You Complicate Me
By:
Isabel Jordan
© 2018 Isabel Jordan. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s twisted imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or people (living or dead) is coincidental (and would be super-weird).
Table of Contents
Other books by Isabel Jordan:
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
About the author
Semi-Charmed
Other books by Isabel Jordan:
The Harper Hall Investigations series reading order (all books now available everywhere books are sold):
Semi-Charmed
Semi-Human
Semi-Twisted
Semi-Broken
Semi-Sane
The Harper Hall Investigations complete series boxset
Dedication
To L.E. Wilson, for what probably totaled hours of cover help and beta reading (and re-reading and re-reading). Without your support, I’d still be agonizing over font.
Acknowledgments
I’d love to say no one helped with this book and that I did it all by myself, using only my talent, wit, and skills. (Bwahahahahah!!!!) But, yeah, that’s totally not the case.
First of all, thanks to, Connor, for just being yourself. You’re a beautiful, smart, funny kid who sometimes drives me absolutely crazy, and that’s OK.
Thanks to my husband, Don. No one has done more than you have to help me achieve my dreams. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.
Big thanks to my parents for their continued support and encouragement. (Watch out for black ice!)
Thanks to the all-kinds-of-awesome Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs for my GORGEOUS cover art. Seriously, you’re magic!
HUGE thanks to Renee Wright for your eagle proofreading and editing eye yet again. You’ve preserved what little dignity I have left soooooo many times.
Thanks to LE Wilson, beta reader extraordinaire. (See dedication)
And last by certainly not least, thank you to all the wonderful readers out there who have stuck with me since 2014 when I released my first little paranormal romance, Semi-Charmed. (Extra big thanks to my peeps in the Bitch, Write Faster group! *waves enthusiastically*) Your support means more to me than you’ll ever know.
Chapter One
In retrospect, the Valium probably would’ve been enough to soothe Grace Montgomery’s nerves on the flight from Los Angeles to Indianapolis. The wine was most likely overkill.
As was the tequila.
It had all started innocently enough. “Take one pill an hour before the flight,” her doctor had told her, “and one an hour into the flight. You’ll be completely relaxed. Valium is magic, I swear.”
“The kind of magic that keeps planes from falling from the sky in a ball of fiery death?” Grace had asked.
Her doctor’s answering smirk should’ve been a warning. “The kind of magic that makes you not care on the way down.”
And she hadn’t. Cared, that is. The magic Valium had done its job.
Until take-off, at least.
As soon as the plane started rolling down the runway, as soon as she felt the rumbling of the engine in her belly, she started panicking. The man sitting next to her in seat C2, no doubt having noticed the white-knuckled grip she had on their adjoining armrest, had suggested a glass of wine, which she’d requested from the flight attendant as soon as she’d been allowed. But even though she gulped it down in two swallows, the wine was absolutely no match for her anxiety, because she soon started hyperventilating.
C2 had pressed an air-sickness bag into one of her hands, and a mini bottle of tequila into the other. After breathing deeply into the bag for a few moments, she’d unscrewed the tequila and downed it, too. One swallow that time.
Grace was nothing if not a quick learner.
It was then she’d made what she thought was a tragic error. She’d asked for a second bottle of tequila, which she used to wash down her second Valium. The calm that had quickly washed over her was amazing. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so relaxed.
And warm. She was suddenly really, really, warm. So it only made sense that she’d strip off her sweater, right?
Sadly, while she was shedding layers, she elbowed the guy next to her in the eye.
“Jesus Christ,” he’d muttered, holding a hand over one eye.
That was when she got her first good look at C2.
Maybe it was the Valium, or maybe it was the alcohol, but holy hell, he was beautiful.
His inky hair was long overdue for a trim and fell in messy disarray—the kind of messy disarray that hot men achieved naturally and women paid big bucks to a salon to fake—to just above the collar of his white button-down shirt. With his knife-edged cheekbones, strong jaw, and olive complexion, he looked like he could be Hugh Jackman’s younger brother.
Grace had watched Wolverine four times, and not because the storyline was stellar (or even remotely plausible, really). Her mouth immediately went dry. Other parts of her…not so much.
“I’m r-really sorry,” she whispered.
He lowered his hand and she winced at the elbow-sized welt forming under his eye. “Are you always like this on a plane?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Fucking crazy?”
She frowned at him. “I’m a nervous flyer, okay? Lots of people are nervous flyers.”
He shook his head and ran his hand through that amazing hair of his. “This isn’t nervous. I’ve seen nervous. You’re a train wreck, lady.”
