The jake ryan complex, p.13
The Jake Ryan Complex, page 13
“Jeff?”
“An old high school buddy of mine. He’s been out of work for a while, so he helps me out whenever I need an extra set of hands.”
“That’s nice. Do you keep in touch with a lot of your friends from high school?”
“Nah. Just a couple guys. How about you?”
“Just one girl. She’s actually a patient of mine.”
“Really? Is that weird at all?”
I shrug. “I could see how you’d think that, but I’m actually pretty good at compartmentalizing: work is work; personal is personal.”
The words come out with stone-cold confidence, but the truth is other than Caroline, who is definitely not a typical patient, or friend, I’ve never been in a position where I’ve had to separate personal affiliations from patient involvement. I can’t even imagine a scenario where that would come into play—
“And how was the painting class? Am I sitting beside the next da Vinci?”
I roll my eyes. “Hardly. We were supposed to be painting a restful beach scene. Mine looked more like the aftermath of a shark attack.”
He laughs and gives my leg a playful nudge with his knuckle. “Nah, I’m sure it was good. You’re just being hard on yourself.”
“No, really, it was terrible,” I go on, returning his delicious touch by shouldering into his side. “The six-year-old kid beside me called me out multiple times for how bad it was.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Speaking of ouch, how’s your head?”
I gently graze my thumb along the spot in question, prompting him to grin and say, “Much better, thanks to my favorite doctor.”
We carry on with our light, flirtatious banter for a while before an elderly husband-and-wife team comes in to pick up their equally old poodle, and I’m reminded that it’s getting late and that J.T. most likely has somewhere else he needs to be. Or, at the very least, someone else he needs to be with.
A knot of worry starts to tangle in my chest.
It’s now or never.
Time to see if you’re my Jake Ryan or not . . .
“I really appreciate you sitting here with me,” I say, voice wavering with trepidation, “but it’s fine if you need to go. There’s no way of knowing how long the doctor’s going to take and, well, I’m sure your wife is expecting you.”
His brows furrow. “My wife?”
My heart thunders against my chest, and I nod while motioning toward his left hand.
It takes him a second to catch up, but when he does, his eyes grow impossibly wide, and he starts to shake his head. “Oh, no. No, I’m not married—”
“You’re not?”
“No. Shit. No. I’m not—”
“But what about the Sweetheart’s Special?” I blurt out the question louder and with more urgency than I’d ever imagined asking it.
Startled, he jerks back. “The what?”
“The Sweetheart’s Special. The flowers you buy from Gia’s store. She said you’re in there buying them all the time. If they’re not for your wife, then who are you buying them for?”
His eyes narrow for a split second before recognition sets in, and he starts to shake his head. “Oh, no. No. The flowers . . . they’re for my mom.”
“Your mom?”
He nods quickly. “Yeah. She’s got dementia and doesn’t remember much of anything anymore, but there are a few things she can’t shake: one of them is that my dad always bought her flowers from Mancato’s Flower Shop. He passed a few years ago, but I keep sending her the flowers as if they were from him.”
Delivered from another man, it might sound like a well-crafted line to get himself out of trouble, but the earnestness in his voice assures me it’s the truth.
“I swear,” he goes on, “the only woman I’m buying flowers for is my mom. You can ask anybody—ask my sister. We fight about it all the time. She thinks it’s mean to lie to her, but I don’t think of it that way. I’m not trying to fool her. I’m just trying to keep the few good memories she has alive for as long as possible.”
His sister.
His sister is the swimsuit model Gia saw him fighting with.
And he recognizes that sometimes a little lie is necessary if it keeps your mom happy . . .
“That’s about the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, beyond relieved, and utterly enamored. “What other memories are you keeping alive?”
