“‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’” he says.
I frown. “Did you just…did you just quote Shakespeare?”
“Who’d’a thunk it, right?” He chuckles ruefully. “A dumb ol’ blue collar construction bro quoting Shakespeare?”
“No! That’s not—I mean—Jesse, that’s not what I meant.”
He laughs even harder. “Why not? It’s true enough. I didn’t exactly ace my high school English classes. My sister was the book nerd. She was in a production of Merchant of Venice her senior year, and for some reason that particular line has always stuck with me. It’s not like I can sit here and quote Shakespearean sonnets to you or anything, so don’t get too excited.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Nah, it’s not that. I just get put into a particular box pretty frequently. And, for the most part, that is where I fit. It’s just…it’s not totally and only who I am as a person.” He laughs again. “Anyway, I’m gonna let you go. I wanna get this little project finished.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet—you haven’t seen what I’m doing!”
“Okay, okay, well…I’ll talk to you later, then?” I think of something. “Wait—did you guys get your emergency flood situation under control?”
H sighs deeply. “We worked until like four in the morning, but yeah, we did.”
“That’s good,” I say. “I’m glad you got it sorted it out.”
“Me too.” A pause. “Anyway, I’ll call Dr. Waverley and then call you. Have a nice day off.”
“I’ll try. You too. Bye.” I hang up, and my food arrives, and I lose myself in wondering what he could possibly be doing to my house.
After lunch—and cutting myself off at three margaritas, because it’s just too early to get sloppy—I decide to take myself to a movie. There’s a new romantic comedy out, and the theater is just down the road. I splurge on popcorn and a bottle of water, and enjoy some much-needed laughs.
Of course, the romantic element of the movie isn’t doing my overactive imagination any favors. On the way out of the theater, a ridiculous fantasy runs through my head. I have this vision of arriving at home and seeing Jesse in my living room, covered in sawdust, shirtless, sweaty, wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans and a tool belt. He’d be ecstatic to see me, and he’d push me up against the fireplace and kiss me, and his big strong hands would go to the tie of my scrubs—
Down girl. Rawr. Seriously, I need to get this libido of mine under control. I haven’t been this worked up since…well, ever. Those first few months after I lost my virginity in high school, I was a horny little thing. And there were a few boyfriends between that first guy and Nicholas, who could get me going, but these last few years with Nicholas I was half-dead. Just switched off. Like he’d lost interest in me, and thus I stopped thinking about myself as a sexual creature, stopped thinking about my needs. He lost interest in me, and I lost interest in myself. And now, suddenly, I’m alive again. I’m remembering that I have wants and needs again.
And my sex drive is coming back.
I wasn’t a hookup or a fling sort of girl, but when I was dating a guy, I tended to be pretty uninhibited. Adventurous, even. Sitting in my car, I think back to those days. Specifically, a certain college sophomore named Lee. All-State soccer, ended up being valedictorian at graduation, med school student…surfer blond hair, freckles on his nose—and on his ass—with a charming smile and an easy confidence that I couldn’t resist. Lee also had a preternaturally powerful sex drive. The boy was insatiable in a way I’ve never known, before or since, and that was infectious. I don’t think I’ve ever been as wild, kinky, or voracious as I was with Lee.
And just being around Jesse is making me feel like I did when I was with Lee; like I’m a starved monster, a creature who simply cannot get enough. I want, want, WANT.
Gah. It’s infuriating.
Because back then, I was innocent, with an intact heart and a willingness to trust, a willingness to take chances.
Nowadays? My heart ain’t exactly intact, and neither is my ability or willingness to trust and take chances on a guy.
Let him into my house to fix it? Sure. I can change the locks, or even move, if it came to that—but it won’t, because I think Jesse really is a good guy, honest and trustworthy.
Doesn’t mean I’m willing to let anything happen, though, because I’m just…well…scared, I guess.
My phone rings—it’s Jesse. My heart leaps, and my cheeks heat.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hey, it’s Jesse.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I know. There’s this little thing called caller ID.”
