Over the Fence (15 page)

LOL—feeling the effects of your wine? Can you feel your nose again?

I told you that? What else did I say?

I smirked at my phone, then decided against telling her what she had said, and the fact she could check the text history and find out for herself.

Not much, Chefgirl, you were a little out of it. Cute though.

I have never been cute, Nat.

I huffed in frustration. The little I had seen of her, she was more than cute. Short and curvy—I liked that.

We never think that of ourselves. What time are you on today?

11 a.m. my time—2 p.m. for you.

So, 4 hours from now . . . You holding up?

I think so. Did you remember to turn off your stove?

For your info, Chefgirl, I did. There was a button that said END like my cellphone and I used it. I’m a smart man, you know. I figured it all out on my own.

Impressed. I bow down to your new kitchen expertise.

I can feel you rolling your eyes at me from here, Missy.

Nope. Not me. Only impressive feelings.

Use those feelings and wow them today, okay?

I will try.

Call me if you need me, Kourtney. I’m right here.

I know. And that . . . that is an amazing thing to me. Thank you.

That one line kept me smiling all morning.

12:05 p.m.

My phone rang and I picked it up, wondering why she was calling so early. I had finished my work, and was about to head downstairs to have lunch and tease people while I ate it.

“Hey, Kourtney. You’re early.”

She was almost hyperventilating with her panic. “Annie is sick now. I have to do the PowerPoint thing myself, as well. Oh, my God, Nathan, I’m going to screw this up.”

I shut my eyes at her fear. “Have you ever done it before?”

“Once—and it wasn’t pretty. I
always
mess these things up. Annie assures me it’s all set up. I only have to click to start it going. But . . .”

I took in a deep breath and interrupted her, breaking her panic. “Kourtney. Listen to me. You can do this. I know you can. I’ll stay on the phone and talk you through it if you need me to.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Can you do your presentation without it? If Annie had dropped her laptop and there was no PowerPoint to be had, could you still do this?”

“Um, yes.”

“If it doesn’t work, shut it down, make a joke about a technical glitch and keep talking. Okay?”

There was silence. Then I heard a deep sigh of relief.

“You’re right. Thank you.”

“You want me to stay on the line?”

“No. I’m okay.”

“That’s my brave girl.”

“Can I . . . ?” She hesitated. “Would you mind . . . ?”

I interrupted her. “Yes—you don’t even have to ask. Call me before you go on, or after, or both. I’m here for you, all right? I’ll listen again, if you want me to. Whatever you need.”

I was met with silence.

“Kourtney?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I . . . I don’t know how to say thank you.”

I could hear the emotion behind her words. Why was she so overwhelmed by a simple gesture of kindness? She handed them out to me daily without even thinking.

“None needed. I’ve got you, okay?”

“Okay,” she breathed.

I hated hearing how vulnerable she sounded. “Kourtney?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not nobody—remember that, please.” I drew in a deep breath. “I’ll be
whatever
you want me to be. You only have to tell me.”

“Nathan . . .”

“We’ll talk about it when you get home. Go do your presentation. You’ll be excellent again. And, I’m right here.
For you.
Understand me?”

Her voice was stronger. “Yes.”

“Okay. Go wow them.”

4 p.m.

I did it! Power Pointing and all!

I knew you would. So proud. What’s the plan now?

Want to listen to one last presentation on gene structure. I’ll go back to the hotel to change and go for a run. I’ll get some room service in later.

No big wrap-up dinner?

There is. Not going.

I sighed in relief for some reason. I had the image in my mind of my Chefgirl, looped on red wine, sitting alone in the corner, giggling and unable to feel her nose. Then some rich, good-looking doctor swooping in, enticed by her brains and sexy curves, taking her away from me before I even got close enough to kiss her.

Okay. Not your scene?

No.

I sensed she didn’t want to discuss that topic and I needed to change the subject.

You haven’t given me my update.

?

Socks. Color please.

Not wearing socks.

What? Commando-style feet?

LOL—no I’m wearing a suit so no socks. Would look funny with dress shoes.

A suit—nice . . . what color?

Taupe . . . ish

Shirt?

Well, yes. Generally, they frown on nudity at these functions. At least during the daytime.

I chuckled at her quick wit and frowned at the second part. The good-looking doctor came to mind again. I didn’t want him to see her topless.

Color, smartass.

Ivory. And it’s called a blouse. But since you can’t take care of your own socks, I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to know that.

I smirked. I had listened to the women in my office talk about fashion daily. I knew enough to surprise her.

I will ignore your sarcasm, Chefgirl, and stun you with my fashion expertise. Taupe power suit and ivory blouse. Classy. Sexy. Nice.

Wow—impressed you know the words power suit. Second part—I don’t think so.

Why did she always brush off compliments? I was sure she looked great.

I bet others say differently.

I doubt that.