“Well, it’s not exactly a memory. It’s more of a familiar routine.” The softest flush crosses his cheeks, and he drops his head slightly. “She loves the Cubs, even more than you. She and my dad actually met at a game in 1952—”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. They were sitting two rows apart, and my dad was cheering for the other team—the Cardinals,” he adds, which, of course, prompts me to scowl. He grins. “Apparently they got into a pretty serious disagreement about a call on the field, were asked to leave the ballpark to settle their dispute, and then one thing led to another and they were married three months later.”
“Aww . . .” I press my palm over my heart. Falling in love at a Cubs game. How perfect!
“Dad never fully converted, but he did become a pretty loyal fan,” he goes on. “They had season tickets for close to fifty years, and if it was an away game, they watched from home, always with Italian beef subs from Chicago Joe’s. It was their thing.” He shrugs adorably. “So now I record all the games for her and, when I can, drive down and watch them with her. That’s where I was going the other night when I ran into you at the deli.”
The extra sandwich was for his mom.
His mom, who loves the Cubs more than I do . . .
“Look, Mac, I promise the only reason I’ve even been wearing the ring was to keep women away.” My jaw drops and my eyes snap wide. “Not you,” he quickly clarifies and reaches for my hand. “I wasn’t trying to keep you away. It’s just . . .”
I could easily spend a lifetime gazing at the beautiful sight of his long, strong fingers blanketed over my hand, but the sound of his rapid breathing prompts me to turn to him.
He smiles timidly. “I found that when I wasn’t wearing it, I got a lot of attention that I didn’t really want or wasn’t ready for.” He gives his head a little shake, like he’s haunted by a memory of something he wasn’t ready for. “I put it back on with the intention of taking it off once I knew I was ready for something—”
His attention suddenly darts away from me, over my shoulder.
Something?
Something . . . what?
“Hi there,” a soft, feminine voice says. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Dr. Massey. You must be Rerun’s mom?”
Her timing is nothing short of terrible, but of course I’m still grateful to hear her voice.
Rerun is our focus, not the beautiful SINGLE man sitting in front of you who was just about to confirm whether or not he’s your Jake Ryan!
I clear my throat and reluctantly pull my hand away from J.T. so I can offer it to her.
“Hi, yes. I’m Mac Huntress. How’s he doing?”
She sighs. “Well, he had a rough afternoon, as I’m sure you’ve heard, but he’s looking pretty good now.” J.T. gives my shoulder a tender squeeze. “He came in a little dehydrated, so we’re giving him some fluids, but otherwise he’s just a sweet, happy old guy who’s taking it all in.”
A tear pricks the back of my eye, and I smile.
Sweet old Rerun . . .
“I ran a few basic neurological tests, which he passed with flying colors,” she goes on, her kind eyes staying fixed on mine, “so I think we can rule out a stroke and assume it was a seizure. Does he have a history of them?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”
“Okay. Well, it’s possible that it was just a one-off, but hereditary epilepsy isn’t totally uncommon in Labs, so we’ll want to keep an eye on that. Is there any chance he came into contact with toxic chemicals in the last few days?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t used anything new around the house, and Gia only uses environmentally safe paints. You don’t use anything toxic, do you?” I turn to J.T., who is already shaking his head.
“No, never.”
Dr. Massey smiles. “Okay, then it may have just been a fluky thing, or even a sudden change in brain activity. Sometimes if a dog goes from restfulness to excitement too quickly, it can be jarring to their systems, especially in an older dog like Rerun.”
Considering how excited Rerun is whenever J.T.’s around, I’m surprised he isn’t convulsing more often.
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep him overnight so we can run a tox panel just to make sure his liver and kidney functions are okay. The tests are a little pricey, but—”
“No, that’s fine. Definitely do the tests.”
“Does he have any food restrictions we need to be aware of?”
“Uh, no.”
She chuckles. “A true Lab, then, huh?”
“Oh yeah. He’ll eat anything you put in front of him.”
“All right, well, he’s in good hands here, getting lots of love from the staff, so you go get some rest, and we’ll touch base with you tomorrow.”
