The Spark (Carolina Connections Book 2) Page 3

  “Why, thank you. The pleasure’s apparently all yours,” I laughed at her. I love cooking for other people—it’s depressing cooking for one. And leftovers suck, unless of course it’s Chinese takeout.

  “Wasn’t that awesome, Nate?” Laney asked her hot-ass boyfriend who was silently staring at her mouth with his fork stock-still in midair. His dark hair was in need of a cut, but it did nothing to detract from his general hotness.

  I snapped my fingers in front of his perfect scruffy face and he suddenly came to. “Oh no, lover boy—no dirty thoughts allowed at the dinner table. I have to eat here too and I don’t need mental images of you two going to pound town on this table.”

  “Tell her to stop moaning and maybe I can accommodate you,” Nate addressed me but his eyes were still glued to my best friend.

  Okay, this was just getting gross. It was time to either stage an intervention or get laid myself very soon.

  Laney blushed on her side of the table and put a finger to her mouth to shush us as her other hand gestured to the living room where her son Rocco was playing. He’d started the dinner with us, but it would seem my pork tenderloin masterpiece had missed the mark for him if the number of rolls he’d consumed was any indication. He’d been let off the hook early.

  As if he’d been summoned, the little guy yelled from the other room, “I have dirty thoughts all the time, Aunt Fiona!”

  We all stilled and Laney glared at us in a manner that would give Anna Wintour a run for her money.

  “POOOOOOP!”

  “Rocco!” Laney scolded.

  “What?” he asked. “I think about poop a lot. What’s dirtier than that?”

  She shook her head and Anna Wintoured us again.

  “What?” Nate and I asked simultaneously.

  “Soooo, this is a new development,” I said to Laney as she and I sat on her couch having a glass of wine after dinner. Nate had taken Rocco to get ready for bed without any assistance required from Laney. “I knew Rocco liked it when Nate read to him, but the whole routine? I’m impressed.”

  “I know,” she said with that annoying dreamy look on her face. Okay, it wasn’t annoying—it was frickin’ adorable. “Aside from his freakishly organized living habits and maybe his obsession with Notre Dame, I can’t find a thing wrong with him.”

  “Go Tar Heels!” We erupted simultaneously. Enough said.

  “Is he finally going to move in?” I asked. He’d been having “sleepovers” at Laney’s since the holidays and it was March now, so I didn’t see what the hold-up was.

  Laney’s brow creased and the dreamy look disappeared. Uh oh. “I thought he was. I mean, we’ve talked about it and it just seems like the next natural step.” She gestured toward the hallway. “Rocco absolutely worships him and I know Nate loves us. But he’s been acting a bit…off these last couple weeks.” Her hand rose to her cheek and she rubbed it—this being her habit whenever she gets stressed or uncomfortable.

  “It’s probably just work.” I waved her off, hoping I was right. “And besides, I was moments away from excusing myself at the dinner table so you two could go ahead and play hide-the-pork-tenderloin in private—I wouldn’t be too concerned.”

  She smacked my arm and I almost spilled my wine.

  “Hey! Watch it,” I scolded her. “I just bought this blouse and I don’t want to soak it in red wine if you don’t mind. It’s not like I could borrow anything from your closet to wear home—how embarrassing,” I teased and then shielded myself from further assault.

  I love giving her a hard time about her uber-casual wardrobe—I mean the girl wears athletic shoes to work, for Christ’s sake (oh, and I’m not referring to Jesus with that expression—“Christ” is just my pet name for Christian Dior). But as long as she lets me dress her up like my own personal Barbie now and then, I’m usually content.

  Laney is one of those women who should have lived in the fifties, although she would never have survived as a stereotypical housewife type considering her closets are those of a hoarder and her idea of a home-cooked meal is frozen pizza. However, she has boobs and booty for days and I love dressing her up and showing off her, ahem, assets. She is also a good five inches taller than me (sigh) and has thick, glossy hair that hangs in a dark sheath halfway down her back. I try to buy her clothes all the time but she has very strict boundaries, which I can respect even if I don’t totally understand. A sweater from a local boutique is okay, but a nightie from La Perla is sent right back—it’s not like I could wear it. Please, my whole body could fit in her bra cup, sadly.

  “Whatever.” She blew me off, as usual. “So, on to your love life…any hot dates lined up?”

  “Unfortunately, no. My muffin will remain unbuttered this weekend. No pork tenderloin in sight.” I stuck my lower lip out in a pout. I was in a dry spell, as in the Sahara, and I was in desperate need with no prospects on the horizon—only mirages where my vibrator then had to play stand-in-stud.

  “Why don’t you call Terrence?” Laney asked so quietly I almost didn’t hear her. She was hiding her face behind her dark hair.

  “Um, excuse me?”

  She faced me fully again. “I know—you don’t want a relationship, but we love Terrence,” she pleaded.

  “You love Terrence. I love Terrence’s man parts.”

