Out of the Ashes Read online

  Tossing him a sharp look, I furrow my eyebrows. “Hell, no. She’s engaged.”

  And my answer is greeted with silence. Not only is this unusual for Kane, but it also lasts far too long.

  And that’s when it hits me. Shit. Presley’s adjustment of my spine must have knocked me for a loop because I normally wouldn’t be this off my game.

  Kane pulls the truck to a stop in our driveway, turns off the ignition, and directs his gaze to me, fixing that shit-eating grin on me. “I don’t recall Lucia being engaged, darlin’.”

  Fuck me.

  Attempting to school my expression and tone, I shrug. “My bad. Thought you meant Presley.”

  His grin widens. “Uh-huh.”

  Shifting to exit the truck, I roll my eyes at him. The worst part is he’s my damn roommate, as well.

  As we walk up the steps to the beach home on stilts, Kane starts whistling a familiar tune.

  Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling In Love”.

  Chapter Six

  Presley

  Sorry. Can’t make it. Too much work.

  An audible sigh escapes my lips when I read the text message that just came in, and I set my phone on the bar in disappointment. I was waiting for my fiancé in the local microbrewery pub in the historic downtown area of Fernandina Beach. I’ve already ordered their raspberry ale waiting on Dylan, so I figure I might as well stay and finish it.

  Internally, I scoff. Nothing’s more pathetic than a woman sitting alone at a bar, drinking after her fiancé stands her up. Nothing.

  Before I can get too involved in my pity party, a deep timbre sounds behind me.

  “Now, what’s a sweet lady like you doing alone in a place like this?”

  Turning in surprise, I find my eyes come to rest on a familiar man, ball cap tugged low over his eyes and casting a shadow over his face. Noticing that he’s garnering numerous looks from other nearby patrons, I wonder if he’s used to this. My heart hurts for him to see people stare at him in such an obvious manner.

  On the flip side of that, though, is the rapt attention he’s receiving from women, and I can’t say I blame them. The man is seriously built, and I think most women would lust over a set of massively broad shoulders like his along with his tapered waist. He’s powerful looking with a more-than-impressive physique. Regardless of the scarring on one side of his face, one can’t deny the chiseled, square jawline. And those lips of his are nicer than what most men are graced with.

  Not to mention, the feeling I get when he watches me with such intensity is… It’s both unnerving and thrilling.

  And shit. That was terribly inappropriate. He’s my patient—and I’m engaged…to Dylan.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Help yourself.” With a smile, I gesture toward the empty high-top barstools on either side of me. I watch as he chooses the seat beside the wall, placing his back to it while also positioning himself so that his left side won’t be exposed to the view of others.

  He makes a slight grimace. “One of my ‘assignments’ is to go out in public at least once a week.”

  I’m thrilled to hear he’s actively trying to assimilate, based on the advice of the therapist he’s been seeing. It’s critical to his recovery, even if painful.

  As he slides onto the stool, his movements are far more fluid than when he’d first come to my office a few weeks ago. When he asks the bartender for a beer, I peer over at him.

  “I certainly hope you’re limiting yourself to one drink, Mr. Hendri—Hendy,” I correct myself. My raised eyebrows and telling gaze are meant to remind him of my previous warnings regarding alcohol. As the bartender slides the pint in front of him, I can’t help but think about the increased swelling and inhibited healing held in that glass.

  He raises his frosty beer glass. “First and only. Scout’s honor.”

  Smirking, I swivel back around to face the bar. “Were you ever a Boy Scout?”

  He lets loose a laugh, and the sound of it skates across my skin, warming me. “No, ma’am.” Pausing for a beat, he forms his lips into a pout, giving me a look of playful dismay. “You think so poorly of me that you think I’d disregard my doctor’s orders and have more than one drink?” Shaking his head, he adds a dramatic, “I’m wounded.”

  Raising an eyebrow, I tip my head to the side. “Oh, really?”

