Out of the Ashes

by Lauren Giordano

  "Sounds like they have their hands full."

  His brain was getting fuzzy. There was something—he should be worried about. The baby. Sick. "How sick?" He lifted his head.

  Shannon shrugged. "Sounded like a cold. Nothing to worry about," she reassured. "But their little girl has it, too."

  "Hannah," he mumbled. His sweet, wild girl. "She loves me."

  Her chuckle washed over him, heating his skin, making it prickle where she'd touched him. He was about five seconds from begging her to come back to bed. Hazy images flooded his brain. Of how he could make love to her. If they were careful . . . Shannon could climb on top- Her breasts in his hands as she took him all the way inside. Her beautiful, scented hair surrounding him, choking off the oxygen to his brain-

  "I'm sure you hear that from all the girls."

  "Only the ones related to me," he admitted, his voice strained as he forced the erotic images from his brain. Her smile faltered when he shuddered violently in the battle to regain some semblance of control.

  "Curt—you okay? Are you feeling sick?"

  Releasing a frustrated sigh, he closed his eyes to the sudden concern in hers. Her beautiful, honest, expressive eyes would read the raging lust in his. God—what was wrong with him? He wanted Shannon more than he'd ever wanted anything. Air. Food. Forgiveness.

  "What's the other one's name?"

  Confused, he blinked to bring her back in focus. Her soothing voice had an immediate effect. His frustration drained away, leaving him bone-weary. Exhausted. "Other what?"

  She tugged the empty soup mug from his grasp. "Niece or nephew? You have Sean and Hannah-"

  "Hannah has brown eyes. I love brown eyes." He sighed. "They're so . . ."

  "What about the third one?" Her voice sounded amused.

  "Third what?" Curt's grin felt loopy on his face. Meds were definitely kicking in now. Even the racket inside his knee had subsided. Third . . . something. Baby. "Little Curt. He's almost three."

  "They named him after you?" She gave his fingers a friendly squeeze. "What an honor. You must be so proud." Releasing his hand, she moved back to his knee. "We should probably get back to bed. Your brother will be here around eight so I can head into the office."

  "That's not necess-" Curt held his breath when she lifted his leg from the mountain of pillows. But, she was careful . . . setting it gently on the bed. "I can't put you—out like this. I . . . I'll be fine by myself."

  "How's that feel?"

  "Fine," he dismissed the question. "Shan . . . I can't let you do this."

  "We'll discuss it in the morning. For now, I need you to pay attention."

  He opened his mouth to argue, but the effort to form sentences was suddenly too much. The damned pain pills were muddling his brain. "Okay."

  She rewarded him with a smile. "We need to keep it elevated, but if you want to use the bathroom, this is how we're going to do it." Shannon launched into an explanation that basically meant he couldn't touch the floor with his braced leg. No weight. Frowning, he remembered the surgeon had said two to four weeks, depending on what he discovered during the procedure.

  "How long? What did Doctor Sullivan find?"

  "The surgeon's notes indicate no weight for two weeks. You'll have to ask Travis for the details."

  Heck, two weeks were better than four. It was finally starting. His recovery. No matter what the pain was like now, it would only get better. Day by day, he would regain mobility. He would regain his life.

  "So, you can get around on the crutches, but don't rest any weight on it." While she talked, Shannon slid an ice pack under his leg. "It probably hurts behind the knee, too."

  Startled, he nodded. "How'd you know?"

  Her gaze shifted back to his, her eyes so comforting, he imagined he could see the velvety depths, despite the dim light. "Sometimes there's an incision back there, if they worked on the meniscus . . . but lots of people feel pain behind the knee, even without an incision. The nerves in your leg reacting to the surgery."

  Curt yawned, trying to concentrate on her words, but they were starting to blur together. After assuring her he didn't need to use the bathroom, she carefully raised his leg until his foot was propped like the king at the peak of a pillow mountain. Adjusting the ice packs on his knee, she was finally satisfied. "Still want your applesauce?"

