Next to You Page 4

  When the muffins were cool enough to touch, she popped one out of the pan and took a huge bite. She moaned and closed her eyes in pleasure. Some things were just better than sex, and her peach almond muffins were one such thing. I should call them peach almond orgasms. She was dying to text Zee.

  Hah, she thought. Zee hadn’t said anything about social media. And baking wasn’t work-related. Phlox arranged the muffin, missing its one bite, on a pretty dessert plate then took a photo with her phone. She uploaded it to Facebook and Instagram, then tweeted about it for good measure.

  She poured a tall glass of cold milk and polished off the muffin. Then polished off two more. Then felt kinda’ ill. Maybe she needed to pace herself on the fattening foods.

  Maybe she needed to share.

  After rummaging in the back of a cabinet, she unearthed a stack of nested baskets. She pried one off the stack and lined it with a lime green linen napkin. She carefully arranged half a dozen muffins in the basket, then tucked another linen napkin over top.

  Jared Connor’s pickup truck was parked in the small driveway next to the cottage, so he was somewhere on the property. But there was no answer to her knock, not even a “I’m not dressed” reply. She peered back toward the garden, though she knew he wasn’t there. She’d walked right past the garden on the way to the cottage. Either he was out on the furthest edges of her property where, frankly, Phlox didn’t often venture—nothing but overgrown fields out that way—or he was inside the cottage. Maybe he was in the shower? Or had headphones on?

  Or was banging his girlfriend, she thought sourly. Cherise had described his references as impeccable. Of course, it was doubtful that Cherise had asked about his love life. She eyed the basket of muffins in her hands and for a moment considered taking them back to the house. Then she stopped herself.

  Don’t be a bitch. Leave him the muffins. His girlfriend might enjoy them too. If she took them back to the house, she’d end up eating all of them. While she could stand to gain a few pounds here and there, she didn’t really want to gain twenty or thirty. She set the basket down on the wooden bench next to the front door. A pair of men’s work boots was tucked neatly beneath the bench. For a moment, she wished she had brought a pen and piece of paper to write a note then realized how unnecessary that was. Who else would be leaving a basket of muffins by the door? A secret admirer?

  She returned to the house, trying to ignore the stinging sensation in her chest. Why did she care whether his girlfriend was over? Or that he even had a girlfriend? It certainly wasn't forbidden in his employment contract.

  You’re just jealous. Someone on your property is having sex and it’s not you.

  She had never invited a man up here for the weekend. Oh, David had been angling for an invitation lately. David Cook owned several high-profile restaurants in the city, as well as one in the Atlantis resort in the Bahamas. David and Rye were friends, and it was Rye who had fixed the two of them up on a few dates way back before the accident. The relationship hadn't really gone anywhere. Phlox always suspected that David's interest in her had been mostly a favor to her big brother. Like Rye, David dated mostly models—and Phlox couldn't compete with that. Then the accident happened and David more or less dropped off the face of the earth, where Phlox was concerned anyway.

  Not that she had expected him to visit her in the hospital or bring over a casserole, but flowers maybe? Or a card? Complete strangers had sent her those.

  About a month ago, however, David had begun calling her again. Rye was dropping none-too-subtle hints, as well. David Cook was a nice enough guy and a good date for a fun night out in the city, but it had occurred to Phlox that he was interested again only because she was prettier now.

  A certain segment of the male population had always ignored her before. Even with an impressive rack and a healthy bank account, she hadn't been beautiful enough. David hadn't been terribly interested in her back then, and now he was. The only thing that had changed was her face. That bothered her. Prior to the accident, she would have laughed that off —who cares as long as they're interested?

  But she did care.

  * * *

  Jared bit into one of the muffins, his tongue curling around a chunk of sweet peach. They were good. Really good. He poured himself a glass of milk and ate two more. He’d call it dinner.

