Page 9 of Fight from the Heart

Mae’s Flowers is a garden center north of my small town just off the highway, and I’d put in hours there as extra income when I was still an EMT. Over time, Mae and I became good friends, and she offered me a full-time manager position when I needed a change in life. I still blog as a stress reliever although the only stress in my life is Jacob.

Thinking of the devil, he enters the room with the soup on a bed tray, a glass of water, and more fever medication. A single flower sits in a tiny vase that looks strangely like a pepper shaker.

“Where did you find that?” I laugh, noting the purple crocus.

“It was peeking up in the yard.” He offers this information as if the early spring flower litters his yard, which it doesn’t. The flower can actually bloom through snow, and it’s a striking contrast to find something so bold against a cold backdrop. I smile to myself at the small gesture, and he sets the tray over my lap as I sit upright. My short hair is still damp from the shower, and the sweats he gave me are too large for my short legs. He also left me another T-shirt of his that smells divine.

“Did you change the sheets?” My hand spreads over the freshness of clean linens.

“I thought fresh ones might feel better against your skin after being sweaty from when your fever broke.” He glances away for a second. “I also put your clothes in the washer.” It’s a sweet gesture—changing the sheets, washing my clothes—and it certainly explains where my things went. Then I consider it means Jacob saw my bra and underwear, the mismatched set I was wearing and the size of the comfy panties. He’s seen my breasts if he undressed me, although he swears he didn’t look.

Why would he look? He just had Malibu Mandi days ago.

Reaching for a spoon on the tray, I blow on the soup before scooping some of the broth and bringing it to my mouth. Jacob is watching me. He’s made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed, and his eyes follow the direction of the spoon entering my mouth and closing my lips around the warm liquid. Nothing tastes better than chicken noodle soup when you’re sick. I swallow, uncomfortable with his intense stare.

“This is good,” I tease of the canned product that Jacob only had to open with the flick of a wrist and pour into a pan to heat. “You’re a great cook.”

The corner of his lip crooks. “Now, you’re just being mean.” His eyes sparkle like I mentioned earlier—midnight with an array of stars. What constellations rest in those orbs? I’ve known Jacob for two and a half years, and I still can’t read him most days. I’ve never spent so much unstructured time with him.

“Once I eat this, I should really change and go home.”

“Lilac, quit trying to run away. Nurse’s orders are you stay put.”

I tilt my head, hating the question I’m about to ask. “Jacob, do you even know any nurses?”

“Yes. One. Her name is Mary.”

I let the information settle in for a second, and then I nearly drop my spoon.

“Mary?” I pause. Oh, my God. “Did you call my mother?!”

“Yes, I did, and you know, I’m a little offended she had no idea who I was.”

“Because you’re a famous author and who wouldn’t?” I mock.

“Because she’s your mother, and she had no idea we were friends.”

Friends. Are we friends? “I signed a non-disclosure agreement that I wouldn’t share any details about you, your whereabouts, or your writing,” I remind him.

“Yes, but I would have thought you’d tell your mother.” He sounds aghast. Jacob knows I’m close with my family. We all live in the same small town within only a few miles of the home we grew up in. Our closeness as adult siblings has increased over the past two and a half years due to our father’s death. As for our mother, well, she’s just a force, and you don’t mess with Mary.

“There’s no one I trust more than my mother, but even she could have let it slip and told someone I work for you.” Another reminder that I’m your employee. We aren’t friends, not in the sense I want to consider friendship. I’m in love with him, but he’s not in love with me. Thus, we have a line we do not cross.

“Well, she knows who I am now, and her orders were for you to stay in my bed for a week.”

“My mother did not say that,” I drone, not missing the emphasis. Why must he torture me so much? Not to mention, I don’t have a week to rest and recuperate. I have another job I need to get to.

“I need to call Mae,” I state, suddenly counting off the days in my head. Jacob was due back on Monday. I was here Sunday. I think it’s now Wednesday.

“Handled.”

My eyes leap to his. “You called Mae as well?”

“I did. She was also rather surprised to hear from me. I thought she was your best friend.”

How the hell does Jacob know that? I don’t talk much about Mae. Maybe I drop the occasional phrase I have plans when it comes to her, but again, I never give away too much personal information to him.

“You know, people should really know where you are, Lilac.” His voice softens as his eyes drop to the black and white duvet on his bed. He speaks out of concern because of his sister. She was attacked, and Jacob beats himself up over it, as if any of it was his fault.