by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
“If Solstice or Wave were here . . . they’d make you do push-ups.” Her voice barely creaked above a whisper.
“The lawyer’s here and wants me to sign some time-sensitive”—he air-quoted—“documents.” He looked out the windshield as gumdrop-sized raindrops plopped onto the glass. “Give me a break. Time-sensitive. Is she transplanting a heart? Defusing a bomb?” He turned the key.
“You should go sign them,” she said quietly, because even talking made her back hurt. “It’s just my back; I’m not having a heart attack or anything. Can’t Jacqueline drive? Or Harris?” At this point she didn’t care if Wave drove.
“The papers can wait. I’m here; I’ll take you. Besides, you don’t want Harris anywhere near a hospital—he faints.” He sighed sharply. He looked at her. “Would you mind putting your seat belt on?”
“Can’t . . . twist.”
“Right. Sorry.” He unbuckled his seat belt so he could fasten hers. She tried not to move because moving hurt, and because she didn’t want any more physical contact with him than necessary, since there was already plenty of awkward between them. As he reached across her body, she desperately wished she could turn her head, but that would involve pain. His neck brushed her nose. His light stubble scratched, and she could feel the heat of his body and smell him—clean, just soap, no cologne. For that moment she forgot all about her back. He buckled her in and took his seat behind the wheel.
“Thanks. You know, if the floor . . . had been fixed—”
“I know, I know, don’t make me feel worse.”
Amanda hadn’t known he felt bad, but she liked that he did. She didn’t mention the floor on the ride to the hospital, but in between jolts of pain caused by the SUV bouncing over bumps, she recited the barn chores that had to be done if she was laid up.
In the emergency room, Grady got a wheelchair for Amanda and whisked her to the door through a downpour. The chair jounced over the threshold of the sliding door.
“Fuck!” Amanda said in a strangled voice. “Sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Grady said, then added, “How many push-ups for that?”
“Lots,” she exhaled.
She was the only patient in the small ER, so they took her before she finished the paperwork. Grady offered to accompany her, but she declined. Normally it wouldn’t have been an option since they weren’t related, but he was a celebrity and she guessed the staff would bend the rules. An X-ray and MRI later, the amenable young doctor told her she had strained the muscles in her back but hadn’t broken anything. He told her how to take care of the injury and that she could resume normal activities as soon as she felt comfortable.
“You can’t go up all those stairs to your place,” Grady said as they sped back to the house. Amanda couldn’t tell if Grady was driving fast or if it just felt that way because she was officially looped. The Percocet and muscle relaxers the emergency room doc had given her had chased the pain into the next county. “You’ll stay at the house.”
She squinted at him. “Your house?” She slurred a little.
He smiled. “That’s the one I was thinking of, yes.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine. The stairs are my friends.”
“Not today they’re not.”
Back at Aspen Creek, the sky cleared for the late-afternoon sun as Grady walked Amanda from the SUV to a guest room in the log manse. She walked slowly and looked around as she had when she’d been three and, eyes wide with wonder, saw a pony up close for the first time. She smiled goofily when she saw Jacqueline.
“Hi, Jackie!”
“I am happy to hear you will be okay,” Jacqueline said as she threw a worried glance at Grady.
He explained the “Jackie”: “They were generous with the meds.”
Grady had called Jacqueline from the hospital to bring some clothes and toiletries from Amanda’s apartment. Amanda managed to change and climb into bed, then Jacqueline brought in a huge bouquet of pastel spring flowers with a card that read:
Dear Amanda,
Sorry.
Sincerely,
The Barn Floor
Amanda smiled and thought she saw Jacqueline smile as well. Jacqueline set the flowers on the dresser next to the door so Amanda could see them from the bed.
“Room service!” Grady opened the bedroom door, his eyes adjusting to the dim room, a breakfast tray balanced on his arm. He set the tray on the dresser, then turned to Amanda. She was lying facedown on the bed, a pile of pillows under her hips. She wore a white tank top and a pair of light-blue bikini panties. Grady’s mouth went dry at the unexpected sight of her buttocks and a flat strip of smooth skin between the top of the panties and the bottom of the tank.
