Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “Well . . .” She watched his eyes, pushing down a memory of the last time when she’d nearly panicked at the thought of her landlady seeing his car. “Taking me home means I can invite you in for coffee. And dessert.” She smiled despite a tiny tremble. This all felt so cosmically surreal. She might as well continue the roll. “I baked cookies.”

  27

  “CHOCOLATE CHIP,” Sloane said, carrying the rooster-embellished plate into the living room. She hoped Micah couldn’t hear the doubt in her voice; her first solo baking attempt had been far more challenging than anything she’d encountered in the ER. Thirty-two years old and never claimed a batch of cookies that didn’t begin as a plastic-wrapped tube of grocery store dough. Zoey Jones, pink hair and chutzpah, had nailed it: “You don’t look like the cookie-baking type.”

  Sloane set the plate on the orange crate coffee table next to mugs of coffee, trying not to think of Zoey and Paul in this space. Or her continued uneasiness regarding both. “Here we go,” she said.

  “My favorite. And homemade,” Micah said, lifting one from the plate. His eyes met Sloane’s. “You did this just for me?”

  “Well . . .” She’d made them for Piper first. Asked her to be an official taste tester of the first batch. It hadn’t gone well, though it had almost been worth it to hear the precocious six-year-old’s struggle with diplomacy.

  “You tried really, really hard . . . but these are horri-bull.” Celeste came to the rescue, correcting Sloane’s clueless use of baking powder instead of soda.

  “I had the time,” she said with a shrug as Micah raised the cookie to his lips. “So I thought why not whip up a batch.” She made herself take a breath. “No big deal.”

  “Mmm.”

  She smothered a sigh of relief. His expression validated Piper’s second batch thumbs-up. Both thumbs—and crumbs on her chin.

  “These are great. Only better if you sit down here with me.” He laughed as Marty hopped from the arm of the couch onto his lap. “With me and your cat.”

  The cat Paul threatened and . . . No, stop this.

  Sloane reached for Marty. “Come here, pest.”

  “Much better,” Micah said as Sloane sank onto the couch beside him. Marty shot them a miffed look and sprang to the floor, tail flicking. “I appreciate your inviting me in, Sloane. I respect your privacy. And that maybe it’s awkward because of the hospital.” He glanced toward the darkened window. “Because your landlady’s a former employee. And—”

  “Jerry Rhodes,” Sloane finished.

  Micah smiled. “We might as well take out an ad.”

  “Right up your alley,” she teased, still turning his we around in her head. Her heart. Scary and wonderful. Maybe a sixty-forty split toward scary but . . . “Or a freeway billboard. You could arrange that.” She waved a hand in the air. “‘Sloane Ferrell baked cookies for Micah Prescott.’”

  “Yeah . . . right.” Micah’s voice sounded tentative. “I should probably tell you that you’ve been nominated for the Face of Hope.” He watched her expression. “I figured you’d react that way.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, hating that reality had poisoned things again, bitter as the baking powder in that first batch of cookies. “Take my name off the list. Please. It’s flattering, but I’m not comfortable with that kind of thing. You’re right about what you said before. I like my privacy. I need it.”

  “And I happen to think you’re a perfect candidate. But I don’t want to spend any of our time together hashing that one out. So no worries.” He lifted her hand, kissed it. “You won’t be getting a copy of the essay questions.”

  “Questions?”

  “Fiona’s suggestion. A couple of key questions designed to reveal a little more of the personal side of our nominees. Like ‘Outside your work, what do you consider your true passion?’ and ‘If it were possible, what one important thing would you say to your younger self?’ Something like that—I’m still working on it.”

  Sloane’s stomach shivered. What would I say to my younger self?

  Micah had no idea how that question struck home. But for the first time ever, Sloane wished she could let it all out. And trust she wouldn’t be judged, viewed only as the sum of her mistakes.

  “Although—” Micah reached out to trace his fingers along her jaw—“at some point folks are going to figure out we’ve been seeing each other. You know how hospitals are.” He smiled. “It would probably look more than fishy if suddenly your face, your name—” Micah stopped, his forehead creasing.

