by Robin Kaye
After only a few mishaps, she’d folded his laundry and stacked it on his dresser. She was just glad she wasn’t going to be there when Fisher and the guys got in. Suzie Homemaker she wasn’t.
***
Fisher spent the better part of eight hours in surgery, playing operation with the victim of a donorcycle crash. He had no problem with motorcycles—hell, he had one of his own, but he did have a problem with people too stupid to wear helmets and protective gear. In an accident between a tractor trailer and a motorcycle, the bike always lost.
He showered, dressed, and left the hospital determined to go home and get some sleep. Unfortunately, his car seemed to have a mind of its own. Before he even realized it, he was parked down the street from Jessie’s house. He sat there thinking about his grandfather’s accusation that he was hiding behind his stethoscope. He’d been dead-on, as usual. When he’d almost lost his patient on the table, he decided to stop wasting time. He was going to get Jessica back. He didn’t want to live without her.
When she stepped out the front door and ran for the sidewalk, it was as if the sun came out and shone down on her. He smiled for the first time since she’d left, and it matched the smile on her face. But instead of turning toward him, she ran straight. Fuck, she ran straight into the open arms of Andrew. He picked Jessica up, spun her around, and set her down. Andrew threw his arm around her shoulder, her arm settled naturally around Andrew’s waist, and together they walked into the house. She was happy, and Fisher was wondering if he’d live. He was crushed worse than that biker had been. Jessica James was his Mack Truck.
Fisher’s hand squeezed the steering wheel so tight that he was surprised he hadn’t dented it. The pain took his breath. It was as if he’d been stabbed through the heart.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but eventually one of the neighbors gave him a dirty look. He threw the Beemer in gear and headed home. Alone.
***
“Andrew!” Jessie ran out the door and threw her arms around him. “What the heck are you doing here?” The idiot had called her from the street. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it. It’s just one less fight we’re going to have.”
“We never fight. Why are we going to fight?”
“Because you’re not gonna like what I have to say.”
Jessie took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders, before wrapping her arm around Andrew’s waist. “Well, if we’re gonna have a knockdown, drag-out fight, we better get the tequila out.” They walked through the door, and Jessie headed straight to the kitchen. She reached for the tequila and two shot glasses, while Andrew grabbed the limes, oranges, and lemons and cut them into regimented wedges. “I went to the grocery store and bought the fruit all by myself. Fisher would have been so proud to see me in the produce aisle. He thought I didn’t know where it was.”
“Salt or sugar?”
She’d never seen Andrew so damn serious. He had actually lined up the wedges. “You tell me.”
“Sugar.”
She blew out a relieved breath, licked the web of flesh between her thumb and pointer finger, and sugared it. “I’m ready.”
Andrew handed her a shot. “You’re a hell of a writer, damned hot too. I was reading a chapter at Wendy’s, and the sex was so hot I couldn’t leave until the tent in my pants deflated. I was late for a meeting.”
She licked her hand, tossed back the shot, and grabbed a piece of orange. “Heaven.”
Andrew followed her, preferring the lime over the orange—there was no accounting for taste.
“Next?” Damn, one shot, and she was already feeling the buzz. She tried to remember the last time she’d eaten.
“Sugar.” Andrew poured, which was a good thing, because she’d been all thumbs lately. “Adrian, our agent, really loved the partial you sent her.”
“I already knew that.”
“Yeah, but I’m trying to get you tipsy, so go ahead and drink anyway.”
“Okay.” She licked the sugar off her hand and poured the shot down her throat, chasing it with a sweet orange. “I love getting my five servings of fruits and veggies this way.”
“Sugar.”
“Andrew, I haven’t been eating much lately. I’m definitely getting tipsy.”
“Good. A couple more shots, and we’ll switch to salt.”
The two of them licked and slurped their way through the tequila and an entire orange.
“Salt.”