  That was nice of her to leave him a basket of treats. He hoped she wouldn’t try and tip him when she left. That was always awkward and honestly Jared didn’t want any more face-to-face contact with her, even though her face was exceedingly lovely and he could easily conjure up how soft and clean-smelling she’d been in his arms yesterday, how soft her skin was beneath his hands. He didn’t like making others uncomfortable and so he tried mightily to avoid it. Not to mention it was better not to torment himself with beautiful women. Or any women really, beautiful or not. Better to not even open up that door when he couldn’t have one anyway.

  The baskets began appearing twice a day. There were muffins mid-morning—blueberry, raspberry, banana-walnut. Late afternoon, he’d return to the cottage to find cookies or pound cake, once even a peach pie. She was an excellent baker, that was for sure, and Jared was beginning to feel a little spoiled. Not spoiled enough to go thank her, though. That was the polite thing to do, naturally, but Jared preferred to wait her out. The weekend was drawing near and she'd probably leave then. Surely Miss Brisk Efficient would have notified him if someone was planning a long stay.

  There was only problem with that plan. She was probably going to come looking for the baskets before she closed up the house and left. Jared had a key to the main house, of course, and could return them when she was gone. But she might not realize that. She would be the good guest and return everything to exactly the way it was before she arrived.

  He had to return the baskets himself before she came knocking on his door. He procrastinated all week, until Friday when he decided he shouldn’t wait any longer. He got up at first light and dressed in jeans and a tee shirt. He picked up the stack of baskets and headed for the door. At the last minute, he set them back down and smashed a baseball cap onto his head.

  He skirted the gravel driveway and climbed up onto the porch from the side where it met the soft grass of the yard. He tiptoed across the wooden porch carefully, not wanting any of the boards to creak and give away his presence. So far so good. He knelt down and set the baskets next to the front door. He was about to stand and leave when the front door opened. He froze. Fuck.

  “Jared. Good morning.”

  Her voice was musical, with a lilting enunciation to her words. He felt all sorts of notes trilling in his body, a musical backdrop to his abominably bad luck. How could he not even return some baskets without running into her?

  He stayed where he was, kneeling on the porch at her feet. If he kept his head down, his cap would shield his face from her view.

  “Would you care for some coffee?” she asked. “The pot’s almost ready.”

  “No thanks,” he ground out. Why couldn’t she just go inside already so he could leave? No fucking way was he going to stand up with her right there. “Thanks for the muffins and, uh, cookies and stuff. They were good.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Even he could detect the note of puzzlement in her voice. Her feet remained where they were, unfortunately, rooted to the porch in front of him. Her feet were bare and her toes were now capped with a light coral shade of polish, not the bright pink he’d seen earlier in the week.

  Why was he dying to reach out a hand and touch her feet? Run his thumb over her instep, massage the balls of her feet and hear her moan in pleasure?

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Fine. Leg cramp, that’s all.”

  “Here, let me see.” She kneeled down beside him.

  Fuckfuckfuck. He twisted away from her, fighting the impulse to jump up and run back to the cottage like a madman. He had to handle this nightmare scenario as best he could—he didn’t want to l
ose this job. Looking for a new one would mean interviewing and meeting with people. This job was ideal—an owner who was never here and the property isolated enough out in the country that he didn’t run into other people all that frequently.

  He was about to bolt anyway when the firm touch of her hand on his calf stopped him. His breath caught in his throat. Even through his jeans, he could feel the warmth of her fingers as she rubbed his calf muscle. There was an incipient erection in his pants. He was fucking pathetic. All she was doing was touching his leg.

  “Jared, this would be easier if you sat back.”

  And now she knew his name too? Do guests really need to be on a first-name basis with the help?

  “I’m fine. You don’t have to do that.” He pulled his leg away from her probing touch, then had to resist the urge to thrust it back at her and beg her to rub it some more.

  When he didn’t stand, however, she spoke again. This time her voice was exasperated and amused. “What are you going to do? Crawl home on your hands and knees?”

