Here I Am

by Rochelle Alers

  “I have everything set up for you in the bathroom except your shaving stuff.”

  Brandt threw back the sheets and, using the strength in his upper body, managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed, wincing from the effort. “There’s a razor and shaving cream in a drawer under the vanity. Please bring the chair closer.”

  It was as if whatever had passed between them the day before hadn’t happened at all. He was the patient and Ciara Dennison was the nurse Leona Wainwright had hired for his long recuperation.

  Maybe, Brandt mused, he’d come on too strong when he’d pressed Ciara about going out with him. Was he beginning to believe his own hype because he was a Super Bowl MVP? Was it because he’d had the highest quarterback rating for two consecutive seasons? Or was it because women threw themselves at him that he’d believed any woman should be grateful he’d shown them some attention?

  It was apparent Ciara was different—in appearance and in temperament—from the other women he’d gone out with. That was something he would make certain to remember in the coming weeks and months.

  The women from the cleaning service arrived minutes after the therapist, who wheeled Brandt into his home gym for his first session. Ciara retreated to the solarium to wait. She’d stripped the beds and stored the linens in hampers in the laundry room.

  She made a mental note not to have the therapist and cleaning service come in on the same day. There was just too much activity. The sound of vacuuming and people going in and coming out of rooms had upset the calm Brandt needed for his rehabilitation.

  Reaching for her cell, she dialed her roommate’s number. “Did I wake you?” she said when hearing her greeting.

  “No. I just came in from jogging.”

  “Since when did you start jogging?” Ciara asked Sofia Martinez.

  “Since Bobby invited me to go with him on his morning run.”

  “You’re dating your boss?”

  “He’s not really my boss, chica. His father is my boss. Bobby and I are coworkers.”

  “Sure. And I plan to join the circus next week,” she teased.

  “Enough about me, chica. You left me a text saying you didn’t know when you’d be home. What’s up?”

  Although she and Sofia were roommates, they rarely saw each other. Whenever Ciara had a private nursing assignment, she usually left a text on Sofia’s cell telling her she would be away for several days, or even a week or two. Sofia, who owned the two-bedroom co-op, worked as a chef in a popular Washington Heights restaurant and worked different shifts. There were times when she went in early for the breakfast and lunch crowd, and other times when she worked late for dinner and private parties.

  “I have an assignment that will last about six to eight weeks.”

  “I hope you’re going to find someone to fill in for you for my brother’s surprise birthday party.”

  Ciara nodded even though Sofia couldn’t see her. She’d committed to helping Sofia coordinate Esteban’s fortieth birthday celebration scheduled for the Labor Day weekend. “I’ll make certain someone will cover for me.” If she couldn’t get another nurse, then she would ask Leona to spend the night with Brandt.

  “How is your patient?”

  “That’s why I called you.” She told her friend about her initial meeting and confrontation with Brandt, that she’d acted inappropriately when she kissed him and his wanting to date her even though he’d said she looked dowdy.

  There was only the sound of soft breathing coming through the earpiece. “I suppose he was referring to your maternity top and bun.”

  Ciara rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to agree with him.”

  “I’m not calling you dowdy, but you need to start wearing uniforms that fit your body. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve allowed one ugly incident to determine how you dress. Aren’t you the one who’s always preaching about not letting anyone control your life? Isn’t that why you stopped seeing Victor Seabrook?”

  “You’re right, Sofia.”

  “If I’m right, then do something about it. Now, back to your patient. Do you like him?”

  “This is not about liking or not liking him, Sofia. I haven’t known Brandt Wainwright twenty-four hours and—”

  “And what, Ciara? You don’t have to know someone twenty-four hours to know there’s fuego between you. I’m online and I just Googled Brandt Wainwright, and judging from the pictures of him and other women, none of them are featuring maternity tops and buns. Wait a minute. There’s a close-up of him and I must say el hombre es muy guapo. What do you have to lose by going out with him? Maybe after one date you’ll realize you don’t want to see him anymore. And poof! It’s over.”

