audience—and thus to the entire gossip network of Grasse—that she and he had slept together.
“Why are you fixing my problems?” she demanded, rather than try to apologize for something she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to.
“Because apparently I’m causing them.”
Well…he was. Stealing her company, the whole laboratory-supply issue, the hotel, the water and electricity.
“Just by existing,” he said.
Yes. Just by existing, he made a tumult rise inside her that made her feel far too alive. Like she could get hurt again.
But he made her want to fight , too. Like she was a resilient person who knew she could survive a few hurts.
God , it felt good to feel alive.
“I don’t owe you anything,” she insisted, folding her arms across her chest.
“You owe me a damn fragrance,” he said sharply, and left.
***
The water and electricity were on by noon, a rapidity that suggested the mayor might have gotten involved, and Damien himself carried in a mattress right after she got back from lunch. He didn’t speak to her, his expression cool and closed when their eyes met briefly. He and a big man with charcoal-streaked russet hair carried the mattress up the stairs and, before she could even make it to the landing after them, came back down with the old mattress and disappeared with it down the street.
And Jess lay back on the bare mattress, which smelled of factories and newness, and stared at the ceiling and didn’t know what to think or feel about any of it.
The new smell of the mattress wasn’t a hospital smell, but it was closer than anything else she had smelled since she got off the airplane. Close enough to take her mind back to a place it didn’t want to go…
***
New York, six months ago
Her phone was ringing. She shifted on the uncomfortable chair in the ICU waiting room, where she’d gone while the nurses changed her father’s catheter, did those last care-taking things. She should have left him in his apartment, like he’d wanted, but she just couldn’t watch him die without seeing if there was one last thing the hospital could do.
By now, of course, she realized she’d been wrong. She shouldn’t have done this. Grasped onto him so hard that she hurt him in her fear of letting go. She should have just let him…die.
She shoved water off her face, yet again, and tried to focus on the phone screen.
She didn’t recognize the number, but she often didn’t recognize numbers these days. It could be test results or insurance, a new doctor, or, rare-to-nearly-never anymore, someone calling to see if she needed help, could they bring food, do a load of laundry, drive her somewhere.
She’d read on a website the things people were supposed to do to help someone in her situation. Almost no one ever thought to do them for her. After two years, maybe they’d gotten tired of it.
She was tired. So tired her hand fumbled on the phone as she answered.
“Jess.” The male voice was calm, assured, sexy French-on-British. Her heart tightened in this confused, mushy way, like it wasn’t actually a muscle anymore, it had been pulverized too much. She couldn’t deal with Damien Rosier. Not tonight. “How are you doing?”
She stared at the waiting room television while tears filled her eyes just at the question. She had to hold the phone away from her a second to sniff hard and cram all those tears back.
For that moment, she wanted to turn to him so badly. Wanted to just fling herself into his arms, make him , through sheer desperation, be that man she had imagined him to be—someone tender and careful and strong, able to hold her through this terrible, terrible night.
The same way she’d wanted to make her father stay alive.
“Now that you’ve had a bit more time to adjust to everything, I wondered if we could talk. Could I take you out to dinner?” He named one of the top restaurants in the city.
Oh, God, of course he wasn’t asking if she needed help. He was bored or something.
“Why are you fixing my problems?” she demanded, rather than try to apologize for something she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to.
“Because apparently I’m causing them.”
Well…he was. Stealing her company, the whole laboratory-supply issue, the hotel, the water and electricity.
“Just by existing,” he said.
Yes. Just by existing, he made a tumult rise inside her that made her feel far too alive. Like she could get hurt again.
But he made her want to fight , too. Like she was a resilient person who knew she could survive a few hurts.
God , it felt good to feel alive.
“I don’t owe you anything,” she insisted, folding her arms across her chest.
“You owe me a damn fragrance,” he said sharply, and left.
***
The water and electricity were on by noon, a rapidity that suggested the mayor might have gotten involved, and Damien himself carried in a mattress right after she got back from lunch. He didn’t speak to her, his expression cool and closed when their eyes met briefly. He and a big man with charcoal-streaked russet hair carried the mattress up the stairs and, before she could even make it to the landing after them, came back down with the old mattress and disappeared with it down the street.
And Jess lay back on the bare mattress, which smelled of factories and newness, and stared at the ceiling and didn’t know what to think or feel about any of it.
The new smell of the mattress wasn’t a hospital smell, but it was closer than anything else she had smelled since she got off the airplane. Close enough to take her mind back to a place it didn’t want to go…
***
New York, six months ago
Her phone was ringing. She shifted on the uncomfortable chair in the ICU waiting room, where she’d gone while the nurses changed her father’s catheter, did those last care-taking things. She should have left him in his apartment, like he’d wanted, but she just couldn’t watch him die without seeing if there was one last thing the hospital could do.
By now, of course, she realized she’d been wrong. She shouldn’t have done this. Grasped onto him so hard that she hurt him in her fear of letting go. She should have just let him…die.
She shoved water off her face, yet again, and tried to focus on the phone screen.
She didn’t recognize the number, but she often didn’t recognize numbers these days. It could be test results or insurance, a new doctor, or, rare-to-nearly-never anymore, someone calling to see if she needed help, could they bring food, do a load of laundry, drive her somewhere.
She’d read on a website the things people were supposed to do to help someone in her situation. Almost no one ever thought to do them for her. After two years, maybe they’d gotten tired of it.
She was tired. So tired her hand fumbled on the phone as she answered.
“Jess.” The male voice was calm, assured, sexy French-on-British. Her heart tightened in this confused, mushy way, like it wasn’t actually a muscle anymore, it had been pulverized too much. She couldn’t deal with Damien Rosier. Not tonight. “How are you doing?”
She stared at the waiting room television while tears filled her eyes just at the question. She had to hold the phone away from her a second to sniff hard and cram all those tears back.
For that moment, she wanted to turn to him so badly. Wanted to just fling herself into his arms, make him , through sheer desperation, be that man she had imagined him to be—someone tender and careful and strong, able to hold her through this terrible, terrible night.
The same way she’d wanted to make her father stay alive.
“Now that you’ve had a bit more time to adjust to everything, I wondered if we could talk. Could I take you out to dinner?” He named one of the top restaurants in the city.
Oh, God, of course he wasn’t asking if she needed help. He was bored or something.
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