Page 2 of Fight from the Heart

For the first time ever, I don’t know that I can take my father’s advice.

Chapter 1

Must Be The Flu

Two and a half years later.

[Pam]

I hate that I’m in love with my boss.

I actually have two jobs, so it’s not my day-job boss. It’s my other boss—an annoyingly needy grown-ass forty-year-old man. I’ve worked for him for over two years and still wonder most days why I do it.

Because you think he’s hot, and he pays you well for your time.

Yes, but should it be about money and looks? I’m literally arguing with myself while I massage my pounding temple. As a single woman, I’d survived the dreaded Valentine’s Day only to come down with your classic flu. Stuffy nose. Sore throat. Cough. Aches. Chills. All I want to do is curl up in bed—my bed—in my apartment.

Not here. Not at selfish Jacob Vincent’s house while I wait to let the house cleaner in.

You live alone. It’s not even dirty in here. My chest pinches as I cough. It’s almost as if by cursing Jacob in my head, my body wants to punish me.

His home on the shore of Lake Michigan is just outside our small town of Elk Lake City. Boasting floor-to-ceiling windows along the wall facing the water, this contemporary mansion strangely reminds me of how Edward Cullen’s residence was depicted in Twilight, the books, not the movies.

Jacob likes to argue with me that the movies never get it right. It’s all about the written word. Books do it best.

And he isn’t wrong. As a fiction author himself, his writing was what first attracted me to him. To his books, not him personally.

It was not love at first sight when we finally met in person.

Jacob Vincent is nothing short of edgy and rugged in a boxer kind of way. He’s lean but muscular. Feisty and jumpy with deep, dark eyes like midnight and a head of short hair to match. He doesn’t have a scruffy beard so much as a jaw covered with artful stubble unless he’s in writer mode. Then he might go days without shaving, giving him the lumberjack effect. Either way, he’s a good-looking man in the way a man can be when he’s had his nose broken a few times, scars on his forehead and cheek that mar his perfection, and several tattoos on his body. From his physical appearance, you’d never imagine words are how he fights best.

And right now, I’d like to throat punch him for requesting I be here to let the house cleaning service in.

Just give her a key, I'd argued before he left on a ten-day holiday with his girlfriend.

That’s right. The man I’m in love with also has a picture-perfect girlfriend, tall and lean with big boobs and a tight ass. Not like me, who is curvy in all the right places but just not the right places for a man like Jacob Vincent. She’s Malibu Barbie, and I’m just the shape of Michigan. I’m not horrible to look at, but I’m no model like his woman.

Jacob refuses to give a key to anyone other than me and his stepsister, Ella. Though she lived here for a while, she’s in New York now, so I’m the one who feels like I’m on my deathbed as I wait for a service to clean a house that isn’t even dirty.

Am I bitter? Of course not.

Lying on one of two leather couches in his great room, I try to focus on the large glass panes overlooking the lake in the distance. The trees are brown and barren this time of year. The world outside seems Medieval-ancient, and I’m starting to feel the same way even though I’m only thirty-six. I’m so grateful Valentine’s smalentines is over because I hate the reminder that I’m still alone at my age—lonely and in love with a man I can’t have.

The doorbell rings, and I push myself upright, the pounding in my head accelerating as I try to stand. Bending at the waist, I cough uncontrollably again and kick the leg of the square coffee table. Shit, that freaking hurt. As I hobble to the door, the throbbing in my toe matches the pulsing rhythm in my head. My brain feels like it’s hosting at a club dance party—thump, thump, thump—but I’m not enjoying myself. My hunched position makes me look old, and I feel as ancient as the bare trees behind Jacob’s house.

“Miss Pam, you no look so good,” Mrs. Kewadin says in broken English. The Native American woman enters along with a rush of cold Midwestern winter air, and my shivering causes my teeth to chatter.

“I’m not feeling so great,” I tell her, slowly returning to my perch on the uncomfortable leather couch.

Why can’t he have normal furniture like my mother’s old sofa? Something where you can sink into the cushions and feel the warmth in the worn fabric.

“I’m going to just lie here for a bit,” I say over my shoulder, limping because of my toe and holding my head so my brain doesn’t move too much.

Stop thinking about stupid stuff, and it might not ache.

Collapsing on the couch, I bring my knees up to my chest and try to get comfortable, allowing Mrs. Kewadin to do whatever needs to be done now that she’s in the house.

I don’t know how much time passes as I drift into that weight-pressing sleep when you can’t move a muscle, but you’re cognizant of your surroundings. The vacuum drones. The glass squeaks from cleaning. The furniture is sprayed with polish. My body melts into the cool, crackling couch while I shiver, drawing my knees tighter to my chest.