  “What?”

  “It’s just . . . I meant what I said about respecting your privacy. But HR sent employee records over for the nominees.”

  Sloane’s heart stalled.

  “On your initial application, it listed your name as Wilder.” Micah’s brows scrunched. “I couldn’t help but wonder about that.”

  Sloane broke the gaze, reached for her coffee. Her mouth was going dry. Breathe.

  “What’s that all about?” Micah asked, something in his voice saying there wasn’t wiggle room here. He expected an answer. “You changed your name?”

  “Yes,” she said, setting her cup down before it spilled. “I did.”

  Micah waited for Sloane’s explanation, battling a twinge of guilt. She’d baked him cookies and now he’d started an inquisition? Still, this was too important. He’d begun to care for Sloane. Maybe more than he was willing to admit. But he couldn’t invest in any more sketchy relationships.

  “I wasn’t married, if that’s what you were wondering,” Sloane told him.

  “No,” Micah denied with a rush of relief. “Well, maybe.”

  “Never married.” She picked up her coffee again, lifted her chin. A defensive posture he probably deserved. “Wilder was my father’s name,” Sloane explained. “Not my mother’s.”

  He reached for his own coffee. “So you changed to your mother’s name?”

  “I . . .”

  The cat made a noise in the kitchen and Sloane glanced away; if she’d answered his question, he hadn’t caught it. But it made sense she’d take her mother’s name. Especially since her death had been such a traumatic one. Micah had opened his mouth to clarify that when Sloane spoke again.

  “I guess I needed to feel like I was starting fresh,” she explained. There was something in her voice that sounded both courageous and little-girl lost. It grabbed his heart. “Haven’t you ever felt that way?”

  “I . . . Yeah,” he said, thinking of the year after Afghanistan. Maybe he’d have changed his name from Prescott if it offered a way out of that hopeless black hole. If God hadn’t found him first. “I know that feeling.”

  “Micah . . .” Sloane’s eyes glistened with tears. “I wish a lot of things were different. That I was someone different, but—”

  “Don’t,” he said, reaching for her. “Sloane, don’t.” He drew her close, his palm against the back of her head. He pressed a kiss on her hair and tightened his arms around her. Her face, her chin, fit perfectly against his neck. Her lips, silky and warm, grazed his skin. “I don’t want anyone different, Sloane. I want you just the way you are. You’re gutsy and strong. So caring . . .”

  Her sigh was half shiver. “You don’t know me. Not everything.”

  “No. And there’s plenty about me you don’t know yet.” Micah stroked her hair. “We’ll learn about each other a little at a time. That’s the best part. Taking the time to do that. There’s no rush.” Despite his earlier concerns, Micah knew he meant that. He cared too much to press her any further right now. “I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed her ear. “Unless you toss me out—and I’ll fight that. Maybe on a billboard that makes me look like a fool.”

  Her laugh tickled his neck. “Creating a traffic jam on the 405.”

  “Like, totally.”

  Sloane laughed again, then leaned back to peer up at him. Her inky lashes were damp, dark pupils wide
against the incredible violet-blue. Her small smile, like a slice of sun peeking through rain clouds, stole his breath. It only got worse when she rested her palm against his face, thumb stroking his jaw, soft against rough.

  “I know about you,” she said, barely above a whisper. Her eyes searched his—a longer connection than she’d ever allowed before. “You’re exactly who you seem. Smart, loyal, honest. So much integrity and so little ego.” She shook her head. “I was wrong about that. I wasted a good rant. Or two.”

  “Hey, wait . . .”

  “No.” She touched a finger to his lips, endangering his breath again. “I’m not finished yet. You’re devoted to your family. You’re a good friend. You work hard and give LA Hope your best. In your spare time, you go into the streets and risk your hide and your heart to—”

  “Enough,” Micah insisted, grasping her hand. “Or I’ll have to jog in slow motion again.”

  “No.” She laughed. “Please don’t.”