  “Indeed, I am.” His smile is wide, and that slightly lopsided effect is far too endearing. “Just for that, I have to insist I keep you company while you wait for…” His eyes focus on me with a sudden intensity that warms me through to my center before darting over my shoulder as if looking for someone. He lets his words trail off, hanging there expectantly for me to finish the sentence for him.

  Turning my attention to my beer, I take a sip of the smooth brew, stalling. Stifling a sigh and setting my beer back down in front of me, I focus on it, and my index finger traces a path on the frosty glass. “No one now.”

  He’s silent for so long that I toss a glance at him curiously. I find his attention on his own beverage as if lost in thought.

  “My fiancé,” I offer, not knowing why I feel compelled to explain, “got held up at work and couldn’t make it.”

  Warm, dark brown eyes find mine. “Well, surely he won’t mind me watching out for his beautiful fiancée then.” As if an afterthought, he adds, “Kane got held up unexpectedly at work, too, so you’re in good company.”

  We fall silent for a moment before I notice Hendy catch the attention of one of the bartenders, whose name tag identifies him as Ryan, just starting his shift.

  “Hey, Ryan.” He reaches out to shake the young bartender’s hand. Ryan, at first, appears to falter when he catches sight of the part of Hendy’s face beneath the ball cap before reciprocating the handshake with a smile.

  “I’m Hendy, and this here is Presley.” Ryan nods his hello to me before Hendy goes on, making quick small talk with the young bartender, and I witness the smooth, easy way he distracts Ryan by way of charming him with such a friendly attitude. “You wouldn’t mind changing this particular TV”—he motions to the one on the wall above us—“over to Jeopardy until the game starts on ESPN, would you?”

  Ryan glances around as if to verify patrons aren’t visibly interested in the show on that particular mounted television before nodding. Reaching beneath the bar for a remote control, he points it at the television, flipping through channels until finding the game show.

  “Thanks, man.” He nods at Ryan.

  Jeopardy. Hendy just asked for the channel to be changed to Jeopardy.

  My nerd parts are squealing right now. He asked for Jeopardy! Because honestly, that’s like foreplay for a geek. And Dylan never likes to watch it with me.

  I can’t help but stare—gawk, really—at Hendy. Without turning toward me, he keeps his eyes trained on the television.

  As Alex Trebek goes through the brief introductions of the contestants, he speaks. “You’re staring.”

  “I’m…surprised.”

  “Why’s that?” He tosses a quick glance in my direction.

  “Jeopardy is my favorite show.” Wow. I sound like an idiot. But really, I’m just…stunned.

  “What is Dante’s Inferno?” he murmurs, eyes still glued to the television screen. Then with another quick glance my way, he says, “I’m a fan of trivia.” He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I like random facts.” Then, “What is The Stamp Act?”

  Mentally shaking off my daze, I steer my eyes toward the screen, and a moment later, Hendy and I both murmur in unison, “What are the Himalayas?”

  Darting a glance over at him, I notice his lips tip upward in amusement although his eyes still focus on the show. The lightness in his demeanor is evident, and I allow myself a moment to take in the sight, feeling pride that maybe—just maybe—I had something to do with him feeling better these past two and a half weeks.

  “What is Seabiscuit?”

  Damn. I should’ve gotten that one.

&nb
sp; Jerking my eyes away from the handsome man beside me who I’m discovering is full of surprises, I’m joined by a deep male voice when I answer next.

  “What is Zimbabwe?”

  * * *

  “Then he tried to tell me he was attempting to broaden his horizons by cooking chorizo soup and that it had absolutely nothing to do with Lucia.”

  Hendy breaks off with another one of his deep, husky laughs that are not only infectious but also make me smile wider by default. He’s been entertaining me with stories about his friends—mostly Kane since they’ve become roommates—all while watching the college football game being broadcast tonight.

  Now that the game has ended and Ryan slides our bills across the bar top, I’m startled when I check my phone and see how late it is. It dawns on me that Dylan hasn’t called or sent a text message—sadly, I’m not surprised.

  “You okay?”

