The Warrior Within E-Book

Brooke Campbell

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Libby struggles with a debilitating disease and is resigned to singlehood. When she goes out one evening with co-workers, the last thing she expects is to stumble into the woman of her dreams: Jo.

It isn't long until she falls head over heels for her. But Jo's stunning revelation could spell the end of their new relationship, and as if that wasn't bad enough, the 150-year-old half-vampire has powerful enemies - including her father.

Entering Jo's dangerous world, Libby is drawn into a web of secrets and danger. Can she overcome the seemingly insurmountable odds and survive?

This book contains adult content and is not recommended for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

THE WARRIOR WITHIN

BOOK ONE OF THE WARRIOR SERIES

BROOKE CAMPBELL

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

1. Twilight Fan Club

2. Am I Drooling?

3. Nerd City

4. What Am I Missing?

5. Welcome Back

6. A Stern Talking To

7. Inexplicably Thirsty

8. But I’m an Oddball

9. Magic Kool Aid

10. Big Deal about Nothing

11. I Don’t Care Why

12. A Matter of Perspective

13. On Your Idiotic Heads

14. Where Do I Draw the Line?

15. I’m a Survivor

16. Despite Everything

17. All Just Fine

18. I’m Getting an Idea

19. I Kinda Enjoy It, Too

20. What a Morning

21. Goldilocks

22. Yeah, Real Courageous

23. Like There’s No Tomorrow

24. This is Insane

25. Significantly Less Satisfying

26. Thought We Were in a Hurry

27. I Can Do This

28. Little Lesbian Me

29. Will Haunt Me

30. Putting It Mildly

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Brooke Campbell

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Chelsey Heller

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To Terri Nelson. Every day, for a million reasons, I choose you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would be horribly remiss if I didn’t thank the following people—in no particular order of importance. You know why you are on this list and have earned my gratitude. My uber-talented and gorgeous sister Yvonne, Grandma Campbell who passed along her love of reading and endless boxes of bodice-ripping romances, my mentor and fellow author Christy English, Patrice Schwermer, Chelsey Heller, Shannon Quinn, and E.J. Thinker. If I’ve forgotten you, feel free to dip me in chocolate and feed me to the lesbians.

1

TWILIGHT FAN CLUB

Bobbing my head to the hypnotic beat, I make my way around the dance floor, my eyes full of the mass of sweat-slicked bodies writhing under the strobe lights. There is some serious eye candy here tonight. Carefully, I continue along the long side of the L-shaped bar to the short hall leading to the smaller bathroom, counting on a shorter line. Don’t ask me why the area’s most popular nightclub only has one stall on this side, but most people know about it and opt for the larger bathrooms on the other side of the dance floor. To entertain myself in line, I turn around and face the greater room. My body sways slightly to the beat. I miss dancing. I wish…

No. No sense getting caught up in wishing.

But the thought sours my enjoyment of watching the dancers. Instead, I turn my attention to the people clustered around the bar, entertaining myself with the gay or nay game. Okay, maybe it isn’t especially politically correct, but it amuses me. HoneyBears, the area’s only gay bar, is famous for cheap drinks and amazing music. They draw huge mixed crowds every weekend. Visually, I make my way down the bar, noting to myself gay or nay, while balancing on the cane as I keep the rhythm.

Unexpectedly, my eyes snag on the sexiest woman I have ever seen sitting at the far corner of the bar. My mouth goes dry. Statuesque, she towers at least a head over those around her. In the flickering light, I can only tell her hair is dark, shaved close on the sides with perfectly messy curls on top, as if she just ran her hands through it. Dressed in an inky sleeveless mock turtleneck that emphasize a long neck and powerfully built frame—holy cannoli, is she a hot, hot, hottie. Contrasting sharply with the black top, her flawless skin glows pale. Talk about butch. At a glance, I’d assume she was a man. Oh, Gaia. You are so my type.

My breath hitches. I swear, she is staring right back at me, smirking like she just heard a joke. No, not at me. Someone’s behind me, right? Casually, I turn around, but I’m the only one paying attention to her. When I look back, she nods once as if in confirmation, and my breath leaves me.

I swear, if she isn’t a lesbian, I’m going to cry.

A devastatingly handsome man walks up to Hottie. They talk, but Hottie keeps staring back at me. Through me. I could seriously get lost in that woman’s intense gaze. I resist the urge to look behind me again. Handsome follows Hottie’s gaze and I squirm under his hostile scrutiny. He’s casual in ripped jeans and a faded black T-shirt with a Led Zeppelin album cover on it, but only a fool would dismiss the danger rolling off him in waves. He’s lean and clearly strong, with chiseled cheeks and piercing eyes. A chill goes through me despite the heat. Thankfully, after a long second, the man dismisses me, and I let out the breath I was holding. Grabbing a martini glass from the bar, he heads across the room.

The line moves, and I step back several paces into the darkness of the hall, giving me the relief of anonymity. But Hottie keeps staring in my direction as if she can still see me. Surely, she can’t. My mind runs away with an image of those intense eyes probing mine as she bends to kiss me, and my pulse races before I can blink the illusion away. A sexy grin stretches across Hottie’s face. I start to return her smile and stop myself just in time. Ridiculous. She isn’t grinning at me.