  “Deal.” He pressed a kiss into her palm. “No more talking about me.” He slid his arms around her. “In fact, talking can be overrated in general. So maybe . . .” He hitched her closer, bent down, and nuzzled her neck; her pulse fluttered against his lips. “Maybe we should—”

  “Yes.”

  Sloane’s arms were around Micah’s neck within the space of a breath, her lips finding his. It was a kiss very much like the woman herself, a perfect mix of tender and passionate. It stirred something in Micah he’d never felt with any woman. That she’d taken the lead only excited him more. He responded to what she began, encouraged by a breathless murmur as his kiss deepened. He drew her closer as her fingers twined into his hair and her lips parted slightly, soft and sweet—an encore of the sugar and chocolate. He leaned her back, wanting the kiss to never end, to never let her go. . . .

  Sloane drew away, opened her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips just-kissed rosy. She looked crazy beautiful but . . .

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No.” Her voice was a breathless whisper. She slid her arms from his neck, made a small, modest adjustment of her dress. Micah immediately felt like an idiot. Was Sloane worried that he might try to take advantage of the situation?

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, meeting his gaze. A laugh rose. “Just forgot to breathe.”

  “Right. Breathing—good point.” Micah smiled, relieved by her laughter. The last thing he wanted was to come on too strong and scare her. “And I’m the one who said no rush and all those things about taking time.”

  “You did.” Her expression made his heart ache. Sweet but nervous, whether she admitted it or not. “But I kissed you, remember?”

  “Hard to forget,” he admitted, chuckling low in his throat. He reached out and gently brushed her hair away from her face, tucking a silky dark strand behind her ear. Then he traced his thumb along her brow and slowly over—

  “It’s . . .” She flinched slightly. “It’s from the accident.”

  “You mean this?” Micah touched a fingertip to the fine, pinkish scar beside her eye.

  “Yes . . . the scar.” Something in Sloane’s voice said that this moment, much more so than their passionate kiss, had moved to an intimacy she wasn’t prepared for. She drew in a slow, halting breath. “The car accident in San Diego.”

  “Were you badly injured?” There was concern in Micah’s voice.

  “I was,” Sloane breathed, realizing she’d opened herself up to something far more reckless than kisses that led to a walk down the hallway. She’d put the brakes on that, but how much could she let him know without her new life becoming hopelessly unraveled? “I ended up in my own trauma room. Then the OR. Twice.”

  Micah’s eyes widened.

  “Ruptured spleen. Then while I was in the intensive care unit, I hemorrhaged again and went into shock.”

  “You could have died.”

  “Yes.” What would he think if he knew how close she’d come to wanting the mercy of death? Because . . . I deserved it.

  Micah’s warm fingers were gentle on her face again. “And your eye?”

  “The windshield or rearview mirror, maybe.” Memories came back, sharp as shattered glass. The unrelenting and unbearable pain in her belly as she lay on the gurney, sightless because of the saline-soaked bandages over her eyes. Those surreal moments she’d been a patient, not a nurse. And heard the awful truth from the lips of a teammate: “None of this would have happened if you’d been responsible enough to find yourself a twelve-step program.”

  “They thought I’d lose vision in that eye,” she continued, reaching up to touch the familiar scar. “There was an ophthalmologist in the OR, but the damage wasn’t that bad after all. They stitched up the lacerations and told me to see a plastic surgeon later. But I haven’t. Because . . .” Sloane hesitated.

  “You moved here to LA,” Micah said, supplying a plausible excuse for the delay. “And you had to get settled and begin work.”

  She nodded, letting it ride. He wouldn’t understand that the scar was a necessary reminder of what she’d done, who Sloane really was. If she ever forgot, she only had to look in the mirror.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Micah said, cradling her face between his palms. He touched his lips to the corner of her eye. “You’re beautiful just the way you are—for who you are.” He kissed the tip of her nose and then grasped her hands again. “It reminds me of something my aunt would always say. I think she worked it into song lyrics somewhere. Let me think. . . .”

  Sloane waited, comforted by the feel of her hands in his.

  “It was something like ‘We see our scars and our flaws . . . God sees the child he’s always loved.’”

