It wasn’t even like she was his type—not that he’d had a “type” since Ann left. He usually liked long, cool blondes—not short, feverish brunettes. But there was something about Jessy—something gentle and kind and almost impossible for him to define. She didn’t want him to think she was vulnerable, didn’t want him to think she needed anyone’s help, but that just made him want to help her even more. Maybe she just brought out the macho-manly-man instincts in him. What the hell did he know anymore? He hadn’t trusted his own feelings since the divorce.
So what
was
it about Jessy Monroe? He’d first noticed her in Illinois, after he’d transferred onto the bus for the last leg of his trip when his flight home had been canceled. At the dinner stop, as everyone boarded the bus again, an elderly woman had taken a nasty spill on a patch of icy sidewalk. He’d immediately started towards her, but Jessy had gotten there first, the only one who’d bothered to help the lady up again. He’d jogged to catch up with them, nearly breaking his own neck on the ice, and helped Jessy carry both her luggage and the old woman’s onto the bus. His introduction had been uninspired, but she’d smiled at him, and that smile had warmed him in a way he couldn’t quite understand or explain. Even though her smile had eventually faded into a guarded wariness, Michael was already hooked.
But what was he getting himself into? She obviously didn’t want to trust him and he really couldn’t blame her for that. Who trusted strangers nowadays? And a woman traveling alone? He was surprised she even spoke to him.
Michael heard the shower stop, then the faint shuffle and bump of movement inside the small bathroom. She’d be coming out at any moment, and the thought made his heart beat just a little faster. And what was
that
all about? Was he attracted to her, or did he just feel sorry for her? Of course he was aware of her self-consciousness about her weight, but he hadn’t really paid much attention to her size—although he doubted she would believe him if he ever admitted it to her. Instead, he’d noticed her hair, a dark chestnut brown that shone like silk. And he’d noticed her eyes, the way the light caught the flecks of gold in the depths of jade. And her smile—the way just the sight of it made him want to do whatever it took to keep her looking at him that way, like he was just the greatest guy she had ever seen.
But—
He wasn’t looking to be interested in anyone right now. He had too many other things to deal with, like Ann’s new demands about regaining custody of the kids. The last thing he needed or wanted was the hassle of being caught up in a relationship—especially a relationship with someone like Jessy Monroe, who he sensed needed to be handled with kid gloves. He didn’t have the time or the patience
or
the inclination to be anything but a friendly stranger to Jessy.
So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? And why had he been so disappointed when she’d declined his invitation to spend Christmas with him and his family? Why did he care about her when only a few days ago he hadn’t even known she existed?
Jessy stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a sweatshirt and a fresh pair of jeans, and Michael slowly sat up, watching as she combed her still-damp hair, noticing that she only cast quick gazes at her reflection. He remembered how Ann used to sit at her vanity like a queen, capable of spending hours brushing her hair or studying her face. Jessy acted like she couldn’t bear to face herself, keeping her eyes downcast as she drew a comb through her thick chestnut hair.
He hadn’t really noticed it before, but Jessy really
was
pretty—in a fragile, quiet way. Not beautiful in the traditional sense, but— there was something in her eyes, in her smile, that transformed her from merely pretty to something more than beautiful.
But he just felt sorry for her. That’s what he had to keep reminding himself. He felt sorry for her because she was alone and upset and because he had a soft spot for strays. He didn’t ask her to go home with him because he was interested in her. He just wanted to help her. Just wanted to be a friend.
Putting down the brush, Jessy turned around to face him, almost startled when she saw that he was already watching her. Her long hair shone in the amber light of the room, curling loosely over her shoulders, framing her pale face in soft waves. Freshly scrubbed and completely without make-up, Jessy looked far younger than her years, innocent in a way Michael hadn’t noticed before. To think of her alone in the world, vulnerable to all the predators out there—
Yeah, he was definitely doing the right thing by helping her out. No ulterior motives. He was just trying to be a nice guy.
“The—uh—bathroom’s yours,” she said quietly, hurrying past him. She busied herself by fumbling through her suitcase, keeping her back to him as she sorted through her clothes.