  She smiled. Sofia often used Spanglish when she was excited. The chef was right about Brandt being gorgeous. She’d found herself staring at him like a starstruck teen after he’d shaved. He had a strong, masculine jawline and the slight cleft in his chin was incredibly sexy.

  “Maybe I’m just overreacting.”

  “You’re probably overreacting because you’ve been in a sexual drought.”

  “It’s not about sex!”

  “¡Párelo! Stop it,” Sofia translated in the same breath. “It’s always about sex, Ciara. If it wasn’t, then the human race as we know it would cease to exist. Remember, his mother hired you, so that makes a big difference if you’re going to start with ‘I can’t get involved with my patient because it wouldn’t be ethical.’ You may be his nurse, but you’re also his companion. Flirt and tease him a little bit. I’m certain that will pull him out of his doldrums. And it’s not as if he can chase you around the bedroom in a wheelchair.”

  Ciara knew she was good for Brandt. She’d made him laugh, eat and take his medication. What she had to figure out was whether he was good for her. Could she afford a dalliance with the superstar athlete behind closed doors? And once he was able to walk, could she walk away emotionally unscathed?

  “I’m going to play it by ear,” she told Sofia.

  “That’s my girl. Always leave your options open. Be sure to text me with updates.”

  “Okay. Thanks for lending an ear.”

  “Siempre. Recuerde, we’re chicas.”

  Ciara smiled. “How can I forget?”

  “Because I won’t let you. I have to get into the shower. I’m working the lunch shift today. Later.”

  She ended the call, feeling less anxious than she had before talking to Sofia. Invariably Ciara could count on her friend to give her another perspective on any situation and vice versa. She’d been there for Sofia when she’d ended her short-lived marriage after she’d discovered her husband was sleeping with another woman, and Sofia had been there for her when she ended her relationship with Victor Seabrook. They didn’t need to see a therapist to work through their problems. They had each other.

  Checking her watch, Ciara estimated Brandt’s therapy session would end in another ten minutes. She left the solarium and took the staircase to the first floor. The sound of the intercom chimed throughout the penthouse. Pressing a button on the panel in the living room, she answered the call.

  “This is the lobby. Mr. Jordan Wainwright is on his way up.”

  Ciara hesitated. “Please send him up.”

  She wasn’t about to get embroiled in a family feud, so if Brandt didn’t want to see his relative, then let him tell him to his face. She waited in the entryway when the doors to the elevator opened and Jordan Wainwright exited. Living in Harlem, she’d read about the attorney who’d become something of a champion for the poor. But seeing him up close was breathtaking. She stared at the tall, slender man with patrician features, brilliant hazel eyes and a sun-browned face. Everything about him reeked of elegance and sophistication, from his short-cropped black hair to his tailored suit and Italian shoes. It was obvious he was spoken for when she spied the wedding band on his left hand.

  Smiling, Ciara extended her hand. “I’m Ciara Dennison, Brandt’s nurse.”

  Jordan returned he
r smile, attractive lines fanning out around his eyes, and took her hand. “My pleasure. I’m Jordan. Brandt’s cousin. Is he around?”

  “He’s with the physical therapist right now. Please come in and sit down.”

  Jordan followed Ciara into the living room, waiting until she sat before easing down on a matching chair. “I’ve been out of the country on my honeymoon, so I was unaware that Brandt had been in an accident until a couple of days ago. My aunt mentioned that Brandt has refused to see anyone, so I decided to come over and check in on him.”

  “It’s difficult for Brandt to accept that he won’t be able to stand on his own without crutches or a cane for at least six to eight weeks.”

  Nodding, Jordan crossed his legs. “My cousin has had bumps and bruises, but he’s never experienced any serious injuries. He’s also extremely competitive. Not once did he ever let me win, whether it was baseball, basketball or football. I’ve beaten him in tennis only because I’m faster on the court than he is. But he does have an awesome serve.”

  “Even with two broken legs, he’s still in quite good physical shape,” Ciara concurred.