He wasn’t lying. Didn’t make his comment any less insulting. “I’m sorry if my fear of falling from the sky and plummeting to a fiery death is inconveniencing you in any way.”
One black brow winged upward. “Fear all you want. I couldn’t care less. But when you try to blind me with your fucking elbow while you strip down to your underwear…well, that’s when I start to care.”
Grace glanced down at her white layering tank top. It wasn’t see-through. Minimal cleavage was on display. Perfectly respectable. “I said I was sorry about elbowing you, okay? And I’m not in my underwear.”
His gaze dipped down. “I can tell that you’re cold.” He smirked as his eyes met hers again. “Or turned on.”
She so wasn’t cold.
“I�
��m cold,” she said dryly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
His smirk morphed into a full-fledged grin, and Grace fought the urge to fan herself. Jesus, the grin was nothing short of panty-dropping. A smile like that should be illegal. All those straight white teeth and the dimple that carved into his cheek…it was gratuitous, really.
And his eyes? An amazing oceanic mix of blue and pale green. Men shouldn’t be allowed to have eyes that pretty.
“Let’s start over,” he said. He held out his hand. “I’m Nick. Nick O’Connor.”
She was so busy staring at his eyes—and being envious of his thick, dark eyelashes, if she was being honest with herself— that it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. She took his hand. “Grace. Grace Montgomery.”
Something akin to recognition lit his eyes for a moment, making her wonder if he knew her. Had they met before? But she immediately dismissed the thought. If she’d met this guy before, she’d remember it.
His hand was warm and callused, and dwarfed hers. Her gaze traveled from his hand up his thick forearm, exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. His biceps strained the fabric of that shirt, as well. If the arms were any indication, a muscly chest and flat stomach were a foregone conclusion.
She considered then that her judgment might be impaired. No one was this good-looking. Or else Nick O’Connor was genetically blessed in a way that was totally unfair to all other men.
Tequila goggles. She was wearing a set of tequila goggles. There was no other explanation.
He cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to his face. He let go of her hand and she fought the urge to grab his again. She knew she was an embarrassment to feminists everywhere, but there was something insanely comforting about having a big, strong guy holding her hand. If she’d grabbed him early on, maybe she wouldn’t have needed the Valium. Or wine. Or tequila.
“So, Grace,” he said, “have you always been a nervous flyer?”
She laid her head back against the seat, suddenly feeling a little off balance. “Yeah. I don’t like being closed in. Or depending on people I don’t know to fly the plane. And land the plane.”
“Uh huh. So you’re one of those.”
She frowned at him again. “One of those what?”
“Control freaks.”
“I am not a control freak.”
Was it her imagination, or had she slurred that sentence?
He gave her the panty-dropping grin again. Yep, she’d slurred.
“Whatever you say, angel.”
Being called a control freak was kind of a hot button for Grace. It was something her ex-husband never failed to bring up when they’d argued, which had been often. And the fact that this total stranger would agree with her ex pissed her off. She also took exception to him assigning her a nickname. Grace unbuckled her seatbelt and stood up to tell him so.
And that’s when her memory got a little…fuzzy.
She had a distinct memory of poking him in the chest, telling him he didn’t know anything about her. He’d told her to sit down. To calm down. She’d refused, colorfully and loudly. She’d tried to badger a man in another row into trading seats with her. The guy had refused, colorfully and loudly.
Nick had gotten in the middle of that argument and tried to tell her something about who he was, what his job was, but she was too busy yelling about…something to catch all of it.
The next thing she knew, Nick had forced her back into her seat. He might’ve also threatened to cuff her if she got into any other arguments with passengers, which seemed a little excessive. And…kinky.
“I’m sorry,” she thought he’d said at that point.
“I’m sorry, too,” she vaguely remembered responding.
Then, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she might have leaned over and puked all over his shoes. After that…there was nothing but blissful, blissful unconsciousness.
Chapter Two
Nick watched Grace through the two-way mirror in the interrogation room/holding cell at the Indianapolis airport. Her long, golden blonde hair frizzed around her heart-shaped face like a tangled halo. Those amazing moss-green eyes of hers were bloodshot and at half-mast as she rested her pale forehead on her palm. He’d be willing to bet she felt like hell.
“Grace Emerson Montgomery,” Walden Carroll said from behind him, reading the contents of a manila file folder. “Age twenty-seven, five-foot-six, one-thirty.”
Since Nick had carried her off the plane, he was all too familiar with her weight, and it was perfect. Grace had an amazing body.
“She works in LA as a corporate attorney,” Walden said. “Never had so much as a traffic ticket. Hardly looks like a terrorist, Nick.”