A small group of laughing women join me in the back of the line and my view is broken. All three of these pretty women are very drunk and clearly having a blast. Watching them, I wish I was out with my best friend Emma tonight instead of being the designated driver for my coworkers.

Finally, I give up on being able to see around the women. Probably for the best, anyway. Hottie is so far out of my league, I’m not even in the stadium.

I turn and face the cute woman in front of me. She’s young, petite, and wearing darkly provocative eye makeup. She has on a tight pair of cut-offs and a tighter cropped top. A belly button piercing flashes—no really, it must be an LED light—on her flat stomach. I look down at my own outfit and stifle a sigh. Of all the women in this club tonight, why on Earth was that sexy woman looking at me?

My coworkers and I went out for a casual dinner after work before coming here. I didn’t know this is where we would end up, or believe me, I would have dressed differently. While my T-shirt is a pretty green, it is two sizes too big, with Visualize Whirled Peas emblazoned in large white letters across my chest. Not exactly club attire. And to top it all off, I’ve tucked it loosely into baggy jeans that don’t flatter my figure at all, but leave room for a knee brace. The result is that the T-shirt balloons out, making me look larger than I am, thanks to the two best things my mother gave me. Completing this stunning outfit is a worn pair of dark brown Clarks that are very good for my feet and back, but look like boats. It feels like my ponytail has come loose.

Yup, sex goddess, that’s me. Fashionista Emma would be horrified if she saw me here now.

And completing the ensemble, there’s the cane. Navy, with bright flowers, it doesn’t blend in so well. I hate how people look at me when I have it. All the questions even strangers feel free to ask. You poor thing! What happened? Do you need help?Ugh. I tried to convince myself it was an accessory, but times like this, I wish it were easier to hide. Who am I kidding? I wish I didn’t have it at all.

The woman in front of me goes in after two others emerge holding hands. I don’t even want to think about what they were doing in that disgusting stall. Yuck.

When it’s finally my turn, I take a quick second to refresh my ponytail, tucking wisps behind my ears, stifling my hope that I’ll see that butch again. Yet, on my way out, I can’t stop myself from seeking her.

My heart sinks when I can’t find her. Why so surprised? It just confirms what I suspected all along. People like that aren’t interested in people like me. Move along, hot women, move along. There’s nothing to see here. The dejection that blankets me takes a long minute to shake off. Maybe I’m not as resigned to singlehood as I thought.

After the relative quiet of the hallway and bathroom, the thumping music and flashing lights are starting to give me a headache. I pick my way along the bar, trying to anticipate the erratic movements of the writhing crowd.

Suddenly, a shrieking woman tumbles backwards off her stool right at me. Instinctively, I twist and lurch away, wrenching my bad knee and my back. I lean heavily on my cane when the flailing woman manages to kick it out from under me, and the cane flies out of my hand. Trying to remain upright, I flail my arms. Staggering backwards, I run into a solid barricade. An arm sweeps across my abdomen and lifts me flush against a hard body, as if I’m a rag doll. The tall stranger’s arm holds me so high on my abdomen that my double Ds are propped on top of it, like a shelf. But all thoughts are chased away by a nerve pulse shooting down my leg, and I spasm and gasp with the white-hot pain.

“I have you, I have you, shhhh.” Soft breath and a deep voice caress my ear. An enticing scent calms me somewhat, but my focus is scattered. “Are you hurt?”

All I can manage is a jerk of my head as the nerve zings again, coiling around my foot like a live wire.

“Merde.” Disjointedly, I note the slight accent and recognize the French curse. “Can you sit?” At a second jerky nod, I’m lifted effortlessly onto a stool. In dismayed shock, I recognize my savior. Figures Hottie would have to see me like this. Gah, she’s strong.

My teeth are clenched in pain and I’m trying not to draw attention to myself. I mumble, “My cane, I-I need my cane.” I hurt so badly, I can’t even think beyond getting out of this place.

“I will get your cane. Right now, you just keep breathing, in and out, good.” She takes a few deep breaths with me and I train my focus on her emerald eyes. Once she sees I’m breathing more deeply, she squeezes sideways beside me, signaling the bartender. Facing the dance floor, I can’t hear or see what she’s doing. Every bit of me is focused on trying not to cry. Only drunks cry in bars. Remember? You are having fun tonight.

I’m staring blindly down when a figure approaches and I look up into steely eyes. Super. Mr. Danger looks me over critically, eyebrows knitted, and I shudder.

He turns to Hottie, anger punctuating a British accent forced through clenched teeth. “Bloody hell! I hope you know what you’re doing, mate.”

Relax. It’s called pity. She couldn’t possibly be attracted to me. Give me a minute and I’ll be on my way.

Hottie maneuvers around, holding a glass of what looks like a soda. She hands it to me, a fat straw swirling as if it’s just been stirred. “Drink this. It will help.”

When another shot of pain passes, I blow out my breath. “Thanks, but I don’t want any alcohol.” I try to push her hand away. She is so strong that all I end up doing is pressing my hand against the back of hers. Her cool skin is like satin over steel. I let my hand drop, and I can’t stop the jerk when the nerve zaps me again. My shin is alive with pins and needles now.

Hottie ducks her head so our eyes meet and hers are intense. Like dark evergreen forests with streaks of sunlight peeking through. “Oui, so I noticed. No alcohol, I promise. Besides, you look very thirsty.” Towering over me, a woodsy, sensual scent envelopes me. Cologne? Pain momentarily forgotten, the smell tightens my abdomen. I take the sweating glass as she turns to him. “It is under control, Niall. Let the others know that I will be a while.”