  Jordan wanted to ask the nurse if she was speaking of Brandt as his nurse or a woman admiring his body. “Brandt works out a minimum of two to three hours a day, even during off-season.”

  Ciara stood up when she heard Brandt’s voice raised in anger. Moving quickly, she met the therapist as he followed Brandt who was maneuvering his chair as if he were in a race. She stood in front of him, stopping his progress. “What’s going on?”

  A redness flooded the therapist’s neck spreading to his thinning hairline. “I may have pushed him too hard for his first session.”

  “May have!” she shouted. “Either you did or you didn’t. If you’d read his medical history then you would’ve been known that my patient has titanium rods and nails in his tibia. Five screws were used to secure it in place, and that the fibula in his left leg was left unaffixed, but will align and heal itself in due time. The key phrase, Mr. Lambert, is in due time!”

  “I’m…I’m sorry, Miss Dennison,” the flustered man sputtered. “I’d thought with Mr. Wainwright’s conditioning he would do well with a more aggressive treatment plan.”

  Ciara narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe in two or three weeks.” She waved her hand.

  “I need to take his vitals.”

  “I’ll take them,” she responded.

  “But…but I need them for my report,” the therapist stuttered.

  “I have your number. I’ll call you, or leave a message on your voice mail.” She turned to Jordan. “Can you please escort Mr. Lambert to the elevator?”

  Jordan motioned with his head. “I think it best you leave now.”

  Ciara grasped the handles to the wheelchair and pushed Brandt out of the living room and down the hallway to his bedroom. One glance at his face told her all she needed to know. He was in pain—intense pain. He’d clamped his teeth tightly together and his face was covered in perspiration.

  She was struggling to get him into bed when Jordan walked in. “He usually gets into and out of bed by himself.”

  Slipping out of his suit jacket, Jordan tossed it on a nearby chair. Anchoring his arms under Brandt’s shoulders, he lifted him from the chair and onto the bed. “Come on, cuz. Help me out here.” Brandt’s two hundred and fifty-plus pounds had become dead weight.

  Bracing a hand on the mattress, Brandt shifted until he found a comfortable position. The F-bomb slipped past his lips when stabbing pain shot through his left leg. His eyes met Ciara’s. “Sorry.”

  She smiled. “I’ll give you that one.” Reaching for the pitcher of water on the bedside table, Ciara filled a plastic cup from a supply wrapped in cellophane. “I’ll be right back.” Brandt had mentioned a fear of dependence on his pain medication, so she’d stored them where he wasn’t able to get to them.

  Minutes later she returned with the pill in a tiny paper cup, dropped it in his outstretched hand and watched as he popped it into his mouth and washed it down with the water. She took his vitals, winking at him. “I’ll leave you to visit with your cousin.”

  Brandt smiled for the first time that morning. “Thanks.” He waited until Ciara left the room, then turned and looked at his cousin. “Marriage looks good on you.”

  “Three weeks in paradise with the love of my life says it all.”

  “So Fiji was nice?”

  Pulling a chair closer to the bed, Jordan sat. “Fiji is incredible. I never thought I’d survive without a cell phone or the internet, but after the second day I was so laid-back I’d forgotten my name and the date.”

  “How’s Aziza?”

  “Beautiful, sexy and hopefully pregnant.”

  Exhaling an audible sigh, Brandt closed his eyes. The effects of the pill had kicked in and Brandt felt himself floating outside of himself. “You guys were really serious when you talked about not waiting to start a family.”

  “We would like to have at least two children two years apart before Zee turns thirty-six.”

  He smiled. “I’m going to enjoy being Uncle Brandt.”

  “Any children we have will be your cousins.”

  Brandt opened his eyes, frowning. “I’ll still be Uncle Brandt.”

  Jordan held up his hands. “It’s okay. There’s no need to get hostile. Your nurse is rather feisty, isn’t she?” he asked deftly changing the topic.

  “Feisty isn’t the half. There are times when she’s downright scary.”

  “Your mother said you ran the first two nurses off. That’s not like you, cuz.”

  Closing his eyes, Brandt took a deep breath, held it in before letting it out slowly. “I couldn’t stand their bowing and scraping.”