“Geez!” He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He whirled around so his back was to her.
“Hii-yii,” she said, her face turned away. The word had two syllables. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him.
“You’re not . . . dressed.”
“Am, too,” she said in a singsongy voice. “Ooh. Would you get ice?”
“Ice?”
“Ice pack from the hospital. With a strappy doohickey. Freezer.”
Grady retrieved the flat bag of frozen gel in a flannel sleeve from the giant freezer. Amanda hadn’t moved.
“Here.” He handed it to her, but she didn’t budge.
“Put it on my back, please. It Velcros around like a girth.” She raised her hips and grunted as she nudged one of the pillows off the bed so he could reach beneath her.
Grady wondered if he could do this without looking, because it felt wrong to look at his daughters’ riding teacher’s panty-clad bottom. He could look at the wall. No, then he’d have to rely on feel and that could get into even more treacherous territory. He thought of car accidents as he gamely reached under her body to pass the strap to his other hand. He brushed against her hip bones.
He tried to think of her as a sister. Her lower abdomen was warm and taut and then there was that firm ass of hers, too close.
He conjured thoughts of his grandmother. Amanda smelled like lilacs and hay. Was he sweating? He had seen tons of women’s derrieres in his life, many of them naked, and several of them justifiably famous. Why was he short-circuiting like this?
“That tickles.” She giggled, then wriggled.
Jesus. “Sorry.”
“Tighter.”
Great. He was grateful she couldn’t read his mind, because he was all about her hindquarters. “’kay,” he croaked and adjusted the Velcro tabs. “How’s that?”
“Wonnnderful.”
Phew.
As soon as the pack was in place, she gingerly maneuvered herself to lean against the headboard and stretch her long, pale legs in front of her. He had never seen her legs before, and they were like a racehorse’s.
Grady let out a huge sigh and switched on the lamp on the bedside table. This guest room was closest to the kitchen and the front door. It had a king-sized bed, a wall-mounted flat-screen TV, a full bathroom, and a sage-and-purple color scheme.
Amanda’s hair was tousled and her eyes were drowsy. The tank top rode up to reveal a couple inches of toned stomach, which he ordered himself not to look at.
“Hiiii!” she said again. The word rose and fell over several roller-coaster syllables. “These muscle relaxers are awesome.”
“You don’t say.”
“I’m not gonna pull a Rush Limbaugh or anything. I just feel all floaty. You brought me dinner?”
“Soup, courtesy of Harris.”
“Harris. I love Harris. He’s so cute. And he cooks. If only he weren’t gay . . . Where is he?”
“He came by, but you were sleeping. How’re you feeling?”
“You’re pretty cute, too.” She bit her lower lip.
He ignored this. “Between Jacqueline, the girls, and me, we should be able to take care of the horses. And,” he said sheepishly, “I promise I’ll replace that floor ASAP. I had Jacqueline call for
estimates.”
“Good.” She nodded vehemently, then stopped. “Whoa. Dizzy.”
“Want some soup?”
“You’re so nice to bring me dinner. So nice and sooo cute!”
He presented the tray so she could see the food. “You’ve got lobster bisque, a fresh fruit salad, and a hunk of what I believe he called ‘crusty artisan bread’—Tuscan, to be precise. Sparkling water. Dark chocolate—it’s Vosges.” He pronounced it correctly, vohj. “I had to talk him out of a get-well martini.”
“Look at you—always thinking of my liver.” She smiled.
“Among other parts,” he muttered. “Voilà.” He unfolded the little legs on the tray, placed it on her lap, and unfurled a light-green linen napkin for her.
“Sit.” She patted the mattress beside her.
“I should be going.”
“I could fall asleep and drown in the bisque.” She widened her eyes comically.
