The Accidental Human

by Dakota Cassidy

  Why yes, yes it had.

  Jesus and all twelve apostles.

  She tried to clear her brain of the cobwebs that crowded it after such a peaceful nap and think of a way to save her pride. “I mean, especially seeing as you’re officially my best new recruit ever. We can’t have you all jacked up in the hospital.” He looked torn, as if there was something else he had to do. She could see the wheels of his razor-sharp mind turning. He was hiding something.

  What? A girlfriend? A wife? Kids? Bodies?

  Wouldn’t that just fucking figure. Of course someone as brick shithouse as Heath would have at least a girlfriend. One he could go home to and make color wheels for while they lounged their perfectly honed bodies on sheets of silk while sipping champagne from fluted glasses. If he had a wife, his application hadn’t indicated as much. He’d checked off single. But that still didn’t mean he didn’t have a friend of the female persuasion whom he belonged at home with.

  Heath’s face took a sudden turn in expression, brightening, as if he’d cleared up whatever mental war he was having. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Wanda hopped out of the car without saying anything else, yet there was that ridiculous flutter in her stomach again. She placed a hand over her belly and clicked her garage door opener, pushing open the door that led to the kitchen.

  Menusha hurled herself at Wanda, winding her tail around her ankles and meowing with a loud whine. Just as she stooped to gather her up, a sharp pain assaulted her lower abdomen, piercing and hot. The very same sharp jab that had sent her to the doctor to begin with.Wanda stumbled, dropping Menusha and biting her lip to keep from gasping. She clutched the countertop for support until the pang eased.

  Heath was right behind her, his warm palm on her lower back. “You okay?”

  Wanda immediately popped upward, grimacing at the tug to her belly when she tried to stand erect. “Yeah, too many sit-ups, I guess. Must have pulled something. I’m fine, just give me a sec to catch my breath.”

  Menusha howled again, stalking the kitchen floor as Heath flipped the lights on. He bent and picked her up, his long arms encompassing her dark body. She burrowed against his chest, and he scratched her under the chin. “Ya hungry?” he asked her. “Where’s the food? I’ll feed her.” He dropped a hungry, howling Menusha to the floor with a gentle plop and headed for the pantry.

  Jesus Christ in a miniskirt he was getting harder and harder to stay irritated with when he was so thoughtful. “Pantry,” she gritted out, tugging her coat off and reaching beneath the sink for her hot water bottle. Lately, that seemed to offer a modicum of relief.

  A lightly bronzed hand grabbed the bottle from her while the other sprinkled some dry cat food into Menusha’s bowl and plunked it down in front of her. His confident hands flipped the tap on, testing the water to see if it was hot enough. “Go sit,” he ordered.

  “I can get it.”

  “Sit.” His order was like that of the first time she’d spoken with him on the phone—commanding in a sit up and take notice kind of way.

  Wanda was too tired to protest, too embarrassed to say much at all. Instead, she plunked down in the kitchen chair, sliding her heels off and wiggling her toes.

  Heath handed her the water bottle without a word, but his face held questions she had no intention of answering. Especially when he stared at her like that. It alternately unnerved her and sent rushes of heat on an APB throughout her body. Taking it from him, she smiled her thanks and laid the warmth across her belly.

  He dragged a chair out and sat down beside her. “That must’ve been some workout.” His comment rang skeptical to her ears.

  Wanda looked down at her feet, grateful that even in the dead of winter she’d thought to have a pedicure. “Yeah, I forget which one it was.Tae Bo, hip-hop, break dance your way to a flatter belly, or something along those lines. It was brutal. Really brutal.” Heath hadn’t stopped staring her down. In fact, if it were possible, his intent gaze had become more concentrated. God, she was the crappiest liar.

  He was clearly unconvinced. “I see.”

  No. He would never see. Not if she had anything to say about it. “I’m okay now. Let’s hit that paperwork, huh?”

  Heath leaned back in the chair, crossing his long legs at the ankles, the muscles of his thighs bulging, clenching, and unclenching as he did. He was so at ease with his body, so comfortable in his skin, making him so much sexier. “Why don’t you go lie on the couch, and I’ll make you some tea or something?”

  “Because really, I’m fine, and we have a ton of paperwork to do.”

  His face grew stern, the hard planes freezing in place. “You know, Wanda, I’m not buying that you’re fine, but I won’t meddle in your business.”

  She shot him an ironic smile. “Unlike me, all prying and getting personal, you mean?”

  A chuckle slithered from his lips at the truth in her words. “Very much unlike you. And I can take care of the paperwork. All I need is your sign-off on the sales receipts. Should be easy enough. Now, just point me in the direction of the stuff I need, and I’ll make you that pot of tea.”

  She rose, sorry she’d done it so quickly for the gnawing ache in her belly that grabbed her intestines, leaving her skin clammy and her head swimming. “Above the cabinet, and thanks.” Plodding off to the couch, she slid onto it, wincing as she settled in and repositioned the water bottle.

  Heath followed behind her, flipping the TV on to the news. “You rest, I just want to see how much snow they’re predicting.” Heath took the knitted afghan her mother had made her from the back of her couch and draped it over her.

  The dim light from the kitchen left her face in the shadows, but the bright glare of the TV allowed her enough light to watch him undetected.

  No matter how condescending, how utterly, unashamedly confident he was, no matter how much it tweaked her, seeing him standing over the back of her couch, engrossed in the news, made her heart do backflips.

  Goddamn, he was sexy. Hard, and lean, and . . .

  This absolutely, in no uncertain terms, had to stop.Why he had this effect on her left her uncomfortable.

  It would only make this strange working relationship more difficult, if she let thoughts like the naughty ones she was having overrule her better judgment.

  Not to mention, she shouldn’t be pursuing anything but an attorney and a will. She could only attribute this odd pull to him to her vulnerable state. No man had affected her like this—not ever. Not even the dick she’d married and been dumped by.

  Her lashes fell to her cheeks while she forced herself to take a deep breath and relax. Maybe she could pawn Heath off on that bitch Linda Fisher. Linda had never minded stealing recruits or accounts. She’d once stolen Marty’s accounts, and she’d been punished for it, but Marty’s good heart, and Linda’s divorce, had made Marty give her a second chance. Linda was good at what she did—even if she was a viper.

  Heath would be better served by someone who wasn’t going to up and bite the dust on him. She should have never taken on the task of training him, knowing what she knew about her own personal affairs. But her curiosity, his strange determination, and okay, his hunkiness, had gotten the better of her. If today were any indication, Linda Fisher’d put flowers on her grave every week, once she realized how gifted Heath was at selling Bobbie-Sue.

  Yeah. That’s what she’d do. She’d call Linda and offer her up a piece of man-cake.

  “HEY, Wanda. Why don’t you go to bed?”

  Ahh, that delicious voice, coming from those lickable lips. Like the ice cream in à la mode, melting over warm pie. The last sinful dollop of calories. She stretched, still not fully awake. The sag of the couch beside her and the scent of Heath filled her nose. But she didn’t want to open her eyes.This was nice—very nice. Her stomach didn’t ache, and she was fabulously warm beneath the blanket.

  “C’mon, wake up,” he cajoled, silky and smooth.

  Her eyes opened in slow increments, Heath’s face filling h
er vision up with its rigid planes and taut skin. “You can’t be comfortable here. I just wanted to be sure you were okay before I left.”

  “Did I fall asleep again?”

  He nodded, his gaze still concerned. “I think I’ve worn you out.”

  Oh, if only that statement had to do with designer sheets and a box—no wait, maybe two boxes of condoms. “What time is it?” she whispered, sleep still enticing her back to its haven.

  “Eleven, and I have to hit the road.”

  Shit. It was late. She’d slept nearly four hours. Oh, God. Her fingers went instantly to her mouth. Had she drooled?

  Wanda sat up, turning to catch what the weatherman said. Pictures of the highways and outlying roads covered in a thick blanket of snow flashed on the screen. “You can’t drive in this. Look, just stay here tonight. You can have the couch. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to my brand-new selling machine or your—yourYugo.”

  He was close—she’d hadn’t realized how close until she sat up. When his mouth, enticing, lip-smacking good, was only an inch from hers. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.” His voice held an odd, husky quality to it, but it wasn’t the normal range of husky it usually had.

  And was she sure? Don’t be silly. You can’t let the man go out in this. Just get up off your wanton ass and go to yon room, then lock the door and handcuff yourself to the bed. No worries. His virtue was safe with her. “Of-of course I’m sure. It’s terrible out there . . .”

  “It’s pretty bad,” he agreed, still not moving, the air between them becoming less easy for her to intake.

  “Bad . . . very bad.” She should get right up off this couch now and run screaming to her bedroom, but his breath on her face, his eyes piercing hers, was killa mesmerizing.

  Who leaned in first, eliminating the tiniest of space between them, she couldn’t say. In retrospect, though, she knew she’d hope it wasn’t her. Because desperation was sooo not attractive.

  One minute they were talking about the weather, the next, their lips were connected, and a white-hot bolt of sizzle snapped and crackled, wending along every nerve ending she owned. Her nipples tightened, and the space between her thighs had a jolt it hadn’t felt in a long time. Longer than she cared to admit. Some sappy Barbra Streisand song that sounded like “Evergreen” began to play in her head, and behind her eyelids, unicorns were jumping over a bright rainbow.

  His mouth, warm, inviting, as demanding as he was, caught the edge of her lower lip and then covered hers, evoking a breathy sigh from Wanda. That brief connection came and went, when Heath broke the spell. “Not a good idea,” he said, and again, she couldn’t tell if the regret she heard was because he didn’t find her attractive or because he regretted it had to end.

  In one swift motion even her vampire friend would find impressive, Wanda shoved the blanket off her and jumped up off the couch. Her voice shook, as did her legs. “Absolutely not. So let’s add something else to our list of things we should just forget. Like you forget I’m a nosy B word—”

  Heath remained on the couch. His stoic presence when she felt so out of control jarred her. “What’s a B word?”

  Her sigh was ragged, her cheeks uncomfortably hot. “Bitch—you know? I try not to swear. Forget it. Anyway, you forget I don’t know how to shut my yap, and I’ll forget . . . well, I’ll just forget. How’s that?” She didn’t wait for an answer, fully aware she was rambling. Wanda waved a hand in his general direction. “You go ahead and take the couch.There’s another blanket in the hall closet if you need it, and I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. Night,” she tacked on with as much cheer as she could muster, so he’d think that mere moment—so brief it didn’t even count as a real kiss—was no big thang.

  On feet that wasted no time getting from point A to point B, she flew into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Her eyes slid closed, bright lights and color flashed behind her eyelids.

  Hell’s bells.

  Tracing a finger over the outline of her lips, she trembled, squeezing her eyes shut to fend off the visual of Heath’s face just before they’d kissed.

  It was the best almost, sorta kiss she could ever remember. He’d elicited all sorts of raging emotions by what most would consider absolutely nothing. He’d made her libido sing a chorus of hallelujahs with just a brush to her lips.

  And that brought to mind another pathetic notion.

  She was going to die, and she’d do it having experienced only her ex-husband’s less-than-expert attempts at lovemaking. That meant she’d never get to experience all the stuff Nina and Marty talked about all the time. Like multiple orgasms and whatever the hell riding cowgirl was.

  She’d never experience the “You just haven’t had sex with the right man, Wanda” deal. Because she was never going to find the right man.

  Ever.

  She was going to die and not have wonked in over three and a half years.

  Jesus. What a rip-off.

  Who was in charge of this life stuff anyway? She deserved a word with them.You should get like a last request or something.

