Here I Am. Rochelle Alers

the stack she’d left on the bench next to the bathtub. He sat on the shower chair; droplets of water had beaded up on his naked body. Water had turned his palomino-gold hair to a burnished shade.

      Brandt tunneled his fingers through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. He went completely still when Ciara came up behind him and towel-dried his hair. The warmth from her body, the subtle fragrance of her perfume swept over him like a cool breeze. But instead of cooling him it generated a swath of heat that settled between his thighs, stirring his flaccid sex like a roused cat.

      “Give me a towel!” The demand had come out harsher than he’d intended.

      “Whatever happened to please,” she hissed in his ear. Ciara nearly slapped Brandt with the towel as she shoved it at him. Taking the other towel slung over her shoulder, she blotted the moisture from his neck and back.

      He gritted his teeth as he covered his thighs in an attempt to conceal his growing erection. It hadn’t been that long since he’d slept with a woman, so what was it about this woman that had him aroused?

      “Please and thank you very much,” he drawled sarcastically.

      “That’s better.”

      Brandt hoisted himself from the shower chair to the wheelchair after Ciara removed the plastic covering the casts. He suffered her light touch as she drew a damp cloth over and through his toes, dried them and followed with a light dusting of talc.

      He met her eyes behind the lenses of her glasses, his gaze lingering on her delicate features. Her face was doll-like: round, wide-eyed, with delicate features. Brandt had overheard men talk about being attracted to the schoolteacher type. Even with her glasses and hair pulled back, Ciara didn’t quite fit the category. Twenty-four hours ago he hadn’t known Ciara Dennison existed. But he didn’t have to have to be a rocket scientist to know that her dowdy style was a feeble attempt to minimize her femininity.

      He smiled. “Thank you. I can take it from here.”

      Ciara gave him a skeptical look. “Are you certain you don’t need help getting dressed?”

      Brandt nodded. “I’m certain.”

      She plucked the wet towels off the floor, hanging them up to dry and prayed that Brandt hadn’t noticed that her hands were shaking. What she had noticed was his erection, wondering whether it was spontaneous or if she had in some way aroused him.

      When she’d worked at the hospital her colleagues would tease her relentlessly about wearing too-large tops. An incident with a male patient early in her nursing career had traumatized her to the point where she refused to wear anything that would reveal the outline of her upper body.

      “I’m going to the kitchen to start dinner.” She’d marinated the steaks, prepared a salad. All that remained was microwaving the potatoes.

      “Are we eating on the rooftop terrace?”

      “Yes,” she confirmed. “Or would you prefer eating in the kitchen or dining room?”

      “No. The rooftop will be nice.”

      Brandt stared at Ciara’s retreating figure. When it came to the opposite sex his radar never failed him. If he met a woman for the first time he was able to conclude after the first five minutes whether he’d wanted to see her again. If not, he knew right away. Ciara was in the former category rather than the latter. But his mother had hired her as his private nurse. She looked nothing like the women he usually dated, yet there was something about her that tugged at him. He wondered if she hadn’t been his nurse if he would want to date her.

      Releasing the brakes on the chair, he rolled it out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

      Brandt sat across the table from Ciara in an area of the terrace where lengthening shadows offset the lingering heat of the summer sun. She’d prepared skirt steaks, baked potatoes and a summer salad of melon and feta with balsamic vinaigrette. Freshly squeezed lemonade made with sparkling lemon-lime-infused water was a refreshing alternative to water.

      He pointed to the salad. “I can’t believe you found all of this in the refrigerator.”

      Ciara set down her goblet of lemonade. “I had to pick through the mixed baby greens to select the ones that were still fresh. You hadn’t cut the melon, so it was still ripe.” She’d crumbled some feta cheese and added thinly sliced scallions.

      “You’re an incredible cook,” Brandt said, raising his goblet.

      She raised her goblet in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

      Brandt speared another forkful of salad, savoring the differing flavors and textures on his tongue. “I’d ordered groceries before driving down south, because I knew I wouldn’t have time once mini-camp and preseason began.”

      “Do you usually cook for yourself?”

      Brandt nodded. “Not enough, even though I enjoy cooking.” He put up a hand. “Before you ask, I’ll admit to watching cooking channels. I’ve learned to make Paula Deen’s Southern fried chicken and Aaron McCargo Jr.’s stuffed pork chops.”

      Leaning back in her chair, Ciara saw excitement light up Brandt’s eyes. It was apparent football, plants and samurai swords weren’t Brandt’s only interests. “What’s your best dish?”

      “Shrimp and grits. I’m still trying to perfect an authentic New Orleans po’ boy.”

      “Hey-y-y,” she crooned. “So you like Southern cuisine.”

      “I love it. That’s why I bought a place in North Carolina.”

      Resting her arms on the table, Ciara leaned closer. “Why North Carolina?”

      Brandt speared a slice of steak and popped it into his mouth, moaning under his breath. “Delicious. Why North Carolina?” he repeated. “I had a teammate who’d gotten into real estate with his brother-in-law. They gave me a prospectus of new homes and lodges going up around Lake Lure. It only took one visit to convince me to buy.”

      “Where is Lake Lure?”

      “It’s near Chimney Rock, around twenty-five miles southeast of Asheville. The long-time locals told me the exterior shots in Dirty Dancing were filmed in Lake Lure.”

      “I thought it was filmed in the Catskills,” Ciara admitted.

      “I’d thought so, too. It’s the same with Last of the Mohicans—it was also filmed in North Carolina.”

      The topic segued from food to movies and music, Brandt confessing he had a fondness for movie sound-tracks. Ciara felt as if she’d escaped to another universe devoid of city noise and traffic. If it hadn’t been for the sound of passing air traffic overhead she would’ve forgotten she was sitting on a rooftop terrace in the middle of Manhattan.

      The conversation came to an abrupt halt when Ciara’s cell phone rang. Reaching into the pocket of her tunic, she stared at the display. It was Leona Wainwright. Excusing herself, she stood up and walked a short distance away so Brandt couldn’t overhear her.