He smiled. “All right. But just for a minute.” He moved around the bed and sat next to her. Amanda smiled. She dipped her spoon into the soup and frowned, then slowly lifted the spoon to her lips and slurped. She looked like it was her first day working with spoons, bowls, and soup. She was silent for several forays, then spoke.
“Your kids like the push-ups.”
He looked at her. “That’s the drugs talking.”
She took another spoonful. “Not the push-ups per se—push-ups per se, thass funny! What I mean is, they like riding, right?”
“Okay?”
“So I’ve solved the mystery of the nannies.”
“What mystery of the nannies?”
“Why they don’t like their nannies. They like riding. You know why?”
“Wild guess, but, because it’s fun? And by the way, you are really high right now.”
“Partly because it’s fun. But they behave for me. I gotta say, I was worried at firss. Did you know Harris called me the shit? I’m the shit, Grady.” She waved a hand at him. “Kids beg their parents to get me as their trainer. And I come here and I get, ‘My horse is ugly! I’ll die if I have to brush my horse.’ So I said to myself, Amanda, you’re the shit. You teach them like you’d teach anyone else. No special treatment, even though their dad is all dreamy and a big fat star.
“Did you know I haven’t taught raw beginners since, like, college?”
Grady was staring at her, mouth open. Watching her was like watching a member of a newly discovered tribe on a remote island. He realized she was waiting for his response, so he said, “No, I didn’t.”
“I made an exception for you. For them. And they’re coming around now. But at first I thought they were spoiled rotten brats. But now I like them. They tried to pull stuff on me but I didn’t put up with it. And do you know why?”
Again, it took him a second to realize she expected an answer. “Because you’re the shit?”
“Damn straight! All you do is set some rules. Makes ’em feel like you care. When they came into my barn—and don’t get me wrong, I know it’s your barn, but you know what I mean—I told them no swearing and now they don’t swear. I juss tole them. And I carry through on the push-ups.” She paused to slip a spoonful of bisque into her hardworking mouth. “It’s basic animal psychology.”
“And my daughters are the animals?” He didn’t like this, but she was so funny right now, he wasn’t all that bothered.
“Grady, we’re all animals. It’s how our brains work. We’re all about survival. Maslow’s Ladder, you know, that hierarchy of needs thing. We’re hardwired to want safety. Food. Sex. All that.”
She had to mention sex. He was grateful the tray hid her midriff.
She continued, “And what’s with their names? Were you guys hippies or something?” She slurped more bisque. “Oops!” She giggled as lobster bisque dribbled down her chin.
“Here.” He dabbed at her chin with the napkin. “I think Annie—my wife—did it to bug my mom.”
Amanda looked dreamy and sultry all at once, even though she’d just called his girls brats and animals.
She stared at him, blinked in slow motion, and continued, “Thanks. Yeah, all you have to do is do what I did and make ’em do stuff. Rules. Responsh . . . responsblitty. Responsibility,” she finally managed, crinkling her brows in concentration. Looking back at the bowl, she carefully slid a bisque-laden spoon into her mouth. “Mmm. This is deliss . . . delshish . . . good.”
“So you don’t think I’m a good father?”
“I think you’re a hot father.”
Suddenly Amanda set her spoon down and wonderingly, gently touched his hair. She looked at it with the queerest expression of awe, like a Woodstock attendee after the acid kicked in.
“Mmm, nice,” she said softly, and furrowed her fingers through his hair, then pulled his head to hers as though gearing up for a kiss. “Sexy.” Her fingers danced on the nape of his neck. Grady found this extremely arousing and thoroughly unnerving, so he took her hand and guided it back down to the vicinity of the spoon and tried to ignore his body’s response.
“More soup?” he asked quickly.
She picked up the spoon absently. “Nah. Sleepy,” she murmured and closed her eyes.
“Hang on.” He set the tray on the floor, then took her spoon. Amanda rolled onto her side. When he turned toward her to take her napkin, she slid her arm across his abdomen and rested her head on his chest.
“Mmm,” she said.