  Turning to Hendy, I find him watching me in an unnerving way, but there’s also concern there.

  “I’m good. Just didn’t realize how late it was getting.” I wince. “Sorry you got stuck babysitting your doctor.”

  There’s a quick flash of something in his eyes—desire maybe—before it’s gone, and he offers me an easy grin. “Clue: Spending time with a beautiful, crazy smart woman in a pub on a Thursday.”

  Tipping my head to the side, I offer, teasingly, “What is a horribly boring night?”

  He makes a disappointed sound before leaning in closer, close enough to allow me to admire his long, dark eyelashes beneath the brim of his ball cap and for the scent of his masculine cologne to drift over me.

  “Correct answer is: What is one of the most fun nights I’ve had in far too long?”

  Chapter Seven

  Hendy

  We both sit frozen, my stare locking onto her lips. They look unimaginably soft, but it’s her eyes that continue to mesmerize me. Like she can peer inside, like she notices what I keep locked deep within, that she can—

  Rrrrrrrrr!

  Jolting from the loud vibration of her cell phone on the lacquered bar top, Presley jerks away. She grabs her phone like it’s a lifeline as the screen lights up with the name Dylan, signifying an incoming text message.

  She scans the message, and I can’t help but notice it’s a generic text saying good night and he’d talk to her the following day. And a part of me feels a little…jealous.

  Shit.

  Seriously, man. Get it together. You shouldn’t be getting close to another guy’s woman.

  But I’m not getting close. I’m having a fun conversation with a woman who happens to also be my doctor. A woman who’s helped me tremendously in such a short period. A woman who is incredibly smart and beautiful. A woman who doesn’t cringe in horror when she looks at me—who doesn’t appear to register the presence of my scars. A woman who’s a trivia nerd like me.

  Damn if that last one doesn’t give me some warm fucking fuzzies. I may have been with more than my allotted share of women who had an ass ton of space between the ears, but make no mistake…nothing turns me on more than a woman who’s smart as a whip. And yeah, I got a semi during Jeopardy, hearing her softly spoken answers each time Alex read a clue. I’m a sicko, I know. But shit, she’s got beauty, brains, and not to mention, she’s incredibly kind. This Dylan guy had better realize how good he has it.

  She reaches for her purse, reacting a split second too late to me slipping money to Ryan to pay our tabs.

  “Wait! You can’t—”

  I cut her off with a look of faux sternness. “You didn’t have to humor me and watch the game with me.” A college football game that consisted of two small schools, no less, but it served as an excuse to get out of the house for a bit. While I hate having to hide behind my ball cap, it doesn’t mean I want to become a damn recluse. “Or share a meal with me.”

  “It was my pleasure. But at least let me take care of the tip.” Opening her wallet, she tries to produce her share.

  Before she can pluck any bills from it, I lay my hand over hers.

  She doesn’t immediately look up to meet my eyes; instead, she appears transfixed by the sight of our hands together, and at the contrast in coloring, my darker, tanned skin to her fairer skin. It’s then my mind veers off like the old Hendy.

  To the fucking gutter. Because I imagine linking my fingers through hers while I fuck her against the wall, counter, bed—wherever—all the while whispering in her ear the other naughty things I plan to do to her.

  Except she’s taken. I need to remember that. And I sure as shit am not delusional enough to think anyone could love someone who looks the way I do. Least of all, someone as beautiful and sweet as Presley Cole.

  Mentally shaking off my thoughts and removing my hand from hers, I wink. “Consider it my treat,” I add softly, “for putting up with me these past few weeks.”

  What I get in return is an overly bright smile laced with a tinge of panic. She has such an unnerving way of seeing through me that I hope she didn’t see through to my inappropriate thoughts from seconds ago.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Hendy.”

  Slipping off the barstool, I wait for her to grab her purse. Presley and I wave at Ryan, thanking him again as we exit and step out into the typical Florida still-humid-as-hell-even-though-it’s-evening weather.

  “Where are you parked?”