Niall walks away, shaking his head. I can’t believe how thirsty I am all of a sudden. When all I taste is soda, I’m relieved. Gah, I’m so thirsty. I chug half the glass. “Thank you.”

Hottie nods and keeps staring at me like she’s trying to read my thoughts. Thank the goddess that can’t happen. A few more deep swigs and I lean back into the bar. The nerve pulse isn’t as sharp and my knee doesn’t seem to throb as much. I feel my face and shoulders relax. I take another long drink and a deep breath. When the shooting pain stops abruptly, the relief is so profound that tears pop into my eyes and I gasp. Despite blinking rapidly, one tear escapes. I stop breathing altogether when she cups the side of my face and her thumb wipes the tear away. I have an insane urge to rub my face in her hand like a cat. The gesture is so intimate that I squirm self-consciously. She drops her hand and gestures to the glass. “Finish that.”

“What do you mean, you noticed?” I’m a little slow catching up, but she seems to know to what I’m referring. There are only a few swallows left and I drink them down. Just like that, my headache dissolves and the tingles in my leg disappear. I feel almost normal. Weird. I’ve never had pain just go away like that.

A sultry look comes into her eyes, distracting me. “Oh, I have been watching you for a while now. Hard not to. With a face like this lit up by laughter—” she spreads her hands in a can-you-blame-me gesture. I’m really out of practice because that can’t mean what it sounds like she is implying, but my cheeks heat anyway. I mean, look at me. “Especially judging the condition of your…friends…you surprise me. You are different.”

Yeah, I’m different, alright. I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. Nervously, I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear a couple of times. I can’t believe how much just sitting here has helped me. How is that possible? I actually feel better than before that drunk fell into me. At that moment, the memory of what happened floods me. I have been so fully distracted by the pain that I forgot. In my mind’s eye, I see myself flailing my arms and hopping around like a crazed bird, and then tripping right into this sex-on-a-stick woman…I cover my face and groan into my hands. How humiliating. If it weren’t for this knee, I never would have lost my balance. Gods, I hate this body.

She takes hold of my wrists and gently pulls my hands away from my reddened face. “I believe you are being too hard on yourself. Did you ask that woman to fall off the stool into you?”

Oops. Guess I said some of that out loud. “No, no. I just looked ridiculous. Gods, I hope I didn’t hurt you when I ran into you.” She shakes her head, looking amused again. “Look, thank you. For everything. But I’m fine now. I’ll go back to my coworkers and you can go back to…” I trail off. For some reason, I started to say the hunt. Though she seems calm, she’s as intense as her friend, Niall. As if underneath the veneer, she is coiled for…violence.

“Please, do not apologize for something you cannot help. Everyone looks ridiculous when they fall, n’est pas? Besides, you saved me the trouble of figuring out how best to approach you while simultaneously setting me up to be the hero. I should be thanking you.” She smiles and it transforms her face. Just wow. Then she gets serious again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Um, sure, I guess.” I frown, figuring it’s going to be about the cane or the knee brace. Her hands are resting on my knees, so I know she feels it.

That’s why I’m floored when she comes out of left field. “Why do you hide your incredible body? Because when you were pressed up against me, mmm, believe me, I felt every luscious curve.” Her eyes heat and her accent thickens with the seductive words.

My mouth drops open. For real. Cheeks red, I snap it shut. My 1950s pin-up body doesn’t fit today’s ideal of lean beauty. Besides, who would want a crip like me? Ignored is easier than rejected, so I hide.

I’m grasping around for something to say, tucking my loose hair behind my ear a few times. Watching my struggle, a slow, sexy smile spreads across her face. “What is your name, belle?”

I blink. Twice. Beautiful? I blink again and shake my head. Stop. She probably calls all women beautiful. It isn’t personal. “Ah, my name is Libby.”

Her face lit up with mirth, she gives me a short bow and says, “A pleasure to meet you, Libby.” She rolls my name around her tongue like melting chocolate, and I think it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard, my name on her lips. “I am Jo.”

“Hello, Jo.” I laugh at the rhyme, and that’s when it hits me how tired I am. Had it been up to me, I would have left hours ago, but since I agreed to be the designated driver, I need to wait. I thunk my forehead. “My friends are probably wondering what happened to me.”

“Libby, these friends are beyond caring about anything. See for yourself.” She wraps her arm around my back and presses me forward so that I can see around the people at the bar to our table. The action is so familiar that I’m momentarily overwhelmed. I’m entranced by her sexy scent and inhale deeply. With effort, I pull myself together enough to focus on the table. Several people have joined them, and the party is raging on just fine without me.

I straighten and look up. Jo lowers her head and cinnamon-scented breath fans my cheek. I wonder if she’s going to kiss me. Gah, I want her to kiss me. Her eyes are hypnotic. On another deep inhale of her delicious scent, the butterflies dive deep.

Gulping, I break eye contact, and lean back, babbling like a scared teenager rather than the experienced 27-year-old I am. “Obviously, my co-workers are okay. They sure look like they’re having a great time. I guess they don’t miss me.” It’s been a long time since someone showed interest in me, and unless I am way off, she is. But she can’t be! And I have apparently forgotten how to flirt. Mortification colors my cheeks. What is wrong with me?