Amanda’s breathing deepened in a matter of seconds, and she was out. Grady eased her napkin out from between them. He set it on the nightstand and looked down at her head on his chest, wavy brown hair fanned out. He was startled to find himself stroking that hair.
What the hell? She had just questioned his ability to raise his girls!
But she cared about his kids. Even more, they liked her—enough to do push-ups, even. And although she was out of her gourd on painkillers, he knew she was right about the rules he had just started setting, because he knew, so far, he’d never win any awards for parenting. At least he had begun to try, though. She had inspired him to start.
At this moment he didn’t want to think about childrearing tactics, he just wanted to be, to feel the weight of this fascinating woman’s head on his chest. He let his gaze—which, while she was conscious, was like a diabetic kid in a candy store, tempted, then thwarted at every turn—drift from her head to her shoulder, down to her waist and bruised hips, and finally along her lithe legs, which, he noticed with a wince, sported purple bruises. She already had a farmer tan from Florida—golden-brown arms up to the short-sleeves line, where her skin turned vanilla and matched her legs. He imagined this was common among riders, who wore breeches and boots no matter the weather.
He wanted to rest his hand in the valley of her waist and slide it up her hip, to mold his palm to her curves. He wanted to feel the smooth heat of her. He wanted to follow the same path with his lips. He wanted to travel even further over her with his mouth.
But these notions were out of bounds for several reasons, the first being she was drugged. Grady did a quiet, spot-on Jimmy Stewart from The Philadelphia Story: “ . . . you also were a little the worse—or the better—for wine, and there are rules about that.” Amanda stirred and snuggled into him.
There were more rules about Amanda. She was teaching his kids, and he didn’t want to screw that up. She had never shown any interest in him whatsoever. Sure, tonight she had said he was hot and was cuddled against him, but that meant nothing while she was a VIP on Planet Percocet. There would be nothing between him and Amanda tonight. Or probably ever.
Grady extricated himself from her bed with the skill of a Cirque du Soleil contortionist. He pulled the lightweight quilt up over her shoulders, which looked strong enough to handle plenty of push-ups. He set the chocolate and water on the nightstand, switched off the lamp, and whispered, “Sleep tight, Ms. Vogel.” He picked up the tray and gently closed the door behind him.
“Cin cin,” Harris said, as
he toasted Amanda. “Or should I say, ‘back back’?” He clinked her glass and sipped the margarita.
Five days after the fall, she felt almost normal, but she was still careful not to make sudden movements or bend over. She hadn’t done so many grand pliés since fourth-grade ballet class.
“It’s good to be back,” she said. “Mmm.” She sipped her margarita.
“My liquor cabinet missed you. I had to drink twice as much.”
“Poor baby. How ever did you manage?”
“I found myself wishing you’d lapse into a lengthy coma. Does that make me a bad person?”
She laughed. “I love you, too.” Since the evening was warm, they sat by the pool. Jewel-toned hummingbirds whirred and dived above them, staking territories at the feeders Wave and Solstice had hung behind the house. The sky was a deep blue as the sunbeams stretched across the patio and gilded the lodgepole pines and aspens covering the mountains. Amanda inhaled, sampling the air laden with scents of pine and wildflowers. She propped her feet on a chaise longue, leaned back, and regarded Harris.
“So, uh, did Grady ever mention anything about, um, bringing me dinner? When I came home from the ER?”
“No. Not really. He said you liked the soup.”
Her facial muscles relaxed. “It was great soup.”
She watched him fight a smirk, but the smirk won. “And how you fell asleep all snuggled up against him wearing nothing but a tank top, teeny-tiny panties, and a smile.”
Amanda groaned, closed her eyes, and let her head fall back. “Oh, God. I was hoping I dreamed it.”
“Do you remember telling him how to raise the fruit of his loins?”
“Ooh. Sort of.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. He felt so bad about you falling, he insisted on bringing you dinner. He knew you were flying on Percocet . . . still . . . you were ever so slightly slutty.”
“What?” She rocketed her eyebrows so high, they felt like they were above her forehead.