His Pregnant Sleeping Beauty (The Hollywood Hills Clinic)

by Lynne Marshall

  It was probably her lousy mood. She’d never planned on visiting California. She’d been perfectly happy in Montclare. She’d loved her RN job, loved owning her car, being independent for the first time in her life. She still remembered the monumental day she’d gotten the key to her first apartment and had moved out once and for all from her parents’ house. Life had been all she’d dreamed it would be, why would she ever need to go to Hollywood?

  Then she’d met Ross Wilson and had thought she’d fallen in love, until she’d realized too late what kind of man he really was.

  Nope. She’d come to Hollywood only because it had been the first bus destination she’d found out of Chicago. For her it hadn’t been a matter of choice, but a matter of life and death.

  *

  Back at his house, Joe gave Carey space to do whatever she needed to do to make herself at home in her room. She’d been so quiet on the ride over, he was worried she was scared of him. He’d probably need to tread lightly until she got more comfortable around him. He thought about taking off for the afternoon, giving her time to herself, but, honestly, he worried she might bolt. Truth was, he didn’t know what she might do, and his list of questions was getting longer and longer. All he really knew for sure was that he wanted to keep her safe.

  The first thing he heard after she’d gone to her room had been the shower being turned on, and the image that planted in his head needed to be erased. Fast. So he decided to work out with his hanging punchbag in his screened-in patio, which he used as a makeshift gym. He changed clothes and headed to the back of the house, turned on a John Coltrane set, his favorite music to hit the bag with, and got down to working out.

  With his hands up, chin tucked in, he first moved in and out around the bag, utilizing his footwork, warming up, moving the bag, pushing it and dancing around, getting his balance. With bare hands he threw his first warm-up punches, slap, slap, slap, working the bag, punching more. The stitches across his rib cage pulled and stung a little, but probably wouldn’t tear through his skin. Though after the first few punches he checked to make sure. They were healing and held the skin taut that was all.

  As his session heated up, so did the wild saxophone music. He pulled off his T-shirt and got more intense, beating the hell out of the innocent bag where he mentally pasted every wrong the world had ever laid at his feet. His wife sleeping with his best friend, the lies about her baby being his. The divorce. He worked through the usual warm-up, heating up quickly. Then he pounded that bag for women abused by boyfriends and innocent victims who got mugged after getting off buses. Wham. He hit that bag over and over, pummeling it, his breath huffing, sweat flying. Thump, bam, whump!

  “Excuse me, Joseph?”

  Jolted, he halted in mid-punch, first stabilizing the punchbag so it wouldn’t swing back and hit him, then shifted his gaze toward Carey. She had on different jeans, and one of his sister’s bright pink cotton tops, and her wet hair was pulled up into a ponytail, giving her a wholesome look. Which he thought was sexy.

  “Oh. Hey. Call me Joe. Everything okay?” he asked, out of breath.

  “That music sounds like fighting.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the jazz.

  “Oh, sorry, let me turn it off.” That’s why he liked to work out with Coltrane, it got wild and crazy, often the way he felt.

  Her gaze darted between his naked torso and his sweaty face. “I was just wondering if I could make a sandwich.”

  “Of course. Help yourself to anything. I’ve got cold cuts in the fridge. There’s some fruit, too.”

  “Thanks.” Her eyes stayed on his abdomen and he felt the need to suck it in, even though he didn’t have a gut. “You know you’re bleeding?”

  He glanced down. Sure enough, he’d tugged a stitch too hard and torn a little portion of his skin. “Oh. Didn’t realize.” He grabbed his towel and blotted it quickly.

  “Did you get hurt when you helped me?”

  “Yeah, the jerk sliced me with his knife.” Still blotting, he looked up.

  Her eyes had gone wide. “You risked your life for me? I’m so sorry.”

  “Hey, I didn’t risk my life.” Had he? “I was just doing my job.”

  “Do paramedics usually fight guys with blades in their hands?”

  “Well, maybe not every day, but it could happen.” He flashed a sheepish grin over the bravado. “At least, it has now.”

  Her expression looked so sad he wanted to hug her, but they hardly knew each other.

  “Thank you.” He sensed she also meant she was sorry.

  “Not a problem. Glad to do it.” He waited to capture her eyes then nodded, wanting to make sure she understood she deserved nothing less than someone saving her from an alley attacker. They stood staring at each other for a moment or two too long, and since he was the one who always got caught up in the magic of her eyes, she looked away first. Standing in his boxing shorts, shirtless, he felt like he’d been caught naked winning that staring match.

  “So…I’m going to make that sandwich.” She pointed toward the door then led into the small kitchen, just around the corner from the dining area and his patio, while he assessed his stitches again. Yeah, he’d taken a knife for her, but the alternative, her getting stabbed by a sleazebag and maybe left to die, had been unacceptable.

  The woman had a way of drumming up forgotten protective feelings and a whole lot more. Suddenly the house felt way too small for both of them. How was he going to deal with that while she stayed here?