Her smoldering expression clears, and she straightens and steps back. I relax, albeit disappointed, smoothing away hair that tickles my cheek. “Do you live nearby, Libby?”

“Um, no, actually I live about 45 minutes south of here. Down 81.”

A broad smile brightens her face. “As do I. Will you allow me to help you?”

I don’t know what she is talking about, but I find myself agreeing. “Yes.” Then I can’t help myself. “But you have already done so much, you don’t have to—”

“This is not about what I have to do, Libby, rather what I want to do. If you will allow me.”

I’m still not sure what she intends to do, but strangely, I feel safe with this complete stranger. “Sure. Please.”

“Excellent. Do not move.” She pats my knees and I watch her weave her way through the crowd, texting on her phone. A quick look around finds Niall standing at a table not far away, watching me pensively. I feel like making a face at him, but the childish impulse passes, thank Gaia. In this lighting, he’s almost painfully white, even more so than Jo. I glance around at the handful of equally pale, ridiculously attractive people. It’s the Twilight Fan Club gone seriously wrong. Lay off the plastic surgery, folks, and get some sun.It’s kind of pathetic. Suddenly, Niall doubles over with laughter.

Yeah, I know. The idea that she’s into me is hilarious, am I right?

On her way back to me, Jo studies the floor, and a few feet away she ducks down and comes up holding my cane. She moves like my cat, lithe and quick. I could watch her body move all night. Gods, what I wouldn’t give to watch that sexy body move to music. Any music.

Somehow, I manage to smile. “Thank you. Really. You didn’t have to.”

“Come, before you fall off this stool from sheer exhaustion.”

I pat the bulging pocket where my keys rest. “Oh, believe me, I’d love to but I’m the DD tonight. I have to wait for them to finish partying.”

“Oui, so they earnestly informed me. I sent for a car to take them home.”

Does she mean a taxi? Uber? Should I pay for it? “Um. Okay.” It hits me that I’ve crossed over that fatigue line. Geez. I may not be safe to even drive myself home.

“You do not have to, Libby.” I must have voiced my thought again. I really am tired. She smiles enigmatically. “Louis will take you home. Tomorrow, when you are ready, he will bring you back to your car.” She stops the protest rising on my face. I get the impression she’s angry with me. “Did you not agree to allow me to help you, Libby?” For a second I think I see a flash of red in her eyes, but I blink and it’s gone and I’m sure my tired brain conjured it. I swallow and reluctantly nod my acquiescence. It’s not often I accept help, but tonight, I know I need it.

She keeps hold of my cane, having no trouble cutting through the crowd, and I focus on following in her wake to the door. However, I’m not too tired to notice the tight buns in those fitted designer jeans. Holy Hairballs! She stops when Niall meets up with her and they have a quiet conversation. He actually winks at me as he walks by.

It is such a relief when we step outside into the quiet. I lift my face to the night sky and fill my lungs with the cooler air. My ears ring.

“I regret that I am unable to personally see you home this evening, but I invited people here and I must play host. However, I trust Louis with my life and I hope you can forgive me.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to forgive. You’ve done so much.” I’m disappointed she isn’t coming with me, but I hold my tongue. We come from vastly different worlds. She could have anyone. And she probably can’t wait to get back to her friends. “Goodbye. It was nice to meet you.”

An energetic 50ish gentleman wearing a smart black suit and a kind smile hurries to us, and Jo hands him my cane. He bows to Jo, then to me, and steps discreetly away to wait by a huge black SUV parked on the street. This must be Louis.

Jo lays her hands on my shoulders. “This is not goodbye, sweet Libby with the sexiest-yet-carefully-concealed body.” I’m fully blushing now, her seductive smile warming me to my toes. “Au revoir, until we meet again.” She brushes her lips across my forehead, helps me up into the SUV, and turns. She and Louis speak in low voices and I touch the spot she kissed. Once settled into the buttery leather, fatigue covers me like a blanket. I rouse myself as Louis hands me my cane, and then his card, which I tuck it into my pocket. My eyes lock on Jo as he closes the door. I can hardly believe what’s happened tonight is real, and I’m afraid I’ll never see her again. Reluctantly, I tear my gaze away to give Louis my address for his GPS. When I look back, Jo hasn’t moved. Bathed in streetlight, she stands like a fabled goddess of war in marble, watching us roll down the street.

2

AM I DROOLING?

I wake from a deep, nearly dreamless sleep to birdsong and a breathy purr. Whiskers tickle my ear. I squirm away and open my eyes to sunshine peeking around plum-colored blackout curtains covering the two windows over my head. Darcy’s whiskers trail up my cheek and I can’t help but smile, especially when the tips of his ears come into my peripheral vision. “Mornin’,” I reach out and scratch under his chin. The purr ends in a plaintive meow. “Now, that’s pitiful. Just a sec, little man.”

