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by Clare James

  “No, short stack.” He brushes the hair off my forehead. “I told him you were in an accident, desperately wanted to start your internship tomorrow but your physician advised a few light days to get started. Hence, the plan I just outlined for you.”

  “And he wasn’t mad or irritated?”

  “Not in the slightest. I’d say his mood was more of the concerned variety.”

  “So, what time tomorrow?” I exhale.

  “Ten bells, sweetheart. Tabby helped me pick out your clothes for your first day before she left.”

  “Aww.” I can’t help the whine. “She left without saying goodbye.”

  “Oh, she said goodbye alright. She climbed into bed with you for like a half hour. See?” He holds up his phone displaying a picture of Tabby cuddling up to me while I slept.

  “We already washed your hair. I’ll help you pull it back tomorrow. And Tabby dropped off a few of these funky bags we can put over your cast so you can take a shower before I drop you off.”

  “Oh my God. You really have this all worked out, don’t you? What about the restaurant? You can’t put everything on hold for me, Foster. This job is huge for you.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell her. “I don’t go in until later on Mondays anyway. Everything is perfect. Tonight, I want you to eat, relax, and not worry about a thing. Can you do that?”

  “I guess there’s nothing for me to worry about.”

  Except keeping my hands off this gorgeous man in my apartment.

  “Okay, good. Now hush up and watch some TV or something. I’m going to finish making dinner.”

  His words warm my heart.

  Foster hums while he cooks…and dances a little. I catch his sweet ass shaking a few times, making my belly flutter.

  The door to our little fire escape balcony is open and I can smell the lavender. Crap, my poor little guys haven’t been watered in at least two days. I interrupt Foster’s ass shaking to grab a watering can for my herb garden.

  “I already watered today,” he says when I reach for the can.

  Who is this guy?

  I’m not sure, but I like him. A lot.

  “You can grab me a sprig of the lemon basil though,” he says touching my shoulders, and handing me a small dish for my harvest.

  “Okay.”

  The sun is still pretty high in the sky; we have at least two hours before it’ll set. My herbs look and smell fabulous. Foster’s taken such good care of everything. I cut some basil and bring it into him and can’t resist the urge to kiss his cheek.

  “What was that for?”

  “For being you,” I tell him. “For taking care of me.”

  “I could do this for the entire summer and it still wouldn’t be enough,” he says with sad eyes.

  “Stop.”

  He does, but still pulls me in for a kiss on top of my head.

  I set the table and Foster brings out the feast. A green salad with pear and pecans. Penne pasta with chicken and asparagus, and a bunch of other yummy stuff like rosemary bread with real butter. I’m in heaven.

  We have an incredible meal and then cozy up on the sofa and watch TV. I start to doze off within minutes. My strength still isn’t up, and I’m so thankful to Foster for negotiating a light day at my internship tomorrow.

  It’s the perfect evening. Until we get ready for bed and Foster goes into Tabby’s room. I barge in and raise my eyebrows to him.

  “Jules, you need your rest,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

  “Yes, and the best way to get that is to have you next to me.”

  “Maybe for you.” He laughs.

  “I promise I won’t molest you in your sleep.”

  “I’m not sure I can confidently agree to the same.”

  “Please,” I beg.

  “I don’t want to mess things up, J.”

  I feel guilty when I pull out the big guns—the pout. But not as bad as I’d feel sleeping alone.

  “Okay, I understand,” I say, quietly walking away.

  “Ughhh,” he yells, on my heels now.

  Yes!