  Fuck it. Jared was mad now. Why the hell did she have to force this issue? Why did she have to bake him cookies and muffins? Why couldn’t she just enjoy her stay here—by herself—and leave him alone. He was the fucking caretaker, for god’s sake. He wasn’t supposed to hob nob with the owner’s guests. Well fine. If this was the way she wanted it, then this was the way she was going to get it. He would put a stop to this nonsense right now. He whipped off his hat and turned toward her, looking her directly in the eye.

  “Happy now?” he spit out.

  There it was, that first wide-eyed shock of surprise in her eyes, her mouth dropped open in a perfect little oh. Yeah, oh. Fucking oh. He hated that look. Ever since he was a child he had been seeing that oh on people’s faces. Oh my. Oh dear. Oh fuck. There were endless variations on it. Someone as beautiful as she was could never in a million years understand what it was like to see oh on the face of every single person you passed. Even when he sold his company, oh was the first thing on every meeting’s agenda. Right, now. Got that out of the way, do we? Can we move onto business now?

  Yeah, he was a little bitter.

  He glared at her bright blue eyes, then stood and stalked off the porch. Oh was always followed by revulsion, a turning of the head, a shift of the eyes to feet, a car parked on the other side of the street, a sudden intense interest in birds shitting on parking meters. Anything but the hideous creature that was Jared Connor. He wasn’t sticking around to see her pretty eyes darken with disgust.

  Chapter 6

  “Jared! Wait!”

  She broke into a run to keep up with his angry stride. Shit. She hadn’t meant to make him mad. How was she supposed to know?

  “Damn it, will you stop?” she yelled at his back. His muscles were tight and tense beneath his form fitting tee shirt, rippling with every step he took away from her. Damn it all! Why hadn't Cherise told her about his face?

  Jared Connor didn’t stop, didn’t pause, didn’t even slow down. Clearly, he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. She followed him right, then left, as he traversed the path through her garden. Her breathing grew heavier. She was so out of shape. No surprise there. She'd spent a substantial chunk of the past year lying in bed, recuperating from one surgery or another.

  “I’m sorry,” she wheezed. Her run tapered off to a jog, then she stopped entirely, out of breath. “I understand, Jared.”

  That stopped him. He turned around, giving her a good full-on view of his face. The right side was rippled with scars from his hairline all the way down to his neck, where the scars disappeared beneath the cotton of his shirt. The left side of his face was less damaged, though, and Phlox's breath caught in her throat as she saw how handsome he'd once been. Hollywood handsome. Chiseled jaw, straight nose, strong cheekbones. His blonde hair was a little shaggy at the moment, but appealingly highlighted from all the time he spent outside in the sun.

  Her eyes dropped to his chest, which looked as hard and ripped as it had felt when he carried her into the house, then to his thighs, the muscles clearly outlined in tension beneath his jeans. He had a perfect body beneath what used to be a perfect face.

  It must be hard, she thought, to go from being so incredibly attractive to … this. She looked him in the eye again. She didn’t find him ugly, though. There was a dignity to him even as he stood there, his posture daring her to run away. And she knew he had a tender, caring side. Warmth rushed through her body as she remembered the touch of his calloused hands on her knees, gently cleaning the skin and taping a bandage on each. How had she not noticed his face then? Had she been that close to going into shock? Obviously, she had.

  They couldn’t just keep standing there, staring at each other. She had to say something. She wanted him to understand that she knew what it was like to have a face like that.

  “I’m sorry, Jared. I didn’t mean to—" Her hand touched her cheek. “I know what it’s—”

  His dark eyes flared with anger and she involuntarily took a step back.

  “No. You don’t. People like you fucking well do not know what it’s like,” he spit out. His narrowed eyes raked over her from head to toe. “Thank you for the muffins, etcetera. Now leave me alone. I just work here.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away, slamming the cottage door behind him.