I roll to my side as he leaps from the bed with a solid da dump that belies his delicate frame. I notice it’s after 11. As I didn’t get in until close to 2 this morning, I am grateful I slept so late. I steadily push myself up until I’m perched on the side of the bed. It takes several deep breaths for my body to settle. Slowly, I take stock of my joints, tentatively moving my feet and legs around. My knee remains less swollen than it has been for the past two weeks, and I feel some of the normal stiffness in my lower back, but otherwise, it isn’t bad. Considering the jarring fall I took last night, I’m relieved. Frankly, I should feel much worse and I don’t really understand why I don’t. But I chalk it up to one of those quirks of a complex immune system. Half-heartedly I do some stretches a physical therapist once gave me to help loosen my back before shuffling to the bathroom, trying not to trip over my tuxedo as he weaves figure eights around my legs.

By the time I make coffee, my back and neck are less stiff. As I wait for the fragrant brew, I lean against the counter, thinking about last night. Jo. Oh my, was she provocative. The whole fantasy package. Strong, tall, intense, mysterious. And, since we are talking fantasy after all, rich doesn’t hurt, either. I mean, she had her driver take me home.

Oh, crap. My car. I yawn widely. Yeah, it can wait.

Darcy rubs against my leg and voices his frustration, interrupting my thoughts. “Oh, excuse me! Would you like some food, Darcy?” Laughing, I push away from the counter, and get the can I’d opened the day before. “All right, little guy, here ya go.” I scoop the remainder of the smelly food onto a small plate and place it on the cracked linoleum. He chews wetly, his deep purr rumbling out as he devours it.

The coffee pot beeps and in moments I have my favorite bright lavender mug fixed just the way I like it. My dad and I found the little pottery where I bought it on a weekend getaway to visit the caverns in Luray back when I was a teenager, and I’ve used it almost daily ever since. I alternate between sending small puffs rippling across the creamy surface and taking tentative sips of the slightly sweet brew as I pad barefoot through my small contractor-grade, off-white apartment.

I draw curtains and spin open the plastic blinds on the windows in the front living room. Two narrow panes bookend a large square picture window. The remaining two windows are in the only bedroom. The two sets of windows stand at either end of the narrow, carpeted apartment, allowing for a bit of a cross breeze when the wind is just right. One of the things I love about the apartment is being able to have so much natural light in both main rooms. The apartment isn’t much, but the picture window boasts a wide sill, deep enough to serve as a window seat which sold me on it. Plump cushions in pinks and oranges cover the sill. Before Darcy can settle in like a sultan, I do, enjoying the already slanting sun. I inhale deeply and let it out slowly. I’m so glad it’s not a work day. I finish my coffee daydreaming about Jo.

Deciding it’s time to get moving, I search for my purse, suddenly remembering I shoved it in the glove box when we got to the club last night. Grabbing my jeans from where I draped them last night, I fish out the card Louis gave me. The logo is vaguely familiar. In stylized black font, “JN Conglomerates” also rings a faint bell. Under that is his name and a phone number. No job title, no address, no email. I shrug, grab my phone and call.

He answers on the first ring, sounding very formal and very French. “Louis Bisset, at your service.”

I barely remember him speaking at all last night, so the musical accent takes me by surprise. Louis’ accent is thicker than Jo’s and I’m grateful he’s fluent in English. My five years of French classes were a long time ago now, and it’s true what they say—if you don’t use it, you lose it, and I’d be hard pressed to have more than a casual conversation now.

“Hi, Louis? This is Libby. Um, you brought me home last night?”

“But of course, mademoiselle. I have orders to be at your service today.” Humor in his voice lightens his formal words.

“You know, Louis, just a lift back to my car would be more than enough. I know it will take a chunk of your time. When would you be able to get me?”

“I happen to be in the area of your apartment complex and can be there at a moment’s notice. You have only to say when.”

“Well, then, how about give me 30 minutes?”

“But of course, mademoiselle. It will be my pleasure.” With that, he hangs up.

Feeling bemused, I head for the shower. I steal a few minutes to shave, which is a dire need, while I let conditioner sit in my hair. Afterwards, I comb out my towel-dried hair, but don’t take the time to style it. Instead, I pull the auburn waves into a thick ponytail that hangs down to my shoulders. Finished dressing in denim shorts and an extra-large T-shirt that reads, Don’t Believe Everything You Think, I grab my Asics and go out to the living room to put them on. I expect Louis would be on time, and, in fact, I am still tying my right shoe when there’s a knock on my front door.

I follow Louis, who’s wearing another smart black suit, to an idling SUV parked in my spot. I’m not a car girl—all I can tell is that it’s a huge Lincoln. He opens the rear passenger side door, so I slip into the cool interior and sink into the comfortable seat. If I’m not mistaken, this is the car I rode in last night, though I was too tired to appreciate its luxury at the time. I may drive an ancient Toyota, but I recognize quality. I smooth my hands over the soft leather and indulge myself in appreciation of the sleek polished wood and shining chrome. It’s pristine, and I’m glad I don’t have anything on the bottom of my shoes. I’d be terrified to drink, or, goddesses forbid, eat in here. After a few minutes of this awed inspection, I just stare out of the spotless windows, not sure what to say to Louis or if it’s even proper to talk to him. I feel way out of my element. I sit on my hands before I tell myself I’m being foolish.

My mind wanders and I wonder how late my coworkers got home. Dinner was fun, marginally, but I don’t think I will join them again. I heard things I didn’t want to know about people I work with and for. I hate gossip.