  “You are messing with my mind, woman,” he says before agreeing to share my bed. I know not to push him. I keep my hands to myself, but as I’m drifting off, his arm snakes around my waist. I lift my head to rest on his bicep; it’s curled up waiting for me. Then I fall sound asleep.

  ~~~

  After needing extensive help getting dressed in the morning, I’m surprised we make it out of my apartment at all. My eyes roll back in my head a little as I think of Foster’s touch as he helped me with my bra, the buttons down my shirt, and my shoes—I couldn’t forget that. How I sat on the bed and he kneeled in front of me, grasping my foot in his firm grip, lightly coaxing it into my sandals. The way his fingertips grazed my ankle as he fastened the straps.

  I thought of many other things he could do while he was down there, but I kept those thoughts to myself.

  Foster weaves through rush hour traffic like a pro and has me in front of the D and D offices in no time. I’m almost sad about it.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I tell him. Then I lean over and whisper, “And the help with my clothes. Remember, I’ll need your assistance to take them off as well.”

  I can’t help it. I think I’m finally getting to him like he’s always gotten to me. I like it and want to torture him, just a little.

  Foster shakes his head and hands me a bag.

  “What’s this?”

  “A little snack in case you get hungry. Now get out of here. And knock ’em dead. I’ll be back at one o’clock.”

  He packed me a snack.

  I give him my most girly wave and make my way to the elevators to the eleventh floor.

  “You must be Jules,” the receptionist says when I walk in. She’s a curvy fifty-something woman with warm eyes and a sweet smile.

  “I am,” I tell her.

  “Mr. Dunham is on a call, but let me show you to your desk. I’m Rhonda, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my left hand. “I’m ready to work.”

  “So I heard about your hand, you poor thing. Are you sure you’re ready to work?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m chomping at the bit. Plus, I type extremely fast. So without this,” I hold up my right hand, “I’m still about average. There will be no issues, I promise.”

  Okay, let’s not overdo it, skipper.

  “Oh hun, I’m not worried about that. I just don’t want you working in pain.”

  We walk past a section of cubicles and a row of offices, all decorated in earth-tone colors and accented with warm wood, until we get to the end of the offices with windows.

  I follow Rhonda into a large cubical area equipped with a phone, laptop, and a ton of office supplies. The side walls are gray partitions and the back wall is open, but the inside faces floor-to-ceiling windows, looking over the city.

  “Whoa.” I want to kick myself when I let the childish word slip out. “Is this really my area?”

  Rhonda laughs and pats my back. “Sure is, honey. Mr. Dunham wanted you to be comfortable this summer. He also wanted you close to his office, which is right over there.” She points behind her back.

  Rhonda shows me how to work the phone system, gets me hooked up on the office email and intranet, then she takes me around to tour the rest of the office before depositing me in a large conference room for the Monday staff meeting.

  And that’s when I see him.

  The Viking from the other night. The guy Foster hit. The guy who ripped my tights. The guy who fell on me and broke my hand.

  Holy hell in a handbasket.

  The Viking’s eyes meet mine and grow wide. He’s wearing a navy suit and looks more incredible than he did the night at the bar.

  I feel his gaze rake over my body before settling on my cast. His eyebrows pull together and his lips tighten in a straight line. Thankfully, Mr. D. interrupts the awkward moment.

  “Jules,” he says with a handshake. “Welcome
.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “I’m happy to be here.”

  “Sorry to hear about your hand. Your friend says you had a bit of a fall last week.”

  “I did,” I say as the Viking spills his coffee all over the conference table.

  “Shit,” he mumbles as if forgetting where he is. “Sorry, Mr. Dunham. Sorry, guys.” He rushes to get a roll of paper towels in the cabinet to clean his mess.

  “Typical Monday around here.” Mr. D. laughs. “Nobody’s quite right until they’ve had at least two cups of coffee. Right, Jake?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Viking answers.

  “We’ll start our introductions with Mr. Clumsy over there. That is Jacob Magers, one of our associates.”

  The Viking has a name.

  Mr. D. continues around the room, but I’m only half paying attention. There’s a Jonathan, Joe, Carrie, Emma, Rose, Penny, and Jennifer. That’s about all I catch.

  Everyone discuss their cases and billables for the month. It’s a surprisingly warm environment.

  Too soon, the meeting’s over and it’s time for me to call it quits.

  “Jake,” Mr. D says. “Please escort Ms. Taylor down to the lobby for her ride.”

  Jake raises an eyebrow.

  “You know, carry her bags? Ask how her first day went? Typical behavior that I’d expect from an associate.”

  “Yeah,” Jake says a little dazed. “Yes, of course, Mr. Dunham.”

  Mr. D. winks and shakes his head as he walks to his office.

  At my cubical Jake holds his hands out for my stuff as I pack it all up. Reluctantly, I hand it over.

  “So, you’re an attorney?” I say to him.

  “Mmmhmm. And you’re a law student?”

  “Guilty,” I say, motioning him to lead the way out. “Break any other law student’s hand lately?”