“Smart-ass.”
“Better than being a dumbass, as my dad used to say,” I say, laughing.
“I’m not sure where that leaves me, then. My dad used to say I was the dumbest smart-ass he ever met.” I hear him take a drink of something, and then he’s back on the phone. “So, what’d you do with the last couple hours?”
“Ate lunch and saw a movie. I actually just got out of the movie.”
“Oh? What’d you see?”
“Just some romantic comedy. Nothing you’d like.”
“There you go making assumptions about me again, Imogen. What if I like romantic comedies…in a very straight, very manly sort of way?”
“Then you’d be a frickin’ unicorn among men.”
He does a very, very bad impression of a neighing horse, and I lose my shit, cackling until my ribs hurt.
“I didn’t think it was that funny,” he says.
“Oh god, it was hysterical. That was so bad it was good, Jesse.” I sigh. “So. What’s the reason for your call?”
“I can’t just want to hear your lovely voice?”
I’m melting. “No. You can’t.”
“Oh.” He hesitates. “Too bad, because it’s true.”
“Careful, Jesse, you keep talking to me like that, you’ll end up trapping yourself a lonely forty-year-old divorcée with a broken heart and an overactive imagination.” And a sex drive that’s currently stuck on turbo, but I manage to keep that part to myself.
“Maybe that’s what I’m after.”
“Maybe you’d be biting off more than you can chew.”
“Maybe I can take really, really big bites.”
I have to actually fan my face. “Jesse. What do you want?”
“You, here, in those booty shorts and that tank top.” A pause. “Or even less. I’d settle for less, in this case.”
“Jesse.”
“Hey, you’re not the only one with an overactive imagination. You’d have to spend a week in church to make up for the things I’ve imagined about you.”
“Holy shit,” I breathe. Oops; I didn’t mean to say that. “You have no idea,” I say, louder.
“Maybe we should get together for drinks and compare fantasies,” he murmurs.
“Compare, or act out?” Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Did I SERIOUSLY just say that to him?
He growls, and I hear a thump, as if he slammed his fist against the wall. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Imogen. For real.”
I struggle to bring this dangerous conversation back to safe, solid ground. “You didn’t call me just to verbally torture me, did you?”
“Who’s torturing who, here, Imogen?” he asks. “But no. I talked to Dr. Waverley a few minutes ago.”
“And?”
“And, if you have time, she wants you come in for an interview.”
“She what?” I squeak. “When?”
“I was under the impression that she meant right away. Like now-ish.”
“I’m still in my scrubs and I don’t have my resume ready.”
“I think she just wants to meet you, have a little conversation. Nothing formal. She told me to give you her direct number so you can give her a call if you’re able to come in.”
“Um. Okay.”
“I’ll text you the number afte
r we hang up.”
“Okay.” My throat is thick. “Jesse, I—”
“Thank me later,” he interrupts. “Hint—visual stimulus counts as thanks, in my book.”
I laugh. “Okay, okay, message received.”
So, I hang up with Jesse, spend a few moments calming my nerves, and then call the number Jesse sent through.
It rings four times, and then a high, firm, authoritative female voice answers. “This is Dr. Waverley.”
“Hi Dr. Waverley, this Imogen Irving. My friend Jesse said he spoke to you?”
Her voice softens immediately. “Ah, Miss Irving, yes. A lovely young man, that Jesse.”
“He sure is.”
Dr. Waverley laughs. “Oh, I bet you agree! I don’t mind admitting that I hired James and his crew based on what may be less than professional reasons.”
“Having met both James and Jesse, I can see why.”
Her tone goes back to businesslike. “So. You have a BSN from the University of Illinois, and experience in the U-I-H ICU, I understand?”
“Yes ma’am. I did my residency in the ICU there, and stayed on for seven years after that, before transitioning to a private practice.”
“May I ask why you left the ICU?”
I only barely hold back a sigh of resentment. “I got married. The hours were pretty intense, it was a lot of stress, and I wanted kids.”
A pause on the other end. “Something tells me this is a sensitive subject, so I’ll hold the rest of my questions. What I really want to know is, would you be willing to return to the ICU?”
“I think I would, yes.” I think back to the bustle and the chaos and the intensity of the ICU, and feel a little thrill run through me. “What I mean is yes, ma’am, I definitely would.”
“I understand you recently left your employer.”
“Ah, yes, I did.”
“Suddenly?”
“Yes, I must admit it was sudden. But I just—it was something that I’d needed to do for a long time.”
Another pause. “Well, Miss Irving, I’m in desperate need of experienced nurses in my ICU, and I happen to have a block of time free at the moment. Would you be able to come in for a more in-depth conversation?”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now.”
“I’m not—I mean—I’m still wearing scrubs, and I haven’t updated my résumé in years. I quit this morning, if you’d like the honest truth.”
She chuckles. “All the better. I’ve found it’s best to interview people when they’re not ready for it. You get more of a person’s true self, rather than a nervous, practiced facade. Just come in, we’ll have a chat, and barring any kind of unexpected surprises, you’ll be newly employed before the day is done.”
“Um—that sounds amazing. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
After the routine goodbye pleasantries, I hang up.
And now I have to calm my nerves all over again.
I drive to the hospital and sit in the parking lot for a moment, still trying to collect myself.
It can’t really be this easy, can it?
Apparently it can.
Dr. Waverley and I spend over an hour together, talking. She’s a wonderful woman: wise, kind, firm, knowledgeable, and personable. I have the feeling she’ll be a dream to work for—authoritative and in charge, but not a micromanager or power tripper. She’ll expect the best, expect results, but will also be reasonable. I have a packet of paperwork, my official scrub color code, and a start date of the following Monday—which gives me a few days off to fill out my paperwork and buy a few sets of ICU color-coded scrubs.
I drive home, and for once I’m so caught up in excitement about my new job that I momentarily forget how I got the job in the first place.
Then I get home, and Jesse’s truck is in my driveway, backed in, and full of construction detritus. There’s also another truck parked on my curb. Unlike Jesse’s and James’s, this one is more subdued. It’s silver, with normal tires at the normal height, and one of those body-color-matched bed caps. The tailgate and cap windows are both open, revealing a dizzying array of power tools, bins, containers, toolboxes, ladders of all sizes, tarps…who knows what all. Coming from within the house—the front door of which is propped open—are the sounds of a nail gun and a vacuum.
I park at the curb behind the truck and approach the front door, eyeing Jesse’s truck and the mess inside it, but I can’t divine what he’s done from the contents.
I enter hesitantly, unsure of what I’ll find. I pause at the entryway and call in. “Hello? Jesse?”
The sounds halt, and I hear the clomp of booted feet.
My jaw literally drops open.
Hello, fantasy made real.
6
My gaze travels from floor upward, slowly, twice. He’s wearing his usual boots, stained and scuffed and well-worn, with jeans so faded they’re almost white. Tight, but not too tight. There’s a rip in the left knee, showing tanned skin.
He’s shirtless, his tool belt slung low around his hips.
Covered in sawdust and sweat.
He has a Blackhawks hat on backward, with his Oakleys perched on top.
God— holy god. He’s so hot it’s mind-boggling.
His body, though?
I’m literally speechless.
His chest is heavy with muscle, thick and tanned and solid. His arms are python-thick, and his waist trim. His jeans hang just below his hips, showing the band of his underwear and a hint of those V-shaped lines. His tattoos cover his chest as well. He has a hint of a belly—not a beer belly, just a slight layer over a rock-hard abdomen. He likes food, and likes working out in equal proportion, and he’s not a twenty-year-old kid anymore either. He’s all man, hard and muscular. His chest isn’t fitness model smooth and hairless, either, but is rather hairy. Not wookie/werewolf hairy, just…masculine and manly.