It’s a relief to interrupt my thoughts as I direct him to the parking lot where my car is parked. I make myself wait as he comes around and opens my door, and I thank him. He waits by the SUV while I get into my own vehicle and start it. I am reminded forcibly of my father, who always waits at the door to be sure my car starts, and so I feel a misplaced affection for the proper Louis. Inside my car, it is hot as blue blazes and I quickly bring down the windows. At this time of day, it will be a while before anything other than the winds of hellfire come out of my vents, so I don’t even bother turning on the feeble AC yet.

I call out my thanks to Louis and give him a little wave as I back out of the space. Raising a hand, he watches me pull out of the lot as he talks intently into a cellphone.

A part of me—okay, a big part of me—hoped Jo would show up instead of Louis today. I’m still feeling tired when I get home, so, stifling my disappointment, I make myself a sandwich and settle onto my squishy couch to lose myself in a book while I eat.

I wake with a start, the e-reader forgotten beside me, and Darcy darting to the bedroom. As I gather my wits and try to figure out what woke me, it comes again: three quick raps on my door. Surprised to have a visitor, I open the door to a young man in a white two-piece uniform. His flower-covered name tag reads Harry. He holds a white porcelain bud vase with a single white rosebud. The vase is wrapped with a wide royal blue ribbon, tied into an elaborate bow. The effect is stunning, and I find myself just standing there taking it in.

Harry clears his throat. “Are you Libby?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, this is for you.” He’s smiling as he offers it to me, and I take it automatically. He turns away, whistling.

I close the door in a daze. I’ve never gotten flowers before. Thrilled, I hold out the vase in front of me, turning it this way and that so I can look at it from all sides. The partially opened bud is spotless and the silken petals are edged in delicate peach. A card is tucked into the bow. When I pull it out, I just hold it for a moment, savoring the feeling. My name is in a slanting hand I don’t recognize. Not Dad, not Emma, not Sarah. I run through the short list of people most likely to send me flowers. Certainly no one I work with. Stumped, I decide to satisfy my curiosity. I pull a small card out of the envelope and in the same slanting script are the words:

For a most memorable evening, my humble gratitude. Until next time. -Jo

I pick my mouth up off the floor and read the card about fifteen bazillion more times. How did she know where I live? Oh…Louis. Of course. I feel a moment’s embarrassment for my low-rent apartment and raggedy car, but that chicken has flown the coop. I wonder if Louis was talking to Jo as I drove away.

I shrug. If it’s meant to be, and all that. I can’t do anything about it now.

And why would I? For heaven’s sake, I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not just because I feel unequal. I’m not ashamed. If Jo doesn’t like it, she won’t pursue me. I don’t like how much that idea saddens me. I need to toughen up. I am enough, just as I am, today, right now. I don’t need a relationship to make me whole. Yet, she did send me a flower. For a while, I just bask in the simple delight of it.

Sunday was uneventful. I spent the day resting, reading, and watching Roku on my TV—a typical day off for me. This morning, I awaken early, feeling refreshed. I’m off Mondays and don’t have a plan for the day. I’m watching a pair of fox squirrels chasing each other round and round the trunk of a maple in the apartment complex’s central yard when I have a sudden urge to go for a walk. A run would be better. A wistful urge to do what I used to be able to do punches me in the gut. I’m shocked to feel my eyes tear up. I blink several times rapidly to clear them and get moving.

I decide on what to wear while slathering toast with butter. I eat it, then force down my morning pills. I dress quickly, checking my appearance in the mirror. At 5’6”, with my curves, I cross the line into dumpy in baggy clothes. I admit, I like my hourglass figure. I just wish women I’m attracted to also did. So I never let it show anymore. I mean, what’s the point? Not that anyone will ever notice. Sigh.

Then Jo fills my mind. She definitely noticed. And she liked my curves. Or so she said. I look at the rose on my bedside table and smile.

I gather my hair into a high ponytail to keep it off my neck, enjoying how the periwinkle top complements my blue eyes and brings out the pink tones of my skin. Overall, my skin is somewhat pale and freckled (thanks to my red-headed mom), but smooth and clear. I don’t usually wear makeup other than a little mascara on my naturally long lashes, for which I can (and frequently do!) thank my father. Poor guy. He has endured comments about them since his boyhood.

I slide a black neoprene brace over my left knee. Tying my walking shoes poses a bit of a struggle with the morning stiffness in my lower back. As always, I manage.

Mourning my former runner’s body, I soldier on, promising myself a cold drink if I can make it to the gas station. No sidewalk means my back is increasingly unhappy getting jostled around on the uneven side of the road, and I’m happy I brought the cane. Summer traffic is sparse this time of morning and I enjoy birdsong along the way.

As they have been wont to do lately, my thoughts return to Jo. Friday night was one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. I wonder if I’ll see her again. I really, really hope so.

When at last I step through the gas station door, the blast of cool air dries my sweat and goosebumps spring up on my arms. I hobble to the drink fountain. I’ve just finished filling a cup with ice when a tall figure appears beside me, a little too close, an unforgettable sensual scent curling around me. Startled, I look up into intense green eyes.

It’s as if I conjured her from my thoughts and I have to blink several times to know she’s real. As if it were possible, she looks even hotter in the daylight. About my age, maybe a little older, she has strong cheekbones, an angular nose, and luscious narrow lips—am I drooling?—that are currently drawn up in a wide smile. She is completely yummy in a perfectly tailored tan suit accented with a dark green silk tie.