What was she like before this happened, Michael wondered. What was she like when she could smile without looking over her shoulder, when she could laugh without wondering if someone was going to hurt her? What might have happened between them if he’d met her in a different time, a different situation? Would he have even noticed her?
Michael didn’t really want to know the answer to that one. Not that he had anything against overweight people, but Jessy was the first overweight woman who had ever really attracted him. If he’d passed her on the street, he really didn’t know if he would have taken the time to actually look at her. Jessy was pleasant enough at first glance, but she wasn’t as obvious and overstated as most of the women Michael had seen. He’d always thought the whole concept of “inner beauty” was a cliché—until he met Jessy.
She half-turned to face him just then, catching him before he could act like he hadn’t been staring. Thank God she couldn’t read his mind.
“I’m—um—” He cleared his throat, backing toward the bathroom. He felt as if a switch had been thrown, casting new light on Jessy. “I’ll be in here—”
Jessy silently nodded, frowning faintly at his sudden awkwardness. “Okay.”
“Okay—” Michael managed a smile, then ducked into the bathroom, exhaling slowly as he closed the door behind him.
No ulterior motives,
he kept repeating to himself.
You’re just trying to be a nice guy. That’s all.
That’s all
.
The bath should have made her sleepy.
Instead she was wide-awake as she crawled into the bed, self-conscious in her baggy sweatshirt. Not that Michael was making things any better. She felt as if he watched her every movement, evaluating her. She knew she didn’t look too great, but did he
have
to stare at her like that?
Jessy curled up on the bed, making sure to keep close to the edge, and closed her eyes as she pulled the covers up to her chin. The sound of the running shower was almost hypnotic, lulling her into a light doze. Good. She wanted to avoid any more uncomfortable moments by being asleep by the time he got out.
No such luck.
Michael was one of those five-minute shower types, and he stepped out of the steamy bathroom before Jessy could even begin to relax. He’d changed clothes, trading a worn flannel shirt and faded jeans for a faded Northwestern T-shirt and a pair of baggy black sweatpants. Jessy watched him warily as he roughly towel-dried his hair and looped the towel around his neck, then brushed his teeth. She’d never seen a man’s post-shower routine before, and something about Michael’s mundane actions fascinated her. Probably because he looked gorgeous even with wet hair and a mouthful of toothpaste foam.
“So how are you feeling?” he asked as he rinsed his toothbrush. His dark hair stood wildly on end and he took a moment to smooth it down, barely glancing at his reflection. “Still at death’s door?”
“I’m fine,” she said quietly. And of course her lungs decided at that moment to spasm in a series of wracking coughs.
“Yeah, right.” He studied her closely as he ambled over to the bed, sitting on its edge as he pressed his palm against her cheek, then across her forehead. His touch was so gentle, so fatherly, that for just an instant she felt like she was ten years old again.
“You feel a little warm,” he said, moving his hand to her cheek again, lingering there an instant too long. Jessy felt her face grow even warmer. “Maybe we should get you to a doctor.”
“I’m fine. Really.” Jessy tried to smile again, but an unexpected wave of wheezing coughs took her breath away for a few moments.
“If that’s
fine
, then I’d hate to see you when you’re
really
sick.” He studied her for a few moments, gaze tracking over her face, and Jessy felt suddenly self-conscious, all too aware of her double chin, her puffy cheeks.
“Why are you being so nice?” she whispered. “What do you want from me?”
The good humor faded from his eyes even though his slanting smile remained. He looked away from her for a moment, laughing softly to himself as he shook his head. Funny thing was, he didn’t sound a bit amused.
“What kind of question is that?” he asked quietly, gaze flicking up to hers again.
“A legitimate one.” Jessy spoke softly, but she could almost feel the hardness creeping into her tone. “Sorry if I offended you, but good Samaritans usually have ulterior motives whether they want to admit it or not.”
Michael straightened, shoulders stiffening as he took a deep breath. Jessy instantly regretted her words—but she wasn’t about to apologize for the way she felt.