  I just work here. Except Phlox and Zee’s employees didn’t “just work” for them. That’s not how they viewed their employees. When needed, back in the early days of the company, Phlox and Zee had gone without paychecks so they could make payroll for everyone else. Even as the company had grown, they still tried to know everyone by name, know something about their lives and families. Employees were important to them … even angry reclusive caretaker employees.

  She trudged back to the house, barefoot. She wasn’t even wearing shoes because it was so damn early in the morning. The stack of baskets were still sitting on the porch. She picked them up and carried them into the kitchen, where the pot of coffee was now ready. She looked at the plate of pistachio muffins sitting on the island and her stomach turned at the thought of eating one.

  She was getting a little sick of muffins and cookies, not to mention frozen pizzas and supermarket salads. To cook more, though, she would have to use the range. She would have to turn on the gas. Even though she’d been here nearly a week, her heart still raced every time she put her hand on one of the range’s shiny knobs. Intellectually, she knew it wouldn’t happen again. It was more likely that she’d be hit by lightning. But the fear was bone deep. Just standing in front of the range made her muscles go weak and shaky.

  She sat down on an island stool and drank her coffee. Jared was wrong. She wasn’t one of the “people like you” who didn’t understand what it was like to have the kind of face most people associated with monsters. Frankenstein. Quasimodo. The Phantom of the Opera. Phlox had lived through that herself, an experience she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy.

  She pressed her fingers to her cheek, then her sternum. Of course, he wouldn’t realize that she had shared that experience. There was no way for him to know that. Phlox had gold-plated insurance and enough money to pay for whatever the insurance hadn’t covered. She’d been able to hire a team of plastic surgeons to fix her right up. It only took thirty-two operations, but now when people passed her on the street, they no longer flinched. It was only Phlox who did a double take, every time she caught a glimpse of her new face reflected in the window of a store or a taxi parked at the curb.

  As she poured another cup of coffee, she wondered how Jared had gotten burned and what his care afterward had been like. She picked up her phone and called Cherise.

  “Good morning, Phlox. This is your one call.”

  Phlox sighed. “I am aware of that.”

  “Then what can I do for you on this lovely Friday?”

  “Did we extend full benefits to Jared Connor?”

  “The caretaker? Of course. He’s a full-time employee.”


  “Was he sent a benefits packet?”

  “That I don’t know. I can check with HR.”

  “Will you do that for me, Cherise? And let me know. Also, can you do me another favor?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “In my apartment, there’s a photo album. It has a black leather cover and it’s in the bottom left drawer of my desk in my home office. Can you overnight that to me? Rye can give you a key.”

  Cherise was silent on the other end. Probably pressing some sort of panic button to alert Zee.

  “I can do that,” her assistant said finally. “Is everything okay up there?”

  “Yes. Did you interview the caretaker in person?”

  There was silence on the other end. Then Cherise replied. “Not in person, no. I spoke to him on the phone and his references were glowing. Why? If you don’t like him, I can find someone else.”

  “No. It’s fine. He’s doing a terrific job. I just wondered. Call me if you can’t find the photo album.”

  She set her phone back down on the island and took another long sip of coffee. She hadn’t looked at that photo album in months and it was the last thing she wanted to look at now. Or ever again, for that matter. It was filled with photographs taken of her in the hospital immediately after the accident, then before and after each surgery. Some were selfies, some were photos she had forced her parents or brother to take. Everyone had questioned the wisdom of it, but Phlox had done it anyway. It was the scientist in her. She had needed some record of the process—documentation of the problem, the hypothesis and the outcome.

  She spent the rest of the day monitoring comments online about the A2Z Cream. She was still shaken by the morning’s encounter with the caretaker but working always focused her mind, focused her emotions. Between the two of them, Zee was the people person. Phlox was more comfortable with numbers and results. If Jared Connor could be reduced to a specific quantifiable problem, then Phlox would be able to come up with a solution.