I leave my credit card and contact information with the woman at the front desk, then head out to the parking lot, where J.T. is leaning against the passenger side of his truck, waiting for me. I really should be thinking about my sweet old dog right now, but the sight of J.T.’s long, muscular frame silhouetted by the dim fluorescence of the overhead security lights is too delicious to ignore, as is the conversation we started and desperately need to finish.
“Get everything squared away?” He stands tall as I approach our cars, hands shoved into his front jeans’ pockets like a timid schoolboy uncertain what to say.
My breath hitches on a hopeful beat, and I answer, “Yep. We’re all set.”
“She tends to be a little overcautious.” His words thrum with the same jittery energy I’m feeling. “But I think that’s good. Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Definitely.”
Our gazes lock for a long, tenuous beat before my attention shifts down to his black T-shirt. I can see his chest rising and falling beneath deep, rapid breaths.
My pulse quickens.
He’s as nervous as I am.
He steps closer.
“If you want, I can pick him up tomorrow, since I’m already in the neighborhood . . .”
My stomach flip-flops, both at his sweet offering and his proximity. I can smell him now, that same delicious peppermint scent I’ve savored before, but now it’s coupled with the ruggedness of fresh-cut wood and the headiness that comes from a long day’s work.
I swallow hard.
“That would actually be really helpful. I have an induction scheduled early tomorrow morning. It’s her third, so hopefully once she’s dilated it won’t take too long, but you never know . . .”
Anticipation building, I take a step forward, narrowing the space between us to less than a foot. Despite the cool evening air, the brimming tension is hot and is slowly stealing what little oxygen is still circulating through my lungs.
His gaze softens slightly, and with a delicate touch, he brushes a wisp of hair from my face, his ring finger no longer bound by the shiny golden band.
“Before Dr. Massey came out, I wanted to tell you that, well . . . I’m not perfect. My last relationship ended pretty badly, and there’s some residual stuff that sneaks up on me from time to time. Nothing big, but it’s there.” He doesn’t spell it out, but it’s pretty clear that the stuff he’s referring to resurfaced today during his unexpected run-in. His vulnerability makes my chest swell with affection. Sweet man . . . we’ve all got our stuff. “But the thing is, Mac”—he settles his palm against my cheek, eyes focused intently on me—“I told myself I wasn’t going to take that ring off again until I was sure I was ready to move on to something new—to someone new. And I am now. I’m ready to move on.”
A delighted ache swells in my throat. “With me?”
He grins, amused by the unexpected squeak in my voice. “Yeah, you.”
Yeah, you. Just like Jake said to Samantha on the church steps. Except that this is my Jake, and this is so much better than a movie. With slow, deliberate movements he strokes my cheekbone with a graze of his calloused thumb, then leans forward and kisses me. My eyelids flutter in time with my heartbeat, overwhelmed by the tenderness of his touch and the warmth of his breath against my skin.
Good god in heaven . . .
Moving on instincts I’ve long thought dormant, I cinch my arms tight around his waist and pull him closer, parting my lips and allowing a surge of that decadent peppermint taste to flood my mouth with a sweep of his tongue. It tickles and teases my taste buds and demands every nerve ending in my body to rise to attention.
Flutters electrify like currents through my limbs as he rakes his long fingers through my hair, gripping and searching through the tangles for a way to deepen our connection. Propelled by the same desire, I press my palms firm against his back, seeking out his corded muscles with my fingertips in hopes of finding some leverage to deepen the kiss . . . to lose myself completely to his touch.
Memories of that damn lip bite begin to tease and taunt me with every shared breath, prompting me to take a little nibble on his bottom lip. A pleasured groan escapes him, demanding I bite harder. He whimpers softly, and I feel his lips pull up into a smile.
“You’ve got a thing for lips, don’t you?”
Over labored, hungry breaths, I mutter, “You have no idea . . .”