  Maybe one last punch to the bag then he promised to stop. Thump! The stitches tugged more and smarted. He hated feeling uncomfortable in his own house and blamed it on the size. He’d thought about selling it after Angela had agreed to leave, but the truth was he liked the neighborhood, it was close enough to work, and most of his family lived within a ten-mile radius. And why should he have to change his life completely because his wife had been unfaithful? Okay, one last one-two punch. Whump, thump. Ouch, my side. He grabbed his towel again and rubbed it over his wringing-wet hair.

  One odd thought occurred to him as he dried himself off. When was the last time a woman had seen him shirtless? His ex-wife Angela had left a year ago, and was a new mother now. Good luck with that. He hadn’t brought anyone home since she’d left, choosing to throw himself into his expanding business and demanding job rather than get involved with any poor unsuspecting women. He was angry at the world for being sterile, and angrier at the two people he’d trusted most, his wife and his best friend. Where was a guy supposed to go from there? Ah, what the hell. He punched the bag again. Wham thud wham.

  “Would you like a sandwich?”

  Not used to hearing a female voice in his house, it startled him from his down spiraling thoughts. A woman, a complete stranger no less, was going to be staying here for an indeterminate amount of time. Had he been crazy to offer? Two strangers in an eleven-hundred-square-foot house. That was too damn close, with hardly a way to avoid each other. Hell, their bedrooms were only separated by a narrow hallway and the bathrooms. What had he been thinking? His stomach growled. On the upside, she’d just offered to make him a sandwich.

  Besides everything he was feeling—the awkwardness, the getting used to a stranger—he could only imagine she felt the same. Except for the unwanted attraction on his part, he was quite sure that wasn’t an issue for her—considering her situation, she must feel a hell of a lot more vulnerable. He needed to be on his best behavior for Carey. She deserved no less.

  “Yes, thanks, a sandwich sounds great.” Since the bleeding had stopped, he tossed on his T-shirt after wiping his chest and underarms, then joined her in the kitchen.

  “Do you like lettuce and tomato?”

  “Whatever you’re having is fine. I’m easy.” His hands hung on to both sides of the towel around his neck.

  “I never got morning sickness, like most women do. I’ve been ravenous from the beginning, so you’re getting the works.”

  She was tallish and slender
, without any sign of being pregnant, and somehow he found it hard to believe she ate too much. “Sounds good. Hey, I thought I’d barbecue some chicken tonight. You up for that?”

  She turned and shared a shy smile. “Like I said, I’m always hungry, so it sounds good to me.”

  He got stuck on the smile that delivered a mini sucker punch and didn’t answer right away. “Okay. It looks like it’ll be nice out, so I thought we could eat outdoors on the deck.” He needed to put some space between them, and it wouldn’t feel as close or intimate out there. Just keep telling yourself she’s wearing your sister’s clothes. Your sister’s clothes.

  He’d done a lot with his backyard, putting in a garden and lots of shrubbery for privacy’s sake from his neighbors, plus he’d built his own cedar-plank deck and was proud of how it’d turned out. It had been one of the therapeutic projects he’d worked on during the divorce.

  The houses had been built close together in this neighborhood back in the nineteen-forties. He liked to refer to it as his start-up house, had once planned to start his family in it, too. Too bad it had been someone else’s family that had gotten started here.

  Fortunately, Carey interrupted his negative thoughts again jabbing a plate with a sandwich into his side. He took the supremely well-stacked sandwich and grabbed some cold water from the refrigerator, raised the bottle to see if she’d like one. Without a word she nodded, and put her equally well-stacked sandwich on a second plate. As he walked to the dining table with the bottles in one hand and his sandwich in the other, he called out, “Chips are on the counter.”

  “Already found them,” she said, appearing at the table, hands full with food and potato-chips bag, knocking him over the head with her smile—how much could a lonely man take? Obviously she was ready to eat.

  It occurred to him they had some natural communication skills going on, and the thought made him uneasy. Beyond uneasy to downright uncomfortable. He clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to communicate with a woman ever again. At least not yet, anyway, but since he’d just had a good workout and he was hungry, starved, in fact, he’d let his concerns slide. For now. Carey proved to be a woman of her word, too, matching him bite for bite. Yeah, she could put it away.

  After they’d eaten, Carey asked to use his phone to make some calls.

  “What’d I say earlier? Mi casa es su casa. It’s a California rule. Make yourself at home, okay?” Though he said it, he wasn’t anywhere near ready to meaning it.

  “But it’s long distance.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot of things to work out. All your important documents were stolen.” This, helping her get her life back in order, he could do. The part of living with a woman again? Damn, it was hard. Sometimes, just catching the scent of her shampoo when she walked past seemed more than he could take.

  “The clinic social worker has been helping me, and my credit cards have been cancelled now. But I couldn’t even order new ones because I didn’t have an address to send them to.”

  “You’ve got one now.” He looked her in the eyes, didn’t let her glance away. He’d made a promise to himself on her behalf that he’d watch over her, take care of her. It had to do with finding her completely helpless in that alley and the fierce sense of protectiveness he’d felt. “You can stay here as long as you need to. I’m serious.”