“Jo! I…what are you doing here?” My memory didn’t exaggerate. She is 100% my type. My fantasy in the flesh. My cheeks heat and I nervously tuck stray hair. I can’t take my eyes off her.

“I was pumping gas when I saw you walk in.”

I stare at her mouth. Oh, Gaia. I’m in trouble.

“Of course. Sure. I was hot so I was…getting a drink.”

“Oui?” My mouth goes dry as she reaches for me, pulls my ponytail forward, and runs her fingers through it. I shiver at the intimate contact. When she opens her palm to reveal the leaf she removed, I feel stupid. Get real. She wasn’t flirting.

I take two steps back and flounder for something to say. “Um, thank you for the rose. It’s beautiful.”

“I am happy you like it.” She steps forward and crowds my personal space, again, so close the fabric of her suit pants brush against my bare thighs. Her deep forest smell sets butterflies aflight in my abdomen. To my utter amazement, my panties dampen. My eyes widen and my cheeks grow warmer as I realize how turned on I am just by being near her. Geez, I know it’s been a long time, but pull yourself together, girl.

Jo’s eyes flash and a slow smile spreads across her face, and I could swear she knows exactly the effect she’s having on me.Instinctively, I know she has a wealth of experience, and I feel like an awkward rube. Her confidently sexy smile makes my nipples tighten.

Determined to stand my ground this time, I clutch the cup until the plastic crinkles. Her hooded eyes are so passionate, I’m shaken. I’d swear I could detect a sheen of crimson, too, but I know that can’t be right. It’s just my overstimulated brain.

Before I can form any words, she takes a deliberate step back. I expect to feel relief when she leaves my personal space, but instead, it feels a little wrong, somehow. Gah! This is crazy.

“I am more sorry than I can say that I must leave you, but I am late for a meeting. It was…enlightening to see you again, belle. I look forward to the next time.” With those words, she spins on her heels and walks out before I can even process what just happened.

3

NERD CITY

About an hour later, as I lather away the sweat, my thoughts are still of Jo. This is how pitiful my life has become. A hot woman stands close to me and I practically have an orgasm right there.

I find myself humming Fleetwood Mac’s “Think About Me.” The walking (and—though not literally this time—running into Jo) energized me a little. My lower back has loosened up significantly and I enjoy being more limber as I rub lotion into my skin. For a moment, I imagine Jo smoothing her hands over my body and bring myself forcefully back to the present.

I sink into my couch, and brush some color on my fingers and toes. Pleased with the result, I prop my lavender-tipped feet up on the coffee table to dry and settle in to the deep cushions to read. After I read the same paragraph several times and still don’t know what it says, I give up. Puffing in frustration, I black the screen and toss my e-reader onto the couch beside me, my eyes falling on the rose I carried out this morning. I just can’t stop thinking about Jo. As if the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen showing a little interest in me is strange! Okay. Who am I kidding? It really, really is.

In my teens and early twenties, thanks I guess to my shiny hair and a ready laugh, I received admiring looks and even dated a few times, though nothing serious as I was more focused on school. I dressed differently then, too, showing off my early blooming curves and accentuating my smaller waist. I’ve dated a little since then, but none of them really seemed to appreciate me,or held my attention.

Not like Jo.

When I attended James Madison University, my friends and I would travel to a gay bar in Washington, DC to dance our asses off. I wouldn’t sit down the whole night. Women would crowd around us, and let’s just say I really let loose when I dance and leave it at that. However, now just the idea of shaking my booty sends phantom nerve pain down my legs, and on the rare occasions when I do go out, I tend to stay at the table rather than risk the dance floor.

Believe me, I’m grateful I had those experiences. But this is my new reality. It’s been a long time since anyone other than close friends or Dad has looked at me with anything other than pity. It’s taken a long time, but I’ve learned to stop crying over what I’ve lost and accept it.

Mostly.

When the doctor told me I had Ankylosing Spondylitis I was floored. My mother’s much older brother had it. They were estranged, thanks to my mother, and I was just a kid when he found out he had it. I had the impression that it was an older man’s disease. Color me surprised to learn that it can actually strike men and women, and at any age. Like most people I knew, I thought of arthritis as something old people developed. But that is only one of many types. My eyes had been opened in the most painful way. I could be looking at life in a wheelchair in the not-so-distant future. At the very least, I may never have a truly pain-free day again.

My thoughts turn to how Jo leaves me speechless and off-center. I shake my head. I’m out of practice, but well, it’s just not like me. I pride myself on my independence and control. Feeling flustered is new to me, and I don’t think I like it.

Darcy leaps down from the window seat and up onto the coffee table. I shift to keep his hair off my toenails. My mind fills with Jo’s striking features…and impressive strength…lifting me effortlessly. Stop that. I shake myself, decide my toes are dry enough, and carefully stand. It’s time to bake.

I find myself humming a senseless tune as I go through the familiar motions of mixing chocolate-chip cookie batter, my mind replaying Jo at the club, and then again at the gas station. I stare through the pass-through island and out the picture window. When the oven timer goes off, I jump. I’ve zoned out staring out at the Red Maple across the parking lot. Laughing at myself, I pull out the tray, slide each golden cookie onto a cooling rack, and scoop out the remaining dough. Before I finish, my cell rings.

