nick took a deep breath and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  “Uh oh. If you’re still sleeping with the clients, you’re a goner. Rex is serious.”

  “I’m not sleeping with any client. I mean, I want to, but she’s not interested, and I figured you’re a woman and you can tell me why.” Nick slid the plates across the table. He didn’t have to look at Heather to sense the huge smirk on his sister-in-law’s face.

  “Tell you why a woman’s not interested?” Heather’s voice was full of amusement. “Well, let me list the reasons. You stink. You’re stuck up. You’re an ass. You fool around. You don’t have a goal in life. You’re unreliable. You’re a man pig. Should I go on?”

  “Who’s a man pig?” Sam’s voice carried from the entrance hall as the door clicked shut.

  “Your brother, Nick. He’s having an identity crisis.” Heather floated out of the kitchen, meeting Sam halfway. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

  The two kissed tenderly, wrapped around each other, acting as if they were long lost lovers meeting at an airport.

  “Told you I’m coming home.” Sam put his hand on her pregnant belly.

  Which was another annoying routine of theirs.

  Nick averted his gaze and flipped through the junk mail.

  “Nick over here’s asking me why a certain woman isn’t interested in him, and I was giving him advice,” Heather said.

  “This I gotta hear.” Sam strode into the kitchen. Lately, with all the violence against police officers, Sam started changing into civilian clothes for his commute home. “Some woman turned you down? Unbelievable. Who is she?”

  Nick shouldn’t have opened his mouth. Now he was stuck, because Sam would never stop asking questions until he got to the bottom of it. It was what made him a great detective. There was also no point lying his way out.

  “She’s in a wheelchair. Maybe she doesn’t believe I really want to go out with her,” Nick admitted.

  “That’s all she is? A woman in a wheelchair? What’s her name?” Heather set the silverware on the table.

  “Carol Cassidy. I don’t know how to persuade her to talk to me. She hired me for a party. When she sat on Santa’s lap, I asked her what she wished, and she said for me to spend one day following around a disabled person, so I would know what it was like.”

  “Sounds promising.” Sam rolled up his sleeves and emptied the contents of the wok onto a serving dish. He also scooped the rice from the rice cooker and set it in a bowl on the table. “So, what’s the problem?”

  “She doesn’t want me to follow her around. I thought she was coming on to me, and now she won’t respond to my texts or emails.”

  “Sounds like you should leave her alone,” Heather said. “She’s not interested in you. Period. Even if your theory’s right, that she can’t believe someone like you is interested in her, it still means you should back off. Plus that is an awfully arrogant way of thinking.”

  “Why’s that?” In the book he read, that was exactly what the disabled person thought. In fact, the hero wanted to die so his love interest could have a better life.

  “Like you think you’re above her,” Sam agreed. “That you’re doing her a favor asking her out.”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly ask her out. She told me she wanted me to spend a day following a disabled person around.”

  Heather slapped her forehead and laughed. “You’re so dense it’s incredible! She doesn’t want to be the poster child for disability. She wants to be a woman.”

  “I’m not getting into this conversation,” Sam grumbled and pulled a chair for his wife. He kissed her cheek as he helped push her into place. “Let’s eat.”

  Nick sat sullenly through dinner, scarfing down his food while Heather and Sam chatted about this and that. Sam had always had a girlfriend since he first started noticing them. He was loyal and committed, and every girl’s parents liked him. Heather wasn’t his first girlfriend, but she was the one who didn’t break up with him. Sam was always the one getting dumped because he was too nice—or so everyone said.

  Would Heather, too, dump Sam someday for being too nice? Or was being a bad boy somehow overrated?

  Carol clearly didn’t like big bad Nick Wolff.

  “Thanks for cooking,” he said to Heather as he got up from the table. “It was delicious. Is there anything I can get you?”

  Both his brother and sister-in-law stared at him, eyes popping from their faces and mouths in surprised circles. They shook their heads and then went back to making googly eyes at each other.

  Sickening.

  Nick would have thought the honeymoon was long gone. Why, he’d rarely dated the same person twice.

  But look at him now, pining for a woman in a wheelchair—correction, a woman he wanted to get to know better.

  He stepped outside onto the balcony of the apartment and checked his messages. Nothing from Carol. Maybe she’d blocked his number by now.

  It was time he upped his game.

  Ten

  Carol stayed up all night working with the team in India. They were thirteen and a half hours ahead of California time, which meant their workday was her nighttime. Fortunately, she was able to work from home afterhours.

  She much preferred working with the remote team since no one there had a clue she was paralyzed below her waist. Everyone appeared as disembodied heads and shoulders in the video app, and somehow that was a big equalizer.

  After checking the software build package and rerunning the automation test suite, she yawned and pushed away from her desk. A glance at the clock told her it was six in the morning, which was around dinner time in India. Her local team wouldn’t be in until nine or ten in the morning, since most of them worked late into the night, so now would be a good time for a bathroom break and a shower.

  Carol turned toward the single bathroom in her apartment but ran into Marisa.

  “Were you up all night?” Her stepsister stepped aside to let her into the bathroom.

  “Looks that way. The meeting went on and on. I’m probably exploding.” She hadn’t relieved herself since midnight, but being a paraplegic, she couldn’t feel if her bladder was full.

  “You’re going to get a bladder infection at this rate.” Marisa followed her into the bathroom. “Also, sitting so long puts you at risk for pressure sores. Let me check you after you do your thing.”

  Pressure sores were the politically correct terminology for bedsores, since they weren’t limited to people who lay in bed all day long. People who sat in wheelchairs risked them on the buttocks, tailbone, shoulder b
lades and spine, as well as the backs of arms and legs where they rested against the chair.

  “Sure, I’ll get off my butt and take a nap after my shower, but I have to be in at work by nine thirty at the latest.” Let no one at work say she slacked off or took extra time because of her injury. Carol was the top programmer at her job and in addition to coding her own modules, she also managed the build team and worked with the team in India.

  “Only if you have the all clear from the pressure sore check,” Marisa said. “You’re working too hard.”

  “We have to get these deliverables done before the holiday shutdown. I have no time to fool around.” Carol got the supplies from her bathroom kit. She hated that it took her much longer to do things other people took for granted. Spinal injuries had a way of dragging you all the way down to the basics, and there was nothing more basic than going to the potty. Why, even a baby could go naturally.

  “Have you thought about who you’re going to the Bumblebees Christmas Gala with?”

  “Stag.” Carol wasn’t in the mood for party talk and the men talk that went with it. The party was the day before Christmas Eve, and thankfully, she was not in charge of the entertainment. She was, however, the keynote speaker since the charity she recommended, Wheelympics, was receiving all the funds the Bumblebees raised for the year.

  “How about Jason?” Marisa parked herself on the counter in front of the sink. “You should get to know him. He’s a really interesting guy.”

  “He’s also your patient,” Carol said. “It would be kind of creepy, don’t you think?”

  “Not really.” Marisa handed Carol a towel. “I’m sure you two have a lot in common.”

  “Like what? The fact we’re both in a wheelchair?”

  “Sure, and you’ll be an inspiration for him.”

  She hated the meme about paralyzed people being inspirations. For what? As if not giving up and dying were some kind of heroic act?

  “You set it up, didn’t you?” Carol glared at her stepsister. “Helped him send the flowers and wrote the note.”