  “Nope, can’t say I have. What about you? Boyfriend beat up any other innocent men who happen to look in your direction?”

  “Negative,” I say. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Right. Maybe you should tell him that.”

  “He’s just a friend—a protective one. You have to admit, it was a pretty sketchy scene, when you ripped my tights.”

  “Yes, I suppose it was. I’m sorry about your hand. Really. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll live. And what about your face?”

  “I’ll live. My roommate is a med student and into all these homeopathic remedies. He had me take St. Johns Wort and vitamin C and it barely bruised. See?” He leans in a little too close for comfort.

  “Mmm,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

  I break the awkward moment by walking toward the elevator. I swear I hear him chuckle behind me.

  Once we arrive at the lobby, I reach for my things, but Jake pulls them back.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “My ride should be here any minute.”

  “I can wait.” He smirks.

  “Not a good idea. My ride is the guy who almost broke your face.”

  His eyes narrow. “And your hand,” he adds.

  “Nope.” I laugh. “That honor goes to you, tough guy.”

  “Jules.” He looks a little pained when he says it. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think you know how bad I feel.”

  “Stop. It’s fine. It was just a big misunderstanding and an accident. Now hand me my bag before Foster gets a look at you.”

  And with that, Foster pulls up in front of the building in my car.

  “Nice ride,” Jake spits.

  “Thanks, it’s mine.” What an a-hole.

  “Ugh.” Jake rolls his eyes. “Today is so not my day. I just said that to insult the guy who almost broke my face.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Now hand over the bag.”

  “Sorry, Jules. I told Mr. Dunham I’d take care of you and get you to your ride, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Jake walks out toward Foster.

  Oh no you didn’t.

  In a second, Foster bolts out of the driver’s seat and walks around to meet Jake.

  “What the fuck?” Foster is now in Jake’s face.

  Again.

  I speed up and grab my bag from Jake’s hand. He’s too distracted to stop me.

  “Foster,” I say stepping between him. “Jake works at D and D.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Jake leans around me, extending his hand to Foster. “Small world, eh?”

  Foster just stares at the hand.

  “He’s helping me with my bags,” I tell him.

  “I’m sure he is,” Foster snaps. “Here, Jules, get in.” Foster takes my bag and opens the passenger door before securing me in with the seatbelt like a child. It’s more than mortifying.

  “I’ll take it from here, Jake.” Foster brushes past him.

  I wave out the window at Jake, but when Foster pulls away, I punch him in the arm. Hard.

  “Geez, Jules.” Foster rubs the point of pain. “What the hell was that for?”

  “For acting like a caveman, you moron.”

  “Me, acting like a moron? Shit, Jules. I can’t believe you have to work with him all summer.”

  “It’s fine. He’s not a bad guy. Friday night was messed up—for everyone. Can we forget it and start over?”

  “I don’t think we can,” Foster mumbles.

  “Please, Foster. Don’t fuck this up for me. I need this internship and I don’t need to rock the boat with any of the D and D staff.”

  Foster tilts his head to the side, obviously hurt at my words.

  “I’ll play nice,” he says. “I’ll never fuck things up for you again, Jules.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say, guilt lancing through my chest. “That’s not what I meant.” I rub my head, exhaustion taking over.

  Foster reaches his arm around my shoulders to pull me in for a kiss. “It’s fine. Rest, it’s been a long day.”

  I lean back and let my eyes close for a minute.

  “Hey, not yet.” Foster tickles my side. “You need your meds and lunch, and it just so happens I have both waiting at the apartment. Your favorite,” he teases.

  “Chips and dip?” I ask, opening one eye.

  “Better,” he says. “Grilled cheese with bacon and tomato soup.”

  “Your tomato soup?” My mouth is already watering.

  “You know it.”

  Don’t I ever. Man, I could so get used to this treatment.

  My heart clenches knowing when our time runs out, I’m going to be in a world of hurt.

  Chapter 16

  Foster

  That smug, preppy ass mother fucker. It appears I’m going to pay for an entire lifetime of bad karma this summer. I mean, how the hell am I supposed send her off to work every day to that guy?

  Jake—what kind of name is that anyway? Pretentious. That’s what kind of name it is. And perfect for Jules.

  Don’t fuck this up for me, she said. I’m starting to think she meant more than the internship. Maybe she meant the guy too. Christ knows how many of her relationships I’ve sabotaged in the past for my own selfish purposes.

  I look at her sleeping in the bedroom now. So peaceful, beautiful. Perfect. Maybe she really does belong with a Jake. The two of them could be attorneys, live in the burbs, pop out a few kids, and have a great life. Better than anything I could offer her.

  Everyone thinks I’m a fuck-up because of the drinking, the drugs, the women. But I don’t have a problem with any of that stuff. It’s guilt, distraction, weakness…it’s also helped me stay away from Jules, or at least to stop our relationship from taking the course we both want it to. Because if I did that, Noah would tell Jules that we were only dating a few weeks before I cheated on her. With my best friend’s girlfriend. He’d say I’m a lowlife who doesn’t deserve her.

  He’d be right.