Chapter 11
Mmm . . . day one with my yummy guy
Thirty . . . something days until the wedding
He asked me to wake him so he could say goodbye before I left, but as I gaze at him now—sound asleep, naked and tangled up in my bedsheets—there’s no way I’m going to disrupt this image. It’s too damn delicious. Besides, if I woke him, we’d just end up doing what we did countless times last night, and I really have to get to the hospital, no matter how badly I want to stay here.
I lick my lips but wince as I’m immediately reminded of how much kissing we did last night. I swallow a giggle. If I were watching my life play out on a big screen, I’d tsk the main character for hopping into bed and going googly over a man so quickly, but this isn’t a movie. By some divine twist of fate, this is my life. Finally, I get to be Samantha Baker . . .
I’m still grinning like a happy, sated fool by the time I emerge from the delivery room nearly seven hours later. Much to my surprise, Jackie Tremont’s third baby wasn’t as eager to enter the world as her previous two. Still, baby Charles, weighing in at a whopping nine pounds and four ounces with a headful of jet-black curls, finally emerged after the Pitocin worked its magic, and now he’s resting comfortably with his proud parents, and I’m finally able to take some time for myself.
I check my phone. A spray of schoolgirl tingles erupts from the tips of my toes, tickling every bone in my body. As anticipated, there’s a text message from J.T. sent at eight o’clock this morning, along with three others sent shortly after: one from Claire, one from the vet, and the last from my patient-friend Caroline. Of course I open J.T.’s first:
Good morning.
You were supposed to wake me up so I could give you a proper goodbye.
Guess now I’ll just have to suffer through this day until I can give you a proper hello instead.
A decadent shudder unexpectedly surges through my body, prompting me to cover my mouth before I start moaning. The things that man can do with his hands . . .
I’ll work on the porch until it’s time to get Rerun. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of kisses for you when you get home. That’ll make two of us.
I quickly thump out my response:
I look forward to a proper greeting.
I should be home by 3.
Next, the vet’s message:
Hi, it’s Gina from Hidden Trails. Rerun’s tox tests came back clean! He had a good night and will be ready for pickup around 2. We got your message last night, so we’ll call Mr. Walsh to come pick him up. Dr. Massey will call you in a few days to check on him. The total charge to your credit card is $518.77.
Ordinarily, a $500 vet bill would have my stomach wrenching, but today it doesn’t even faze me. In fact, I consider it money more than well spent. Had Rerun not ended up at the vet yesterday afternoon (a tragedy I, of course, never wanted to happen), J.T. may not have ended up in my bed last night. A true silver lining if ever there was one . . .
Claire’s message:
Hello?!??! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED WITH THE HANDYMAN? We’re DYING over here. CALL US! Hope all goes well with Tremont baby. And let me know who’s on duty so I can update the file.
I grin, already eager to witness their expressions when I fill them in on all the details.
Tremont baby is good. Just finished up. I’ll be heading home soon. Stanco is doc on duty. All is well with the handyman. He’s definitely NOT MARRIED but is indeed VERY handy . . . And if you haven’t already, hire Helen!
Finally, I open Caroline’s message:
What’s up, hooker?! I’m back from Seattle. Tired but feel ok. How was Daniel? Wedding date material? Quickie in the closet material? He’s big, right?! Will fill out a tux (and a condom) nicely I bet ;)
I cringe, disgusted by the mere suggestion of sex with Daniel. He’d be crying before he even got undressed . . .
Glad you’re feeling well. Daniel was very nice, but I won’t be seeing him again to know how he fits into anything. O_O
I met someone else—he’s perfect! I’ll fill you in when I see you at your appointment in a few weeks.
I no sooner hit “Send” than a new message from J.T. arrives. I quickly tap on the screen, bringing the message up. Ohmygod. I gasp, covering my chapped lips with my fingers. It’s a selfie of J.T. and Rerun, both boasting big, happy smiles that are accentuated by their matching salt-and-pepper facial hair.
Just a couple of old guys waiting for you to get home . . .
My heart softens as I tap out my response:
