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.
My thoughts drift to when I first met Jacob. A memory of my deceased dad.
It’s all a jumble, and then I sense a presence before me.
Daddy? I’m hallucinating if I think my father has come to visit me from beyond the grave. It’s the kind of fictional story I like to read. Fantasy, thriller, sci-fi, and horror are my jam. However, in real life, I don’t need a ghost haunting me.
Lilac? The masculine voice drifts to me as if I’m underwater. Definitely not my father as only one man calls me that name.
“Are you an angel?” he asked me when we first met. The next day, he decided I was more of a woodland nymph with a distinct fragrance—syringa vulgaris, the lilac.
Perhaps it was love at second sight for me then.
Lilac. The manly voice grows louder, sensual even with a raspy, low tenor. Again, not my father. It almost sounds like Jacob, but he’s not due home until tomorrow morning, thus the need for my presence today. I wonder if Mrs. Kewadin is almost done. I really want to go home, but I’m not certain I can move from this spot. I’m not comfortable, but the thought of getting in my Jeep and driving to my apartment in town does not sound like a wise idea despite the temptation of my bed.
“Lilac, what’s the matter?” The depth of the concerned tone surprises me.
I moan Jacob’s name as if he’s standing before me. I can’t open my eyes. They burn behind my heavy lids like my throat, which doesn’t want to work other than to groan. A fever has taken over, and I shake despite the aches in my body.
Something wraps me, shifting me, and I cry out at the movement.
No, don’t move me. I’d just found a warm spot on that damn cold couch.
“Hang on, Lilac.” The voice becomes more distinct.
“Jacob?” Is it really him? My head rests against a hard shoulder, and I’m cradled into a warm chest. This is nice. So nice. My nose presses into skin, and I inhale. Cloves. The sweet fragrance of tobacco tickles my nose, and I can’t help myself when I mutter, “You smell delicious.”
A deep chuckle rumbles the chest at my side, and I sense us ascending.
Where are we going?
Within minutes, I’m lying on something more comfortable than a leather couch, sinking into the depths of what’s under me. I miss the strong arms holding me and the comfort of nestling against a warm body, but layers of fresh-scented clouds of softness cover me, pressing down on my sore body. This is nice, too. Heat slowly seeps into my skin, and I melt into a sweet abyss without ever opening my eyes.
“Thank you,” I mumble to the imaginary Jacob. Lost in my pulsing head, I have no idea where I am, but a smile curls my lips as I drift into sleep with thoughts of my hot boss.
Chapter 2
Deliriousness
[Pam]
Slowly, I open my eyes to the light behind my lids. Taking in the dim room, I notice the vaulted ceiling. The starkness of the wall. The dark windowpane, and the comfort of an unfamiliar bed. I roll my head to the other side of me and push myself upward on a shaky arm. My head screams in pain, but I’m focused on the man beside me.
Please tell me I’m dreaming.
“That must be some hangover you’re nursing, Lilac.” The raspy tenor ripples over my skin, and my arm bends, collapsing me back to the bed. I look up at him with fearful eyes.
This is not happening.
“I’m not hungover.” I don’t recognize my own voice, rough from disuse and dehydration. My throat is killing me.
“I’m just teasing,” Jacob says, blowing out a breath. With his legs stretched out before him, he sits with his laptop on his thighs and glasses perched on the end of his nose. He almost looks studious, but once those glasses are removed, his appearance will shift to tough, edgy, and almost hostile.
“What are you doing here?” I question, staring up at him as my brain slowly processes—I’m in Jacob’s bed.
“Seeing as it’s my home, it makes sense for me to be here,” he jokes as he removes the glasses and sets them behind him. I’ve been in Jacob’s room before but never when he’s been present. Hell no. I’ve been up here to instruct the cleaning lady or snoop around when he’s out of town. A low bookcase placed behind his bed acts as a headboard of sorts. The bed stands in the middle of his room, near the large floor-to-ceiling window facing west. There’s a little reading-writing area with an overstuffed chair, ottoman, and floor lamp on the other side of the bookcase. The bathroom is located behind that section. It’s an unusual setup for an unusual man.
“A better question is what are you doing here, Goldilocks?” Of all the nicknames Jacob calls me, he’s never called me this one before. I might resemble the errant child with my chin-length straw-blond hair, styled in loose curls on occasion, but presently, my hair is greasy and plastered to my head. If I’m Goldilocks, he’s one grizzly bear, and this bed is just right, but I’m still wondering what I’m doing in it of all places.