  His system took a hit when her whispered voice slid along his nerve endings, but it was a completely different pain from the one behind his knee. Painful in an addictive way. "I'll take a rain check." Smothering a sudden chuckle, Shannon tucked the sheets around him. Despite his stupor, Curt noticed her gaze studiously avoided his chest. When had he taken his shirt off?

  "You'll be safe from the frogs this time?"

  Mellowed by the pain meds, he offered her a sleepy grin. "Yeah, but if they visit you, there's plenty of room here." He patted the space beside him. "I'll protect you."

  "G'night, Curt."

  His eyelids drifted down on the sound of her laughter trailing through the hall. Nearly asleep, he dragged her pillow closer—not because he needed it, his drugged brain rationalized. The comforting smell would help him rest. And keep the frogs away.

  "HOW'S THE PAIN, BRO?" Travis grabbed his crutches as Curt carefully dropped down on the couch. Avoiding his brother's prying eyes, there was no escaping the agonizing, pulsing pain. But after six days, he was willing to do just about anything to get out of that bed. Even if it meant hobbling through the house like a ninety-year-old. He was dripping with sweat by the time they reached the living room, light-headed with exhaustion from the side trip to the bathroom to brush his teeth and terrified he'd inadvertently hurt himself—or mess up his knee and undo the surgery.

  "Great. Twenty feet and I'm already whipped." How could his pain be worse now than the night the anesthesia wore off? He held his breath as his brother swung his leg up. But—exactly as Shannon had taught him, Travis slid the pile of pillows into place before lowering his foot to rest on top. He should've known his perfectionist brother would get the instructions right. When the icepacks were safely in position, he released a relieved sigh. Gritting his teeth, he eagerly accepted the pills his brother handed him. "This is ten times worse than the other surgeries," he admitted.

  Travis pulled up a chair near the couch. "I've sensed that since we brought you home. This one seems way more complicated than the others." Picking up the remote, his brother started scrolling through the channels. Hell—were sports even on at nine in the morning?

  "Shannon warned us it would be bad-" His brother turned to glare at him. "Unlike you."

  "This is my fifth surgery." He tugged a hand through sweat-dampened hair. "Dr. Sullivan warned me, but I sort of . . . didn't listen. I thought I could handle it alone."

  "My brother, the idiot."

  "Look how this has turned out." Curt's temper flared. "You're here every day. You run a frigging gazillion dollar business . . . and instead of being there, you're stuck here with me. MaryJo has had to change her day around to accommodate babysitting me in the afternoons." He shot his brother a warning look. "And my new assistant, who I barely know . . . is stuck spending the night-"

  Travis shrugged. "You could do worse. She's pretty hot-"

  "She's here out of pity," he ground out, cutting him off. For the last twenty-four hours, he'd been itching to exercise some of his mounting frustration. Punching Travis would feel so damned good right now.

  "How's it going with Shannon?" His brother paused in his channel surfing. "Is it awkward that she's your employee?"

  Awkward? It was bordering on catastrophic. "It's going about as well as can be expected." She was seeing him at his worst. Well—almost his worst. Most nights were torture. The physical pain was bad enough, then toss in the body aches from being in one position and he was miserable. Add to that, the mind-numbing boredom of being trapped in his bedroom. Even the move to the couch this morning felt good. Sure, it had hurt like a bitch to get there, but the pain had been worth it. Bec
ause it was finally something different.

  "I don't think we could've done this without her."

  Forcing his expression blank, Curt nodded. "She's been great. Super professional." Unfortunately. No more short shorts in the middle of the night. "I guess I'm lucky she was a nurse, too."

  Travis shot him a look. "You'd better give her a big-ass raise when you get back to work. She's exhausted."

  "Don't worry, I'd already planned-" His brother's words suddenly registered. "What do you mean?"

  His brother shrugged in that stupid way he had—like he knew something, but wasn't talking. "She's starting to look a little . . . rough in the mornings."

  "Rough? Like . . . is she tired? Is she sick?" Concern flaring, he shifted against the pillows, trying to sit up. "Is she alright?"

  "Let me get that for you." His brother stood, moving to the couch. Shoving him forward, Travis crammed the pillows down behind his back. "That better?"