Even terrorists didn’t usually look like terrorists, Nick thought. And this dumbass, wannabe air marshal would know that if he’d been on the job for more than a nanosecond. Or if he’d ever been up to his ass in real terrorists in Afghanistan like Nick had.
“I know she’s not a terrorist, Walden,” he said patiently. “She was drunk and disorderly. I only threatened to cuff her to settle her down and keep her from upsetting the other passengers.”
Walden smirked. “I wouldn’t mind cuffing her.”
Nick fought a sudden urge to knock a few of Walden’s teeth down his throat. “Down, boy,” he muttered, not sure if he’d meant the comment for Walden or for himself. “I didn’t haul her in here for my own amusement.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Walden pressed the file into Nick’s hand. “I’m out of here. She’s all yours. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or then again…” He waggled his eyebrows in a manner he probably thought was provocative, but actually made him look like he had Tourette’s.
Nick didn’t glance at him, but did take the time to give him the finger. Walden chuckled and let himself out.
Looking through the file Walden had put together on Grace, he noted she was a Notre Dame grad. Impressive.
Nick was always amazed by people who possessed the mental fortitude to make it through college. He’d barely made it through high school. He’d joined the military as soon as he graduated, then from there, went into a line of work that required more muscle, skill, and instinct than book smarts.
Smart good girls like Grace Montgomery historically had little use for Jersey trailer trash like Nick. If they didn’t need a quick meaningless fuck or the perfect guy to piss off their rich daddies, Nick was accustomed to having girls like Grace look right through him.
That was okay with Nick, though. Sure, it had stung a bit when he was a kid, but he was over it now. Mostly. And besides, really smart women were often fairly complicated. Complicated women usually either came with or caused drama, and Nick had a very low tolerance for that kind of bullshit.
And once she found out why his travel plans were so in sync with hers, he had a feeling things with Grace were going to get extra complicated.
With a resigned sigh, Nick walked into the interrogation room, file in one hand, bottle of water and three aspirins in the other. Grace barely moved. Her only acknowledgment of his presence was a brief upward flick of her eyelashes. He slapped the file down on the chipped Formica table in front of her, causing her to flinch.
“Hello again, Grace.”
“Uh huh.”
He chuckled. “Got a bit of a headache, I take it?”
She lifted her head and shot him the look of death. He grinned at her, then handed her the water bottle and aspirins.
Grace fell on those pills like a starving woman on a steak dinner. “Oh, thank God,” she muttered, then tossed the pills back dry.
Nick raised a brow at her. She shrugged. “I never can twist those caps off.” She held up a slender, white hand. “Girly wuss hands.”
Yeah, he could think of a few good uses for those girly wuss hands. He could just imagine them trailing over his chest, down his abdomen, slowly reaching lower to wrap around his…
He gave himself a sharp mental slap across the face. Pull y
ourself together, man.
He grabbed the bottle and twisted the top off for her. She accepted it and took a few greedy swallows.
“Take it easy,” he said. “Don’t want you getting sick again.”
Grace wiped a drop of water off her bottom lip with the back of her hand and closed her eyes. “I threw up on your shoes, didn’t I?”
“Yep.”
She dropped her forehead to the table. “Oh, God,” she groaned.
“Aw, don’t worry about it. You’re not the first to puke on me.”
She lifted her head an inch or so. “Really?”
“Really.” When she looked relieved, he couldn’t help but add, “You were the first unconscious passenger I had to fireman-carry off a plane, though. Thanks for that. It was interesting.”
“Oh, God.”
He laughed as her forehead hit the table again. “Seriously, Grace, don’t be embarrassed. I doubt I could’ve handled two tequilas, a glass of wine, and two Valiums—and I’m eight inches taller and sixty pounds heavier than you.”
“I’m sure you’re just saying that to make me feel better, but thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She lifted her head and glanced down at herself, just then seeming to notice that her slumped posture put a healthy amount of cleavage on display. “Jesus,” she muttered. “You couldn’t have told me my breasts are on the table?”
He probably should have. A gentleman would have. But Nick wasn’t much of a gentleman, and her breasts on the table were the best thing he’d seen all day, so he kept his mouth shut.
Grace rolled her eyes. “This is why I’m off men,” she said to no one in particular.
He leaned forward. “Giving girls a try?” he asked, injecting a hopeful note in his voice.
“Ugh. No.”
“Well, that’s just disappointing.” He shot her another grin as she frowned at him.
“Am I being charged with anything?”
He shook his head. “Honestly, I wasn’t even officially on duty on that flight, and I feel a little bad about the whole thing. I shouldn’t have suggested the alcohol. Not my most professional moment, you know? I really am sorry about that.”
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