And then another pair of boots clomps across my floor. My jaw can’t drop any further, so my voice squeaks in protest of the sudden emptiness of my lungs.
“Uh—huh? Who?” My voice is a breathless squeak. “Ahem. Who—who are you?”
The man standing beside Jesse is…well…nearly his equal in terms of sexiness, although his opposite in build and appearance.
Five-eleven or six feet, lean as a whip, and built like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. Blond hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, sunglasses on top of his head. No shirt—all abs and pecs in razor-sharp definition. Shaven jaw, no tattoos or piercings, with icy blue eyes. God, he’s beautiful.
Jesse grins. “Imogen, this is my buddy, Franco. He works at Dad Bod with me.”
“Hi—um. Hi.” I’m still a little shell-shocked at the excess of male hotness in my house.
Jesse pokes Franco in the belly—which doesn’t give even a millimeter. “It’s annoying isn’t it? The bastard is a year older than me, we eat the same and work out the same, and the fucker has an eight-pack while I’m packing on a keg.”
Franco snorts derisively. “First, I’m ten months older than you, not a full year. Second, we may eat the same kinds of food, but you eat twice the amount, and third, we may work out at the same time and do the same things, but you lift twice what I do.”
“Yeah, well, that’s ’cause you’re a twink,” Jesse says, laughing.
Franco just rolls his eyes and turns away. “Which makes you something that it’d be offensive for me to say out loud and, unlike you, I have manners.” He shoots me a grin. “I should warn you about Jesse. He’s a big ugly roughneck with no manners and less class. Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile. He’s like a stray dog, actually. Feed him, and you’ll never be rid of him.”
Jesse reaches into a pouch of his tool belt, withdraws a nail, and flings it at Franco’s retreating back, pegging him square between the shoulder blades, leaving a red welt.
“Ow! You asshole!” Franco says, pawing at his back and spinning. “You better watch it, buddy boy. I’ll staple your hand to your dick while you’
re sleeping, and don’t think I’m kidding.”
I can’t help laughing. “You guys are ridiculous.”
“He’s ridiculous,” Franco says, winking at me as he vanishes into the kitchen. “I’m amazing.”
I mean, I’d have to agree.
“I’m amazing,” Jesse echoes in a sarcastic tone of voice. “Get outta here, twink. I don’t need you anymore.”
“Don’t lie to yourself, Jess,” Franco says, reemerging from the kitchen with a toolbox in one hand and a shirt with the other, “you’ll always need me. For one thing, I can count to twenty without taking off my boots.”
“Fuck you, pretty boy,” Jesse shoots back, grinning.
The two men bump fists, and Franco heads for the door, requiring me to move out of the way.
“Thanks for your help, Franco.”
“You’re welcome.” He aims this at me. “Meaning you’re welcome. Jess, you owe me a few rounds at the bar.”
I slide inside so Franco can leave, and I smell him—sweat and man. Makes me dizzy.
And there’s still Jesse to deal with. I put my back to door post and try to keep my knees from buckling. Why am I so weak right now? Hot guy overload? My poor libido has probably short-circuited.
“Imogen?” Jesse asks, his voice worried.
I blink at him, and realize he’s standing in front of me, frowning. “Huh? What?”
“Are you…okay? You were spacing out, or something. I was talking to you.”
I’m still all…woo-hoo. So my verbal filter, which isn’t the best around Jesse to begin with, is totally kaput. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Just…a little overwhelmed. You and Franco both in my house with your shirts off is a little much for my poor underserved libido to deal with.”
Jesse smirks. “Underserved libido?”
I curse mentally. “Um. You know. I—I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
His smirk widens into a shit-eating grin. “But you did, and now I’m curious as to what that means.” He swaggers a few inches closer to me, so his big frame occludes the house, the whole world, everything. “’Cause I think it means you haven’t had sex for a long time.”
“You’d be correct in that assumption,” I whisper.