  "Could you push me a little harder next time? I don't think I have bruises there yet." When Shan did it, his pillows felt great afterward. Ignoring his brother's eye roll, he settled back against the lumpy pile. "What's wrong with Shannon?" She was always gone by the time he woke. He'd hear stirring—and try to stay awake—hoping to catch a glimpse of her before she left. But, by the time his drug stupor wore off, it was always Travis or MaryJo.

  His brother shrugged. "You know—she looks a little stressed. Is she getting any sleep here?"

  Curt scratched his chin, grimacing at the stubble. Damn, he should've shaved while he was in the bathroom. "Probably not much," he acknowledged. "She's a total control freak about the schedule. She gets up the first time anywhere between midnight and one. And then again at four or five."

  "Sounds like a newborn schedule—except then she's going in to Four Seasons to log another ten hours."

  "Damn." Travis was right. She was burning the candle at both ends. After six days, she was probably nearing zombie status. "I should be okay at night from now on. I'm starting to get myself around pretty well." Ignoring the raised eyebrows, he scowled. The last thing he wanted was to exhaust Shannon.

  "Dude—you need a shower after crutching twenty feet," he pointed out. "The meds make you dopey as hell. You get dizzy in like four minutes-"

  Curt held a hand up. "Okay—I get it." He'd tried to stretch the pain meds so she could sleep longer, but his damn knee wasn't cooperating. And Shannon seemed to have a sixth sense when he lied about his pain.

  "Shannon says we need to do it for another few nights. Six or seven, tops."

  "Seven? More?" Christ—that was double what he'd already endured. And he was barely holding onto his sanity. The moment she entered his house, he could smell her. Smell her. No matter where he was. No matter where she was. Like he was some sort of animal in the wild. Hunting prey.

  "MaryJo really likes her. She wants to invite her for dinner once this is all over." Travis paused in his rapid-fire channel flipping.

  "Dinner?" What exactly was going on while he was sleeping?

  "Yeah . . . Mojo says she's pretty funny. She wants to thank her for helping us out."

  "She works for me," he pointed out. "I'll take care of thanking her." Jesus, it was all he could do to fake being polite and cheerful around her every night. When all he wanted to do was push her up against the wall and kiss her senseless- If he had legs that worked.

  "Try telling my wife that." A flash of amusement crossed his face. "You sure know how to pick the pretty ones." Curt bristled immediately, knowing there was something more his brother wasn't saying.

  "Spill, Asshat. What do you think you know?"

  Travis glanced up to the ceiling. Then, at the stupid morning talk show he'd inadvertently paused on in his search for a rerun of last year's football playoffs. Anywhere but at him. "So—you're into morning chick shows, now? Give it up, Trav—right now. If I get off this couch, I'm going to pound you-"

  "As if." His brother cracked up over his expression—which had to be fuming or frustrated or a seething combination of both. "Okay . . . so, Mariela says you've been talking in your sleep during your afternoon nap."

  "I do not nap." He started to defend himself. "It's the meds-" Reading Travis' awkward expression, Curt stilled. Holy shit—the nightmares. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been free of them—the worst dreams he'd ever known. His heart suddenly pounding, he knew he wouldn't be able to fake a nonchalant expression. This was it. His worst fear realized. The damned surgery had splayed open his entire life to public scrutiny. Helpless. Bed-bound until today. Needing others to assist him with the most basic tasks. It was the ultimate invasion of his privacy.

  Yet, none of that mattered compared to being discovered. His worst fear had always been anyone—especially Travis, learning about his nightmares. It was bad enough that memories of the accident tortured him. But—for others to know, too. He repressed a shudder. To . . . feel pity for him. It made his skin crawl. Damn it—he wanted his life back. He'd long ago made peace with the dreams. Enduring the hell he'd created was one thing. Explaining it to others was an entirely different matter. Releasing a carefully casual sigh, he schooled his expression. "What do you think you know?"

  "MaryJo says you talk about Shannon. A lot."