Without a word he stood up and went back to the sink, leaning against the countertop for a few moments, his head down and shoulders hunched.
“All I want to do is help you out, Jessy.” Michael’s voice, when he finally spoke, was almost so gruffly soft that Jessy couldn’t hear him. He raised his head and she could finally see his face again. Anger had given way to a peculiar sadness in his eyes. For a moment she almost felt guilty for doubting him.
Almost
.
“You might as well give up if you’re looking for hidden agendas and ulterior motives. If you won’t—” He cut himself off, sighing heavily as he looked away, his mouth tightening into a straight line. “I think you should get some sleep now.”
“No,” Jessy said as he crossed the room. “If I won’t
what?
”
He settled down in one of the plastic chairs with a pillow and a spare blanket. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he stretched his long legs out and propped his feet on the edge of the bed, crossing them at the ankle as he pulled the blanket up to his chin.
“If you won’t even
attempt
to trust me,” he said quietly, scooting down in a futile effort to find a comfortable position, “then I don’t think we’ve got a hell of a lot more to say to each other.”
Jessy blinked, startled. “Maybe we don’t,” she managed to say.
“Good night,” he said quietly, shifting uncomfortably, contorting his neck as he stuffed the pillow between his head and shoulder. He closed his eyes without waiting for Jessy’s reply.
Jessy rolled onto her side, away from him, and pulled the blanket over her head. Fine. Let him sulk if he wanted to. Big man with hurt feelings—geez. She closed her eyes, suddenly tired of it all. Tired of thinking, tired of worrying, tired of wishing everything in her life was different. All she wanted to do was go home—
But she would never be able to do that again. The only home she had ever known had been gone for almost twenty years, ever since her mother and father had gone over a mountainside one snowy night. Amelia had tried her best to raise Jessy, but both of them knew it could never be the same. And now Amelia was gone, and the only person Jessy could depend on was herself.
She was scared to death that maybe that wouldn’t be enough.
Hours later, ragged coughs caught her by surprise, jerking her out of a troubled sleep.
Jessy struggled to sit up, anything to ease the awful pressure in her chest. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t catch her breath.
“Jessy?” Michael sat up, his silhouette outlined against the window. The sound of his voice snapped her out of the hallucination.
“Go back to sleep,” she managed to stammer, finally catching her breath as she fell back against the pillows. “I’m okay—”
“Yeah, you sound just peachy,” Michael murmured. Before Jessy knew what he was doing he had crawled onto the bed, settling down beside her as she leaned against the headboard. Jessy had thrown off the blankets, but he carefully covered her up again, adding his own blanket to the pile. “You need to see a doctor.”
“I’m
fine
, Michael—” She took a shallow breath, then exploded in another wracking wave of coughs. After it passed she collapsed against the pillows, exhausted. “This cold just mutated on me, is all.”
“C’mere.” He gently pulled her against the warmth of his body, nestling her close to his chest as she coughed again. His hands stroked her hair, her back, and even though she cringed at the thought of him feeling the rolls of fat along her sides, his touch soothed her. She closed her eyes, relishing the unfamiliar feeling of security.
Michael began to hum softly, a song she remembered from her childhood. She could feel the rumble of sound in his throat, the scratch of his stubble against her skin as she nestled into the crook of his neck.
“This always works with my kids,” he finally whispered, his words little more than a breath against her ear. She could almost hear the smile in his voice. His hand trailed over her upper arm, tracing light figure eights over her shoulder. “Any better now?”
“Yes,” Jessy managed to whisper, not quite trusting her own voice. He touched her forehead and cheeks again, his palm soft against her skin.
“You’re burning up,” he murmured, pulling away from her. Confused, Jessy watched as he climbed out of bed and headed towards the bathroom. She closed her eyes again as a wave of chills washed over her, slipping into an uncomfortable half-doze as shivers wracked her. Everything felt like a dream.
Something cold pressed against her forehead and she instinctively tried to duck away.
“Shhh—it’s okay. This will bring down your fever.” Michael’s voice calmed her almost instantly. He smoothed his hand over her hair and urged her head back to his chest. “Try to rest. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”