  “Do you . . . ?” Sloane’s throat tried to close off. “Do you believe it? That it doesn’t matter what we’ve done? That it’s all forgiven? Just like that—a slam dunk?”

  Micah studied her for a moment. “It’s what I learned,” he said, “what I’ve been told as long as I can remember.” His lips quirked. “I don’t know about the slam dunk part. I leave that for basketball. We’ve always called it grace.”

  She made herself smile at him despite the tremble starting deep inside her. She’d begun to feel so much for Micah, but she didn’t want to talk about this.

  “You don’t believe?” he asked.

  “In the concept of grace?”

  “In God.”

  It suddenly seemed foolish to have worried about her newly acquired moral scruples. Micah Prescott wanted far more.

  “Ah . . .” Sloane reached for her coffee; it was lukewarm and she didn’t care.

  “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

  “Not really,” she hedged after taking a sip. Sloane reminded herself she’d survived a major accident. Though right now a car over a cliff paled in comparison. “I think I told you that a couple of years before my mother was killed, I went to live with my godparents. I was almost sixteen and sort of a mess.” She shook her head. “No sort of about it. I was a hopeless mess.”

  Micah’s silence encouraged her.

  “It was my first real experience with church,” she explained. “It was important to them. And they were important to me. So . . .” Sloane’s attempt at a shrug was sabotaged by a heart cramp; she’d never known such a true sense of family. There were times she felt the loss of it like phantom pain from a severed limb. “I was baptized—I think I told you that, too. The whole, complete soppy-hair dunking.”

  Micah smiled.

  “And,” Sloane heard herself say, “I felt good about it. About God. But . . .”

  She caught herself. What was she going to say? That she’d trusted the Almighty to turn her life around? She’d begun to believe it was possible until she’d reported inappropriate advances by a popular youth group leader. And it all turned on her again. The isolation, judgmental looks, and cruel whispers of “a girl like that.” Her godparents stuck by her even to the point of leaving their church home.

  “I believe i
n God,” Sloane said finally. Firmly. It was the truth. “But I’m not so sure about forgiveness. Your one-size-fits-all grace. I can’t believe everyone gets that.”

  “Because of your stepfather.”

  Plus all my mistakes afterward . . . Grace doesn’t fit me.

  “I can understand that,” Micah said, kindness in his eyes. “How forgiveness would be hard, considering.”

  Sloane’s breath released in a soft sigh; she’d leave it there and let Micah think this was all about Bob Bullard. Anything more would risk this fragile new beginning with a man unlike any she’d known. She wanted that. Needed the way Micah made her feel. Almost as if the scars, even the secret ones, really didn’t matter.

  “Hey, you,” he said, drawing Sloane into a hug. His arms wrapped around her, strong and sure. She nestled her cheek against Micah’s shirtfront and heard the soft thudding of his heart. His lips brushed her hair as he spoke. “I put you on the spot there, I know. But I appreciate your honesty.”

  Honesty?

  “Really,” he said, stroking her hair. “I think it’s important that we always—”

  His phone buzzed, sparing her.

  “It’s okay,” Sloane insisted. “Check your phone. Are you on call?”

  “No,” Micah told her, resentful of the interruption that moved her out of his arms. “That’s probably Coop wanting me to shampoo the cats while I’m there.”

  Sloane laughed. “I’d let you practice on Marty, but . . . Seriously, check the message. I’ll freshen our coffees.”

  He watched her walk toward the kitchen, then pulled out his phone. Coop’s text, as usual, was in all caps like a newspaper headline for the Rapture:

  MINING GOLD. NOT STOPPING TO SLEEP. NEED 2 MORE DAYS. DON’T DIE OF ENVY.

  Micah shook his head. Coop would always be Coop. He’d never stopped harassing Micah for leaving journalism to “sell out and become a corporate front man.” Always chiding that Micah would be “battling middle-age spread, gout, and paper cuts” while Cooper Vance penned his acceptance speech for the Pulitzer. He tapped in a quick response, hit the Send button, and then stared at the phone for a moment.