  Relief flooded him. Nearly shaking with it, he feigned interest in adjusting his blanket. Admitting he had the hots for Shannon would be way easier than talking about his tortured dreams. "You've seen her—what's shocking about that?" Forcing himself to meet his brother's knowing gaze, he figured a little dose of belligerence might throw Travis off his scent. "Big deal. I can't do anything about it. She works for me. She's taking care of me. If those weren't good enough reasons—there's the pretty obvious fact she doesn't see me that way." Which was perhaps the single most frustrating part of wanting her so badly. Shannon didn't notice. "If those hundred reasons aren't enough—there's more. I can't move-" He ticked them off on his fingers. "I can't walk. I can barely go to the bathroom alone." Beyond irritated, he eased back against the pillows. "You said it yourself—I'm stuck with her for another week."

  "Bro . . . chill out. If it's that bad, I'll start staying here nights. We can tell her Hannah's better-"

  Curt didn't know which was worse—his brother's eyes flaring with a sudden knowing compassion for him? Or the thought of giving up Shannon for the next week. "I'm fine," he insisted. "She'd only launch into her I'm-a-nurse speech and I'd have to come up with reasons why we were changing everything."

  Travis winced. "Yeah—she's pretty good at that."

  Releasing a frustrated breath, Curt realized it felt good to confess it to someone. The desperation he felt when she was in the room. Even if it meant making light of the gnawing tension he experienced whenever she was near him. "I just need to keep it from her for another week and I'll be good."

  Travis looked doubtful. "If you're sure. But—just to warn you, when I fell for MaryJo, there was no keeping it from her. Your defenses sort of . . . fall apart." His brother stood and stretched. "I'm gonna go make coffee."

  "I'm not falling for Shannon." Despite his annoyance, curiosity got the better of him. "What do you mean?"

  His brother waved his hands as though after all these years, he was still baffled by it. "She was the one thing in my life I never knew I needed."

  "Dude, I just barfed a little." Seriously? The idiot was starting to sound like a tampon commercial. "Trav—it's not love I'm feeling for Shannon, okay? Think lower."

  "That's how it starts." His brother's gaze narrowed, as though honing in on a weak spot he didn't know about.

  Curt raised a hand. "Forget I asked. Go make coffee."

  "It was the weirdest, best thing that's ever happened to me," he muttered. "I went from not even knowing she existed . . . to suddenly realizing I couldn't exist without her."

  Releasing an exasperated sigh, Curt sank back against the pillows, wishing he could be anywhere else. "Did you even try?"

  He smirked. "Yeah. Good luck with
that."

  "How long?"

  Travis was silent for several moments. "Before or after I finally admitted it to myself? In my gut—I knew after about two weeks. But, I fought it for at least three months," he emphasized.

  "And MaryJo put up with that?"

  "What do you think? She told me off—big time." A momentary ghost crossed his face, his smile fading as he remembered something. Curt couldn't recall a time since their childhood when he'd seen that expression of vulnerability. But it was there—in his eyes.

  Curt had been five. Shirley was screaming at him, backing him into a corner where he would be unable to escape her fists. Travis had jumped in, protecting him from their mother's wrath— her insanity. Taking the blame for something he'd done. Something a five-year-old had done. Like—how bad could it have been? In a normal house, his transgression would've been cute. Harmless. He thought about the stuff Hannah pulled on Travis. Funny. Something you'd laugh about and remember fondly. In Shirley's house, they were worthy of beatings. One from her, and then another when the stepfather du jour arrived home from work.

  As he'd cowered behind his brother, Trav had blocked her punches. At eleven, he was nearly as tall as their mother. Lashing out, she'd screamed that Travis was worthless, he would always be worthless. Curt had never forgotten his expression. The bleak emptiness in his brother's eyes as the light snuffed out. That look had stopped Curt cold, the terror of realizing his big brother might not be as strong as he always acted. The knowledge that Shirley might hold the key to breaking Travis. And if that happened—what would become of him? It had been a powerful lesson. To keep out of sight. Hide everything. Don't make waves. And to seal off his heart and mind from the psychotic bitch who'd birthed them.

  Forcing the troubling vision aside, Curtis struggled to remember what they'd been talking about before he'd drifted into his drug-induced flashback. Oh, yeah. MaryJo. "So, what happened?"