“Damn, I wuth afraid of that.” She salted her hand and waited for the ax to drop.
Andrew poured the shots. “I don’t think you’re writing fiction, Jessie.”
“What?”
“Take the shot, and I’ll explain.”
Jessie had to concentrate on her aim. Damn, she was getting skunked. The salt wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the sugar had been. She drank then sucked on a lemon. Her lips were numb. “Okay, shoot.”
“I don’t think you were writing fiction.”
“You jusht said that.” Andrew looked fuzzy. “Of course, I was writing fiction.”
“No, sugar.”
“Great. We’re back to oranges.”
Andrew shook his head and came around beside her. The next thing she knew, he was walking her down the hall. “Sugar, you didn’t write Jenny and Seth’s story. You wrote Jessie and Fisher’s story.” He kissed her cheek in front of her bedroom door. “You need to get some sleep. I have a stop to make. I’ll be back in a flash though.”
“Hmm? I’m not tired, I’m drunk.”
“Yes, you are.” He helped her to bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “I’ll see you later.”
“Promise?” It was as if the curtain fell. The film was cut. Her world went black.
***
Fisher peeled away from Jessie’s—make that Andrew’s—house and sped home feeling like the world’s only living heart donor. He was mentally and physically exhausted and wasn’t looking forward to another night of trying and failing to sleep on the couch. He needed to just grow a pair of balls and change the sheets on his bed. He’d been avoiding it, because the sheets had still held Jessica’s scent, and in his sick mind, he seemed to equate smelling her to having her. After the loving reunion he’d just witnessed, he didn’t think even his subconscious mind would buy it now.
Fisher walked into his house and did a double take. Maybe he had really lost his mind. When he’d left the house a few days ago, he wondered if he’d return to find it condemned by the health department, and now it looked as if a cleaning tornado had come through the place.
Maybe the entire last week had just been one long, nasty dream, and any moment now, he’d awaken next to Jessica and make love to her.
He scratched his head, kicked his shoes off, and saw his knitting with Karma’s Dr. Who scarf sticking out. Shit. That reality meant he was definitely living this nightmare.
Fisher pulled his shirttails out of his pants and unbuttoned it on the way down the hall toward the bedroom. He closed the blackout shades, tossed off the rest of his clothes, and turned down the somehow freshly made bed. At this point, he couldn’t care less who’d cleaned his house and changed his sheets; he was just happy he wouldn’t have to prove he had the balls to do it himself. He lay down, grabbed Jessie’s pillow, held it to his chest, and did his best to pretend it was her.
Sleep came slowly, but it came, until the banging at the door awoke him. Damn, Fisher opened his gritty eyes and remembered where he was—in his bed, alone, and someone was banging on the door like a madman. In the darkened room, Fisher grabbed a pair of shorts from his bureau, tugged them on as he ran, and threw open the door. Fisher stared at the man he’d seen kissing Jessica, and for the first time, really regretted taking the Hippocratic oath. The “do no harm” part stuck in his craw. Without that line, Fisher could break the guy’s legs and then fix them.
“Nice shorts.” Andrew looked as if he were holding back a laugh.
“Don’t tell me you actually let Jessie do your laundry?”
“Do you really want to go there?” The sound of Jessica’s name coming from this guy made Fisher want to take the binder Andrew held and shove it right up his ass. “I’m working on maybe six hours of sleep in the last three days. You’ve taken your life in your hands showing up here. You’re either brave, stupid, or you have a death wish.”
“Right now, I’m leaning toward stupid.”
Fisher left the door wide open, not really caring what Andrew did, and headed to the kitchen. He needed coffee if he had any hope of dealing with his replacement without committing murder.
Andrew was right about being stupid. He followed Fisher into the kitchen and set the binder on the bar. Fisher put on a pot of coffee, leaned against the counter, and crossed his arms to keep from reaching over the bar and throttling the man. “Do you want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here? ’Cause I gotta warn you, if you’re here to gloat, you won’t be leaving without the help of paramedics.”