I “dash” into the bedroom and pull my phone off the charger, smiling when I see who’s calling.

“Hello!”

“Hey, girl! What are you up to?” Emma’s voice reflects her usual cheerfulness. We’ve been friends since middle school, and in all those years, I’ve rarely seen her without a smile.

“Hey, Em! Nothing much, I’m just baking cookies. But since I don’t want to eat them, I thought I’d take them next door for my neighbor’s kids. Want me to save you a handful?”

“When a bell rings, do angels get their wings? Heck, yeah, I want some. Listen, come have coffee with me this afternoon and you can bring them then.” She doesn’t have to say where. We only ever go one place for coffee.

“Hey, sure, that actually sounds great. Say two o’clock?”

“Done. See you then!”

I want to tell Emma about Jo, but what is there to tell her? I certainly can’t tell her about…

Yup. Flustered. And I definitely don’t like it.

I step into the cool, bright interior of Perk U Up with a smile on my face. My closest friend and I try to get together at least once a week, but with one thing or another, it has been nearly three weeks since we met up. Definitely too long. And, though I feel embarrassed about my adolescent-like behavior, the truth is, I need her perspective on whatever may or may not be happening with Jo. Emma is one of those rare people you can trust to tell you the truth.

I do a quick scan, but don’t see her. I order a house brew and splurge on steamed milk. After paying, I choose a two-top table in front of a window so Emma and I can people watch. As the server brings my coffee, Emma breezes in on a gust of warm air. I’m not the only one to notice, believe me. Emma is a rare beauty, and when she comes in a room, it’s like the air changes, brightens. Eyes all over the room follow her. No one is immune to her genuine smile and infectious laughter. Loads of wavy blond hair, big sparkling blue eyes, an athletic build, and a movie-star smile complete the picture. But I know that inside is a heart of gold. Her parents raised her to believe that true beauty lies within and she lives that belief. She is in love with life, and known among her friends for fairness and generosity.

Emma and I met after my family relocated when I was in 7th grade. We didn’t have any classes together that year, but we both joined the volleyball team. I was the new kid and already had eye-catching boobs I had to stuff into a suffocating sports bra (what sadist came up with that particular torture device?). I didn’t fit into a group of already-skinny girls hellbent on fitting into tighter and smaller attire. They weren’t particularly hostile to me—we were a strong team after all, and Coach would have benched them if they had acted out—but they snubbed me in the halls.

Not Emma. Emma walked away when the gossip started and over to me, to chat me up. She insisted I sit with her at lunch. She told me about her parents. I told her about my mother. She invited me to her house for sleepovers, and understood why I couldn’t ask her over. As you can imagine, she was popular with everyone without even trying, which the other girls envied. But they couldn’t risk ostracizing her and alienating the boys. Ah, teenage angst.

Today, Emma’s long, tanned legs are encased in pressed white linen shorts that hang to mid-thigh, which she paired with a cool sleeveless ocean-blue silk top. Honestly, I don’t know how she keeps linen looking so good. It’s like magic. I have a linen skirt I love, but as soon as I sit down, the wrinkles are there to stay. Her recent pedicure looks great in strappy white sandals, the candy-apple red matching her lips and shiny purse. She looks like money. Yet, now that she has to earn her own way, I’m guessing this outfit came from the Junior League consignment shop she helps keep in business downtown.

After paying, Emma spins with a whirl of her shoulder-length hair and glides to the table, smiling her million-dollar smile. I stand and meet her for a quick hug.

“Girl, you are looking so good! I love the color of that dress and it sure brings out your eyes, but seriously, honey—it looks like a gorgeous pear-shaped sack and makes you look way bigger than you are. You have got to stop hiding your ass-ets.” She emphasizes ass with a wicked grin and wiggle of her own as she lowers gracefully into the seat across from me.

I roll my eyes. This isn’t a new line of conversation. Remember, she knew me before neoprene.

“Gosh, I just love your backhanded compliments, Em.” I bat my eyes at her and cup my face in my hands. “Am I glowing?” I slide a baggie of cookies across the table to her. “Here you go, though for that comment, you don’t deserve them.”

“Oh, stuff it. You know I love you.” We both laugh. After taking an appreciative sniff at the opening of the bag, she rolls her eyes heavenward in bliss.

“So how come you can have coffee this afternoon?” Emma has a 9-5 job working as an assistant to a financial advisor. Normally, she only gets an hour for lunch at most.

“Francine had to do something and decided to forward her calls to the answering service. I was able to get away for a while.” She brings her hands down on the table decisively. “Tell me why you had to bake today.” I love to bake, but Emma knows it often means I’m stressed. I blow a lock of hair off my face and tuck it tightly behind my ear, smoothing it a couple of times. Her eyebrows raise in interest as she knows this is a dead giveaway that I’m nervous. My cheeks redden and I drop my hand guiltily. “Okay, now I am really intrigued! I want full details!”

“Okay, so yeah, I guess something happened.” I clear my throat as she rolls her eyes.

“Duh. Talk.”

“So, you know I went to dinner Friday night with my coworkers, then to HoneyBears so they could drink, and I could, well, you know…” I trail off as the cashier brings Emma’s coffee.

When she walks away, Emma picks back up. “Drool over all the lesbians? Yeah, I know. And?”

“And…I met the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on!” My cheeks hot, I tell her about just how we met.