  ~~~

  The next day I hold it together. It’s pretty damn impressive if I do say so. I get Jules off to work in the mo
rning and pick her up in the evening without any comments about the douchebag. We share stories about work, eat dinner together, and fall into an easy pattern. A friendly pattern, of the platonic sort.

  I may not be happy about that, but living with Jules is about as good as it gets. I’m learning all kinds of new things about her. Things I never knew, like she brushes her teeth like seven times a day, she’s incredibly passionate about recycling, and she only watches the news on PBS, which she tells me is the only reliable source of information.

  And when she’s not completely doped up on pain medication, she needs to read to fall asleep. Her bedside table is piled with books. Everything from mystery and romance to sci-fi and classics. Last night she was having a hard time propping up her worn paperback of Gone with the Wind.

  “I read it every summer,” she told me.

  “How do I not know this?” I asked her, floored there was so much I didn’t know.

  “Because I am a deep and complicated soul?” She grinned.

  “You’re something,” I countered.

  “Here.” She shoved the book in my face. “Read to me?”

  Reading a book was one thing I never expected to do in bed with Jules. But I did it. She curled up next to me and I read all about Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler. I read until her breathing slowed. I read when her eyes finally fell shut. And then I read some more just because.

  I loved every second.

  Chapter 17

  Jules

  “You work too hard, Jules,” Mr. D. says, walking into my cubicle.

  I’ve been putting the finishing touches on an important brief and it’s taking longer than I would like, with the typing one-handed and all. So I plan to eat lunch at my desk and bring work home in the evening to keep up.

  Actually lunch is the favorite part of my workday. Foster sent me off with a brownbag this morning with a ridiculous name on it. It proudly reads: Miss O’Hara. What’s inside is even better: a turkey, pear, and brie sandwich with homemade kettle chips and a very large and orgasmic-looking brownie.

  “Well, I’m still a little slow with this.” I hold up my hand for Mr. D.

  “Not your fault,” he says. “And this is an internship, it’s not like we’re paying you millions. You are more than we could ever hope for this summer, a perfect fit for D and D. Anyway, I wanted to pop in and tell you that and to take it easy.”