Page 33 of Fight from the Heart

“There should be enough for your brother’s service and your extra time last night.” I blink at the dullness of his tone.

“Extra time?” I hiss, then swallow back the sudden lump in my throat.

“You probably want to be paid for your overtime.”

Continuing to stare at him, I can’t process what he’s saying. He didn’t force me to stay. It was an act of nature. I wasn’t working. I was spending time with him.

What the hell does he think happened here?

“I don’t want your money.”

“Take it. You deserve it.” He shoves his hand toward me. Shell-shocked, I reach forward as if I’m going to accept his offering—for services fucking rendered—and then I smack at his wrist. The surprising strike causes Jacob to drop the bills, and I watch as they scatter to his floor.

“What the fuck?” Jacob stammers, staring back at me.

“No, that’s my question,” I snap back at him. “Do not treat me like this,” I demand, finding strength I don’t feel.

“I’m not treating you—”

“You’ve never been a dick to me before, so don’t start now,” I yell.

“I’m not being a dick. I’m paying you for—”

“For sleeping with you,” I finish for him.

“That’s not what happened here.”

I stare at him, waiting for more of an explanation. “What did happen then?” I finally ask, knowing I won’t like his answer. His silence says it all.

“That’s what I thought,” I whisper.

My name is a quiet echo I ignore as I turn for the staircase, stomp downward, and slam the door on my exit. I’ve reached my breaking point with Jacob, and it’s all my fault.

Chapter 13

A Cold Blast

[Jacob]

I have no idea why she’s pissed, and I stand here shell-shocked as the bills lay scattered on the floor. Bending to pick them up, I return to the living room, finding our disheveled love nest. The condom wrappers and the spent ones. The comforter has fallen to the floor.

Fuck. I race barefoot down the cold stairs to the lower level garage, yanking open the door to find Pam already backing out of the space. With the soles of my feet freezing against the concrete flooring, I wave my arms at her retreat, but she ignores me, slipping out in the sliver of space her brothers have plowed in my drive while I stand there watching as she disappears between the thick shrubbery onto the dirt road.

I run back into the house, immediately calling her, but she doesn’t answer. Her old Jeep isn’t high tech, and I know she’s a responsible driver, not distracted by phones unless she has her Bluetooth earpiece in place.

Call me. I shoot off the text, and then my own phone dies after using it as a flashlight for too long last night. When my electricity restores, and I can finally plug in my phone to charge, there is no response to my text.

As I thrive on work, I end up sending her the chapters she didn’t complete reading via email. I need to write, but my head is a mess with her disappearance and lack of response to me. At three in the morning, the chapters return, and I stare at empty email minus the work.

Suddenly, I feel guilty as she does have a job outside of working for me. Plus, she does all her blogging stuff, most of which she does for free, claiming she just likes books that much.

“It’s a stress reliever to read and then chat about what I’ve read.”

On that day in the hospital, when I told Pam who I was, she told me how she knew me.

“Jacob Vincent, the author?” Born Jacob Vincentia, I dropped the last letters to make my name easier for readers to recognize. I’m not hard-pressed to meet a random fan, but it did seem strange that this angel in a hospital would recognize me.

“I write for Blood and Blossom, a blog and—"