  And what in all of fuck was she doing thinking about sex when she was going to kick the bucket? Despite the severity of her situation, she smiled in irony at her last thought. Kicking the bucket . . . Last night she couldn’t begin to even acknowledge the words—tonight reminded her, she had no choice. She would die, and if she didn’t take care of all of the things that needed doing, who would? Her mother? She couldn’t leave all of that to her—especially when she was so far away in Florida, and her mother was no good at organizing anything. That left her sister. Hardly. She and Casey hadn’t physically seen each other in two years, and she only lived in Manhattan. They were as different as night and day, and though she loved Casey, she’d never leave what needed to be done to her younger sister, who was a carbon copy of her mother.

  A list. She needed to make a list of what had to be taken care of. First on it was Heath.

  While throwing on her pink, fuzzy, bunny-bedecked nightgown, she searched for the pad she kept in her bedroom. A pocket-sized spiral bound pad. Dragging it out of her nightstand drawer, she dug around for a pen and scribbled—“Things To Do Tomorrow.”

  Number one on her list—call Linda fucking-account-stealing Fisher.

  Like the moment day breaks.

  FUCK. Archibald was probably shitting drunks and meth users at the shelter, wondering where the hell he was, but there wasn’t any way to get in touch with him. And Wanda was in the next room.

  Sleeping.

  Maybe in that crazy pink, fuzzy nightgown with the rabbit on it that she thought she’d hidden beneath her robe.

  Definitely had a hot factor to it—even with the bunny’s googly eyes.

  He cracked his jaw to stop from thinking about his nether regions. Or to stop them from thinking about Wanda. All day he’d fought the impulse to run a finger against the softness of her cheek, averted his eyes to keep himself from eyeballing the curve of her breasts every time she lifted her arms to touch up one contestant or another’s makeup.

  And now he was on her couch—the smell of her perfume all over the blanket she’d used, enveloping him in her light, floral scent.

  Fuck again. He was in no position to be chasing after a woman. He, for all intents and purposes, was what some in society today would label a loser. Involving himself with anyone at this point was fucking crazy. He and Archibald needed to get on their feet before he considered even acknowledging there still was an opposite sex.

  But what the hell would he do when he was on his feet?

  How would he explain his unlikely circumstances anyway?

  This wasn’t like the days of old where he could play whenever he chose to, do whatever he wanted to do—with whomever he wanted to do it with. He couldn’t erase their memories of any entanglements with him if things got sticky. Those days were gone.

  Heath hunkered down under the blanket, massaging the throb at his temple. He’d forgo
tten how irritating a headache could be. Life affirming, but nonetheless, irritating.

  No more fast moves on the answer to all things cosmetically profitable, dumb ass, he resolved.

  But her lips, all wet and soft—kinda like pillows—plump and . . .

  He halted his thoughts, envisioning them like he was slamming on the brakes of a car to avoid hitting a tree. She was kind of his boss—in a weird, color-wheeled kind of way. Besides, he had no business being interested in anything but getting his life together.

  So focus, fuckwit.

  He fluffed the throw pillow behind his head, which made him think of Wanda’s lips again, and that they reminded him of pill—

  Cut it the fuck out.

  No more pillows, and no more Wanda.

  No more.

  CHAPTER 5

  She’d weep if she had the energy.

  Would it be too much to ask that Heath not only be unsightly, but have vacated her house so she wasn’t forced to like look him in the eye after last night? Why, why, whyyyyyy did he have to still be in her immediate vicinity, and why did he have to look so scrumptious while he was there? There just wasn’t an unattractive thing about him, even after a night on the couch, for Christ’s sake. His clothes were as flawless as they’d been yesterday. Crisp and looking like they’d been freshly laundered. Bet he didn’t have morning breath either.

  Stupidhead.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Heath’s back was to her when Wanda traipsed into the kitchen, and she was thankful, because she didn’t know if she could face him after last night. Oh, just the memory evoked a new shade of red on her cheeks Bobbie-Sue could make a mint off of.

  And he’d made coffee. Tendrils of the black, rich scent wafted to her nose.

  If he weren’t so damned sure of himself, he’d be just this shy of perfect.