  It’s dark, and although Fernandina Beach, especially the downtown area, is much like Mayberry where the worst crime that occurs is shoplifting a pack of chewing gum, I need to see her safely to her car. Lord knows I gave my mother more than her share of gray hairs as a hell-raiser back in the day, but there’s no denying she raised me to be a gentleman.

  “Just over there.” Presley gestures to the small parking lot nearby, a mere four yards away from where we stand. She pauses on the sidewalk, appearing nervous, and her eyes flit to me before darting away.

  “Thanks again for tonight.” I watch as she regains her composure, returning to doctor mode before meeting my gaze. “I’ll see you for your adjustment tomorrow.” Then she turns to step off the sidewalk, intent on crossing the street.

  Without me.

  Running a hand down my face with a silent groan, I quickly cross the street, following her. Approaching where she’s standing at her car, I call out her name as her vehicle’s lights flash twice when she unlocks it with her key fob.

  “Presley.” Drawing to a stop a foot away from her, I get this strange tightness in my chest at the fact she’s leaving me to head home. Stupid as hell, but there’s no denying it. There’s just something about her.

  But she belongs to—is engaged to marry—someone else. Knock it off, man.

  Yet when she peers up at me with those eyes—one blue and one green—I could get lost in their depths. Reaching for the door handle, I offer a smile and open the car door for her.

  “Get in. I want to make sure you leave here safe and sound.”

  At my words, I see something flicker in her eyes. And I know, at this moment, if she says anything remotely sweet to me right now, there’s a good chance it’ll send me crossing that line. And I can’t have that. I’ve got a reverse case of Florence Nightingale syndrome. That’s got to be it. Which is why I add my next words.

  “Gotta get you home safe so you can see your man.”

  Fuck. It leaves a nasty taste in my mouth to utter that shit. Reminds me of getting the damn desert sand in my mouth when we were out in the middle of nowhere on a mission. That shit makes you want to spit, clean out your damn mouth, and rid yourself of that grittiness.

  Her expression is shuttered, smile stiff, and her voice subdued. “Thanks again.”

  Closing the door after she’s safely inside and buckled up, I offer a quick nod, tugging the brim of my ball cap lower as I turn to make my way to my truck, which is parked along the curb near the bar. I don’t look back—no quick glance—because the disappointment that the night has to end makes me feel bad enough.

  But of all people,
I should know best that all good things must come to an end.

  Chapter Eight

  Presley

  “You’re a sadist in disguise, aren’t you?” Hendy groans as I assist him in a stretching technique for his IT band—or iliotibial band, which is connective tissue crucial to stabilizing the knee during running—he’s been having some issues with.

  “You’re the one who decided to push your limits and run on the beach when the sand wasn’t packed,” I shoot back, slowly pressing his right leg toward his chest and trying my best to ignore his groans.

  Trying being the keyword. Because those sounds send prickles of awareness running through my body, encouraging my mind in a direction it shouldn’t go—especially when the individual is a patient. It’s like I have a little Lucia on each shoulder, instead of a little devil and angel, whispering in her accent, “Imagine him making those noises in bed. That man will make you crazy in the best way.”

  “I need you to take it easy for the next few days.” Giving him a stern look when his lips part, I watch as he clamps them shut. “Otherwise, this will inhibit healing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The way he says that simple phrase does something to me. Then he softens his tone. “Answer: Just what the doctor ordered.”

  Curiously eyeing him, I shake my head, not knowing where he’s going with this. He grins wide, and it’s smiles like this one—wide, unabashed, and bright—that take my breath.

  “What is us catching some lunch later?” Even though it’s supposed to be a statement, Jeopardy-style, he phrases it as a question.

  Needing to put distance between us, I offer an apologetic smile as I move back and head to the computer to update the notes on his file. “You’re my patient, mister. And”—I playfully wiggle the fingers of my left hand, trying to keep my tone light—“I’m engaged.”

  Something shifts in his expression before I turn my attention back to the computer.

  “I know this, but your stomach was growling so loudly while you were torturing me a minute ago.”