  She sent him a disbelieving look. In it Joe glimpsed how deeply some creep back in Illinois had messed her up and it made him want to deck the faceless dude. But he also sensed something else behind her disbelief. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. You’re welcome.” Though she only whispered the reply, he knew without a doubt she was really grateful to be here, and that made the nearly constant awkward feelings about living with a complete stranger, a woman more appealing than he cared to admit, worth it.

  *

  Later, over dinner on the deck in the backyard, Joe sipped a beer and Carey lemonade. Her hair was down now, and she’d put on the sweater she’d worn that first night over his sister’s top. In early June, the evenings were still cool, and many mornings were overcast with what they called “June gloom” in Southern California. She’d spent the entire dinner asking about his backyard and job, which were safe topics, so it was fine with him. Since she’d been asking so many questions, he got up the nerve to ask her one of the several questions he had for her. Also within the safe realm of topics—work.

  “I heard at the clinic that you’re a nurse?”

  She looked surprised. “Yes. That was the call I made earlier, to the hospital where I worked. I guess you could say I’m now officially on a leave of absence.”

  “So you’ll probably go back there when you feel better?” Why did this question, and her possible answer, make him feel both relief and dread? He clenched his jaw, something he’d started doing again since Carey had moved in.

  She grimaced. “I can’t. I’ll have to quit at some point, but for now I’m using the sick leave and vacation time I’ve saved up and, I hope you don’t mind, I gave them your address so they could mail my next check to me here.”

  “Remember. Mi casa es tuya.” He took another drag on his longneck, meaning every word in the entire extent of his Spanish speaking, but covering for the load of mixed-up feelings that kept dropping into his lap. What was it about this girl that made him feel so damn uncomfortable?

  His practiced reply got a relieved smile out of her, and he allowed himself to enjoy how her eyes slanted upward whenever she did. It was dangerous to notice things like that and, really, what was the point? But having the beer had loosened him up and he snuck more looks than usual at her during dinner. “The clinic is always looking for good nurses. What’s your specialty?”

  “I work, or I should say worked, in a medical-surgical unit. I loved it, too.”

  “See…” he pointed her way “…that would fit right in. When you feel better, maybe you should look into it. I can talk to James about it if you’d like.” Yeah, keep these interactions all about helping her, and maybe she’ll skip the part about asking you about yourself.

  “James?”

  “Dr. Rothsberg.”

  “First I have to get my RN license reissued from Illinois since it was stolen along with everything else.”

  So maybe she did have plans to stay here and seek employment. Now he could get confused again and try to ignore that flicker of hope he’d kept feeling since she’d walked into his life. He ground his molars. “Would your license be accepted in California?”

  “I did some research on the bus ride out and I’ll have to apply here in California. That’ll take some time, I suspect.”

  “Well, I’m working days tomorrow, so you can spend the whole day using my computer and phone and maybe start straightening out everything you need to.”

  She nodded. “I do have some people I owe a call.” Deep in thought, she probably went straight to the gazillion things she’d have to do to re-create herself and begin a new life for her and her baby in a new state. He wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, and wished he could somehow help even more. Would that go beyond his promise to watch over her?

  At least the social worker and the police department had started the ball rolling on a few things. But, man, what a mess she had to clean up, especially since she hadn’t wanted her family notified of her whereabouts. Why was that?

  Joe wanted to ask her about her living situation back home, but suspected she’d shut down on him like a trapdoor if he did this soon, so he tucked those questions into his “bring up later” file. With an ironic inward laugh, he supposed they had a lot in common, not wanting to bring up the past and all. “You feel like watching a little TV?” He figured she could use something to distract her from all the things she’d have to tackle tomorrow.

  “I’d like that but only after you let me clean up from dinner.”

  “Only if you’ll let me help.” Hell, could they get any more polite?

  She smiled. “So after we do the dishes, what would you like to wat
ch?”

  “You choose.” Yeah, he’d let his guest make all the decisions tonight. It was the right thing to do.

  “I like that show about zombies.”

  “Seriously?” He never would have pegged her as a horror fan. “It’s my favorite, too, but I didn’t think it would be good for your bambino.”

  “Ha,” she said, picking up the dishes from the bench table on the outdoor deck. “After what this little one has been through already, a pretend TV show should be a walk in the park.” She glanced down at her stomach while heading inside and toward the kitchen. “Isn’t that right, sweetie pie.”

  There he went grinding his molars again. He followed her in and watched her put the dishes on the counter and unconsciously pat her abdomen then smile. That simple act sent a flurry of quick memories about Angela and how excited they’d once been when she’d first found out she’d gotten pregnant. They’d been about to give up trying since it had been over a year, had even had fertility tests done. They’d rationalized that because they were both paramedics and under a lot of stress, and he worked extended hours trying to make a good impression with Dr. Rothsberg, that was the reason she’d been unable to get pregnant.

  So they’d taken a quickie vacation. Then one day, wham, she magically announced she was expecting. Joe had practically jumped over the moon that night, he’d been so happy. They’d finally start their own version of a big happy family. Since Angela’s body had gotten the hang of getting pregnant, he’d planned to talk her into having a few more kids after this one. He’d walked on air for a couple of months…until his fertility report had dropped into the mailbox. Late. Very, very late.