Next to You (4 page)

No one seemed to know this new Phlox, and it made everyone uncomfortable. They missed her old self, she got that. She missed her old self, too. Who was she now? Would she ever breathe easy in her house again? Would she ever stop beating herself up over her stupid, stupid actions that day?

Honestly, she had no idea.

Hell, she didn’t even recognize her own face when she looked in the mirror. And she had spent untold hours staring at her new visage in the bathroom mirror in the apartment in New York, trying to find something of the old Phlox in it. Sometimes she greeted acquaintances on the street only to be met with the blank city stare reserved for crazy people. Then there would be the awkward exchange.

"Phlox Miller? We met at ...?"

"Oh right! Phlox ... how are you doing ... these days?"

Phlox doubted that a two-week stay in the country would get her any closer to feeling comfortable in her own skin again. But maybe waking up here and finding herself safe and sound—like the old days—would vanquish the awful dreams that haunted her sleep. The ones where she woke in a cold sweat, moaning and keening, feeling the burning wax and oil hit her face like a scalding hot wall.

Maybe she would find some tiny trace of her old self here, in her lilacs and peonies, in the quiet solitude of the countryside, and maybe it would be enough to build on.

Or maybe it wouldn't. Phlox couldn't shake the nagging feeling that perhaps the old Phlox was gone forever.

M
uffins
. She could bake muffins, she told herself with more confidence than she really felt. Muffins did not require the stovetop. Muffins did not require an open flame. If a tin of muffins exploded mid-bake, the inside of the oven would be a mess but nothing a little oven cleaner and some elbow grease couldn’t fix.

Phlox practically chanted all the reasons why baking muffins was a kitchen activity she could handle. She tried to channel the old Phlox, who would be shouting, “Damn it! It’s Day 2. Get moving already.”

Plus muffins were fattening. There would be no fat-free, whole grain, applesauce-for-sugar muffins in this house. Not today anyway. There would be muffins and they would be gloriously jumbo, mouth wateringly sweet and at least eight hundred calories apiece.

Luscious. That’s what they would be. Glorious, luscious, hip widening, boob enlarging muffins.

She lined up her newly purchased baking ingredients—flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder—enough to make fattening muffins every day for a week. She grabbed an unopened bag of almonds and a bottle of almond extract. She had picked up a basket of peaches at a farmer’s stand on the drive up yesterday, intending to eat them for breakfast but they could be sacrificed in the name of muffins. She would make her should-practically-be-patented peach almond muffins.

She grabbed a mixing bowl and measuring spoons, turned on the oven to preheat, logged into satellite radio on her laptop, and got to work. Every time her breathing began to race with anxiety, she made herself stop and calm down. She measured and sifted, peeled and sliced the juicy peaches, ground the almonds, spooned batter into a muffin pan.

Two hours later, she had a sink full of dirty dishes and one dozen muffins glistening with chunks of peaches and a sprinkling of demerara sugar. She took a deep breath as she untied her apron. She did it. She’d just used the kitchen without freaking out like yesterday or causing herself grievous bodily harm. It was noon on Day 2 of Operation Demon Vanquish and not only was she still alive, but she had actually accomplished something.

Phlox felt a smile creeping over her face. There hadn’t been many smiles in the past year, but this one felt good. Granted, it was silly that the mere baking of muffins could make her feel so suddenly
competent
. It wasn't like finishing a triathlon or launching a new product, but it was a start. A tiny, successful start.

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.

J
ared 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 lose 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.