I frowned at the phone. I knew she was curvy and had dark hair. I bet she looked beautiful in her outfit—and, without a doubt, sexy. Again, I was glad she wasn’t attending the dinner that evening. There was no doubt more than one doctor interested already. I didn’t want any of those bastards near her.

We’ll agree to disagree. Take your phone on your run.

Yes, sir.

I grinned.

Sir. I like that.

Don’t get used to it.

LOL. Never, Chefgirl. Let me know when you’re back from your run. I assume you will have socks on then?

I will.

I shall remain in a guessing frenzy until later . . . black . . . white . . . pink . . . maybe yellow? And God knows what pattern you’ll be sporting—the possibilities are endless.

Deranged.

Call me.

10 p.m.

I was pacing. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t answered my calls. She should have been back from her run by now. Agitated, I tore at my hair, twisting the ends. She probably never made it to her run. That goddamned imaginary doctor was real and had cornered her before she even left the conference. She was sitting, at this very moment, having drinks with him while he planned on all the ways he would have her before the night was out. Her cell phone was buried in her purse, forgotten, and that fucking doctor . . .

That fucker was touching what should have been mine.

I sat on the sofa, finishing off another beer, frowning at my wild imagination. What was I thinking? This was Chefgirl. The woman so shy she wouldn’t even meet me face-to-face. She must have gotten caught up in the presentation on genes . . . and their structure—whatever the fuck that meant. I bet it was fascinating stuff. She was late going for her run. That was all. Yeah.

Nope, she’s late because that fucker cornered her,
my mind whispered
. Charmed her.

I growled in the silence of the room, my imagination out of control. Where was she? I went to the kitchen to grab another beer, almost falling over my feet when my phone rang and I lunged for it.

“Chefgirl, are you all right?”

“Um, I’m fine. Why do you sound as if you’re upset?”

“I called you,” I insisted petulantly. “You didn’t answer. I was worried.”

“I was running, Nathan. I had my iPod in my hand and my phone in my pocket. I can’t carry both.”

Her explanation made perfect sense, but I still didn’t like it. I sat down, huffing. “We need to upgrade you. We’ll get you an iPhone and you can run and listen to music, but when I call, you can pick up.”

She chuckled. “That is not necessary. All you’d hear is me panting in your ear as I run. I doubt there is anything so urgent it can’t wait until I’m done and can speak normally.”

I had to laugh at her logic, and I couldn’t resist the chance to tease her, as I leaned back in relief. “I’d love to hear that, Kourtney.”

“Hear what?”

“You . . . panting in my ear.”

“Stop it,” she breathed out.

I smirked; I loved teasing her and her reactions. “Why were you running so late? I thought you were going right after the gene thing.”

She laughed. “It’s only seven here. The presentation was very interesting, I stayed behind to talk to the doctor who was speaking, and my run started late.”

Once again tense, I sat up. I knew it.

That bastard
.

“A doctor? You were talking to a doctor?”

“It’s a medical convention. There are a lot of us medical types around here.”

My stomach clenched. “Are you okay? Was he pushy? Did he make you uncomfortable?”

“What are you going on about?”

“The doctor, was he bothering you? Did he come onto you?”

Kourtney’s laughter floated over the phone. “No one came on to me.
She
was great. She does research, the same as me, and we got a coffee and talked for a while. Have you been drinking?”

“No. I was worried.”

“Why do you worry about me so much?”

I sighed. “Because I do. I think you need someone to worry about you.”

“I can look after myself, Nathan. I’ve been doing it most of my life.”

I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to do that anymore—I wanted to look after her. But her tone told me the statement wouldn’t be welcome and I was in dangerous territory.

“It’s what fence friends do, Chefgirl,” I quipped. “It’s in the rule book. Number four.”

There was a pause, then she giggled, her humor restored. “Oh. I guess I missed that one.”

“Maybe you need to study up a little better.”

This time she laughed. “I’ll do that. I need to find my copy. Maybe you can loan me yours?”

“I’ll email you a copy.”

“You do that.”

“So,” I hedged, “no one bothered you today? No smarmy doctor got pushy or tried to get you drunk?”

“Nathan, the only drunk one here is you. What is it with you and hating doctors today?”

I shrugged to myself. “I bet there are a lot of them on the prowl, that’s all.”

“If they are, they aren’t after me. Did you have dinner?”

“Um, no.”

“Why? Are you sick? You never miss dinner.”

I smiled, although I enjoyed hearing the worried tone. “I was distracted.”

“Doing what?”

“I was waiting for your call.”

“You need to learn to multitask.”

I laughed. I heard the sound of a knock in the background. “Who’s that?” I asked, my mind immediately seeing the lecherous doctor leaning on the other side of her door, waiting to pounce.

“The room service I ordered.”

“Oh,” I sighed in relief. “I guess I’ll let you go and eat. Talk after?”