“I’m not a patient.”
“Yet.”
Andrew shook his head, and then looked into Fisher’s eyes. “Let’s cut to the chase, Fisher. You don’t like me, and believe me, after what you’ve done to Jessie, I really don’t like you. But this isn’t about me or you, it’s about Jessie. She’s my best friend, and I love her too damn much to sit by and watch her suffer when I can do something about it. I want her to be happy and after reading this,” he said and shoved the binder toward Fisher. “Even a blind man can see you make her happy.”
“What is it?” Fisher took the brown manuscript binder and opened it. Call Me Wild, by Jessie James.
“This is her book? It’s finished?”
“No, it seems she’s missing her research partner.” Andrew rubbed his forehead. “Look. I just drank the better part of a bottle of tequila. If you want me to continue this discussion, it would help if you poured me some of that coffee you just made.”
“Sure. Have a seat.” Fisher filled two mugs and passed one over to Andrew, who took a sip. Fisher took pity on the guy, dug a water out of the refrigerator, and slid it across the bar. “You might want to drink that too.”
“Thanks.” Andrew stared at the water bottle, picking the paper label off, while Fisher watched. Andrew appeared to be fighting an internal war and losing.
Andrew raised his gaze to meet Fisher’s. “Read the manuscript. Jessie drank as much as I did, but she hasn’t eaten or slept in days, so it hit her pretty hard. She’s at home sleeping it off. She won’t be up for a few hours at least.” Andrew took a deep breath and a sip of coffee. “Shit. Maybe I should have stuck with tequila.” He rubbed his chest. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mumbled almost to himself and then squared his shoulders. “I’m warning you. If you hurt her, Fisher, they won’t find the pieces of your body.”
“I love Jessica. I’d never hurt her, but she said I was temporary.” Man, just saying that word made his chest ache.
Andrew nodded and then met Fisher’s gaze. “Yeah, I know.” He patted the top of the manuscript. “Read this, and you’ll see there’s nothing temporary about you. Jessie’s my best friend. We’ve never been anything more than best friends. Don’t make her choose between us—it will hurt her, and it might just kill me.”
Fisher nodded. “This conversation never took place.”
“Okay, good.” Andrew stood and swayed on his feet. “Someone has to be there when Jessie wakes up. Is it going to be you or me?”
“Me.” Fisher picked up the manuscript. “Thanks… Jessica’s really lucky to have a friend like you.”
Andrew stood straighter, his eyes piercing Fisher’s. “You take good care of her, and don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t.”
“Okay.” Andrew’s shoulders slumped. He set his coffee down and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
Andrew turned. “Hell if I know. LA, I guess.”
“You can stay here. There’s a guest room upstairs. Besides, you can’t leave without saying good-bye to Jessica.”
“Fine, but you better get over there. I don’t want her waking up alone.”
Fisher threw on a shirt and shoes and grabbed the manuscript. He was out of the house in no time flat. He let himself into Jessie’s house and went to check on her. Man, was she a sight for sore eyes. He sat beside her and brushed the hair off her face. Her eyes blinked open and shut.
“Fisher, you’re here,” she mumbled and curled around him.
“Hey, darlin’, I heard you had too much to drink.”
“I had fruit.”
“That’s good. I’ll be right outside if you need anything. Okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
It was beginning to get dark, so Fisher left the bathroom light on and the door open, in case she needed to make a run for it.
He picked up the manuscript and read. The girl could definitely write. The story was engaging, the characters were well-rounded, the emotions were high, the sex was smokin’ and eerily familiar, and the fear Jenny felt every time Seth told her he loved her was palpable. She’d been terrified. If Jessica’s backstory even remotely resembled Jenny’s, well, shit…
When Jenny told Seth he was temporary, he couldn’t have explained how he’d felt as accurately as Jessica had. It was as if she’d crawled into his mind and took up residence. She knew him. She loved him, just like Jenny loved Seth. When he’d read what Jenny’s next week was like without Seth, his heart broke all over again.