  “I take it Ciara doesn’t bow and scrape.”

  “She’s like a Marine drill sergeant. At any time I expect her to order me to drop and give her fifty push-ups.”

  “I felt sorry for your therapist.”

  “He’s lucky she got in his face, because I was a minute from knocking him on his ass.”

  “Careful, cuz. You know I don’t like taking on criminal cases. Especially those dealing with aggravated assault.”

  “That’s why I rolled out of there while I was still in my right mind.” He opened his eyes. “Are you staying in the city or Bronxville?” Aziza owned a charming house in Westchester County and Jordan a maisonette on Fifth Avenue.

  “We’ve decided to live in the house.”

  “You’re commuting?”

  Jordan nodded. “I take the Metro North to One-Two-Five, then walk a couple of blocks to the office.”

  “That’s—that’s convenient,” Brandt said, slurring.

  “It is,” Jordan agreed. “But I don’t know how long I’m going to hang on to the apartment.”

  “You’re selling it?”

  “I’m thinking about it. Zee and I can stay with my folks whenever we come into the city.”

  “You guys can hang out here—that is, if you want more privacy.”

  “Thanks. When I told Kyle that I was contemplating putting the maisonette on the market, he said the same thing.” His law partner owned a townhouse along Striver’s Row in the St. Nicholas Historic District. Jordan noticed his cousin hadn’t opened his eyes for several minutes. “It’s time I get back to the office. I’ve got cases piled up on my desk.”

  Brandt tried opening his eyes, but the effort proved too much. “When are you coming back?”

  “Probably one day next week. I’ll bring Zee with me.”

  “Good. I’m not up for having a lot of people over, because I don’t want them to see me in a wheelchair.”

  “Remember, it’s only temporary,” Jordan reminded him. He stood and reached for his jacket, slipping his arms into the sleeves. He patted his cousin’s muscular shoulder before walking out of the bedroom.

  Ciara sat on the bench in the hallway, her arms folded under her breasts. She’d called the therapist, leaving the data he needed on his ce
ll’s voice mail. “Is he asleep?” she asked, coming to her feet.

  Jordan nodded. “He’s falling asleep. How is he doing?”

  “Pretty well, considering he has two broken legs. He has an appointment to see his orthopedist next week. The plaster casts will be removed, his legs x-rayed, and he’ll get ski boot-style lighter casts. He probably won’t be able to bear any weight for another month. That’s when he can begin more aggressive rehab to reverse muscle atrophy.”

  “Has he talked about missing the upcoming football season?”

  “No. But he did watch a baseball game last night.”

  When he’d heard that Brandt had been injured in an auto accident, was refusing to see anyone other than his mother and had dismissed two nurses, Jordan had prepared himself for the worst. He knew Brandt would recover physically, but he had his doubts whether he would be able to deal with the possibility that his football career was over.

  He knew that after more than ten years in the game his cousin’s body couldn’t withstand too many more injuries. Perhaps the accident would give Brandt the time he needed to decide whether he should retire.

  Smiling, he extended his hand. “Again, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Brandt is very fortunate to have you as his nurse.”

  Ciara shook Jordan’s hand. “Thank you.”

  “I told him I plan to come back this weekend. Will that pose a problem?”

  “I don’t believe so. Just give me a call before you come. I don’t want him to go from having one or two visitors to so many that he’ll become overwhelmed.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’ll call before I come,” Jordan promised.

  She waited for Jordan to enter the elevator, the doors closing behind him before she made her way to the bedroom to check on her patient. Ciara knew she had to consciously think of Brandt Wainwright as her patient or she would find herself emotionally too involved.

  She’d become a private nurse six months after she’d left the hospital, and most of her patients over the past year and a half had been elderly women, many of whom had opted to live at home rather than in a hospital.

  Brandt was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. Her gaze moved slowly over his clean-shaven face, admiring the classically handsome features—the generous mouth, cleft chin and aquiline nose. Sofia was right. Brandt Wainwright was muy guapo.