And to think Fisher had thought it was hard to be on the receiving end of that conversation. It didn’t compare to the horror that Jenny had felt—the guilt, the fear, the loss that she knew she’d brought on herself.
He left the manuscript on the table. It was after midnight, and Jessica was still sleeping. From what Jenny had been through, he surmised Jessica hadn’t been able to sleep any better without him than he’d been able to sleep without her. He went to her, slid under the covers, and pulled her into his arms.
Chapter 20
Jessie shot up in bed, and her hand went to her head to keep it from exploding. What the hell had happened? She’d dreamt that she’d spent the night in Fisher’s arms. It had seemed so real, she could swear she still smelled him. But he wasn’t there, and her bed looked like a bomb exploded in it—signs of a restless night. Still, except for being extremely hung over, for the first time in a week, Jessie felt rested. She figured tequila was good for something.
Gingerly, she slid out of bed and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and cringed. The dark circles under her eyes made the rest of her face look even paler than she suspected the nausea did. She opened the door, and the scent of coffee drew her to the kitchen.
“Andrew, from now on, we are not doing sugar.”
“You should probably lay off the tequila instead.”
Jessie looked up and swore she saw Fisher sitting in her kitchen. The sun shone through the window at his back. “Fisher?” She put one hand on the wall to steady herself, the other on her pounding head, and closed her eyes. Breathe. God, now her eyes were playing tricks on her. Maybe she was still dreaming. After all, the man before her was dressed completely in cotton candy pink. Her Fisher never wore pink, well, not that she’d ever seen. When she opened her eyes again, he was still there, pink shorts and all. “Nice shorts.”
He stepped toward her. “It’s a long story. I was just about to bring you coffee.”
She reached out and touched his face, the stubble rough against her fingers. “You’re really here.” Her eyes sprang a major leak, and her hand trembled. She thought he nodded, but it was hard to tell through the flood in her eyes.
“A little birdie told me you had a bad case of writer’s block and still needed your research p
artner.”
A rush of blood roared through her ears. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck. She covered her mouth and ran, slamming the bathroom door behind her, before making a two-pointer into the porcelain hoop.
She washed out her mouth and splashed her face. God, could she be any less attractive?
“Jessica, are you all right?”
She couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever. She opened the door, peeked out, then shut the door again and leaned against it. He was still there looking worried.
“You should sip water. It will help.”
Nothing was going to help. Fisher was here in her house—okay, Andrew’s house—on the other side of a bathroom door, sounding as if he cared. Everything she had rehearsed to say to him flew out the proverbial window as soon as she laid eyes on him. She’d imagined so many make up scenarios, but none of them had involved puking.
“Jess, darlin’, open the door.”
She took a deep breath and turned the handle. She’d have to get through this. She’d apologize and hope for the best. If he never wanted to see her again, that would be fair. She looked into those green eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t think I could feel much worse after what I said to you when I left. I was cruel and mean, and well, I was scared ’cause I felt… Anyway, I didn’t mean it—any of it. I’m sorry.”
When Fisher didn’t say anything, she glanced up from wringing her hands. Fuck. She was becoming her mother.
He looked at her in the same way a doctor looks at patient when he has bad news. All concerned and seriously stone-faced. She did not want to hear Fisher’s bad news. She already knew what it was. He wasn’t taking her back. He didn’t love her anymore.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and went to the bedroom, opening her closet, and pulling out her bag. “I can’t stay here. Everywhere I go reminds me of you. I can’t go to the Albertsons. I can’t run. I can’t go to Humpin’ Hannah’s. I can’t even go into Starbucks. I told Steph I made a mistake taking the job. God, some blonde came through the drive-thru with your cup, and my eyes leaked. I just want to go home.”