  “God, you’re such a guy,” she said in disgust.

  “Love and commitment are perfect and dreamy for you and Nate, and that’s awesome—for you. I’m just not wired that way, and you know I don’t feel that way about Terrence. We had a perfect arrangement and then he screwed it up by asking for more. I’m sure his ‘more’ girl is out there, but she is not me.”

  It was Laney’s turn to pull out the pouty lower lip.

  “As much as I love you, Laney, I’m not getting into a relationship just so we can double date and have a Brady Brides wedding. Although, if that were to somehow happen in an alternate universe, you know I’d be Marcia, right? I mean, just admit it. She was always the better dresser.”

  “Fine,” she conceded, to which part I wasn’t sure, but I was relieved to have the subject closed.

  On my drive home, I was distracted by thoughts of our conversation and of Terrence. Thinking about him always made me alternately mad and nostalgic. Thinking about my love life in general usually conjured conflicting emotions.

  Terrence and I had met a little over a year ago when I had been traveling to one of The Foundation’s events to stand in for my mother. I was flying to DC and found myself killing time in the Ambassador’s lounge, waiting for my delayed flight, when an extremely handsome pilot strode into the room. He was tall with short cropped hair and dark brown skin, his face bright with a smile.

  I remember wondering who elicited such a response and feeling a flash of jealousy—or maybe just longing—to be a person who could provoke that kind of joy. I kept watch out of the corner of my eye as he flirted with a flight attendant, and I was all but captivated by his laugh. I don’t know how to describe it, but it just made me feel happy and weirdly carefree.

  After the flight attendant left, the man who later introduced himself as Terrence Dunbar seated himself across from me. I surreptitiously assessed him from my seat—and was evidently not as subtle as I’d intended to be because it was only moments before he struck up a conversation with me. His slightly crooked but utterly charming smile was almost as captivating as his laugh, and he had an uncanny talent for making me feel like I was the most important thing in the world to him at that moment.

  We ended up talking and laughing for an hour before I had to rush to my gate. I only found out later that he’d intended to stop in the lounge for a mere five minutes but had stayed just to talk to me. I’d given him my number and he’d promised to call the next time he was in town.

  Thus began our friends-with-bennies arrangement. It was perfect—neither of us wanted the entanglements of a relationship, and we both happened to find each other attractive and fun to be around.

  And t
he sex was hot.

  H-O-T.

  But, just as I’d known they would, things came to an end. Terrence came to Greensboro one weekend for one of our sex-a-thons and declared that he wanted to move things to the “next level.” I’m ashamed to admit I became a bit enraged and I’m sure I completely overreacted, but I was pissed that he had taken what I found to be a perfect arrangement and ruined it. I told him what he could do with his “next level” and hadn’t spoken with him since.

  Harsh, I know.

  But it’s for his own good. I promise. There is something broken in me. Or more accurately, there are a lot of things broken in me.

  Terrence deserves better. He deserves a woman who will adore him and who he can adore in return—one who will give him babies with his gorgeous skin and crooked smile, and that woman will wake up every morning confident that she is the center of his world.

  I know Laney was disappointed that Terrence and I were unable to, in the immortal words of Tim Gunn, “make it work,” but I knew deep down that I’d done the right thing by breaking it off. He had certainly lit up many parts of me, and the things he could do with his—well, I digress. Suffice it to say, as much as he lit up my lady bits he never lit up my heart, and once it had become clear that he wanted to involve that organ, as opposed to just the one below his belt, I knew it was time to move on.

  So, if I had to pretend to be glib about it to avoid talking about my “issues,” so be it. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, as you well know.

  Chapter Four

  Et Tu, Pa?

  FIONA

  “Dr. Brandon is ready to see you, Fiona,” said Darcy, one of my favorite PAs in the oncology department. Tearing my attention from my phone, I smiled and followed her, chatting about her kids and what had been happening in both our lives in the year since we’d seen each other.

  I was there for my annual “make sure the bitch isn’t back” appointment—my thirteenth such visit, so I was very familiar with the routine. For those of you lucky enough to be unschooled in the world of cancer, an annual visit to one’s pediatric oncologist after thirteen years of remission is not exactly normal. However, in the world of my overprotective mother, it’s required—unless I want to look into her tear-filled eyes and try to explain why I don’t need to go. Yeah, not gonna happen. And despite the lack of any suspicious symptoms to suggest a possible illness, I still get chills running up my spine every time I approach Dr. Brandon’s door.

  “Fiona,” Dr. Brandon said as he came out from behind his desk and wrapped me in a bear hug. “How are you, sweetheart?” He is a tall barrel-chested man in his sixties and has a neatly trimmed beard that has grayed over the years. His reading glasses are an ever-present decoration around his neck, and his tie is permanently askew. It was nice to see that nothing had changed in the last year.

  “I’m good,” I told him, hugging him back. I love this guy. He’d been my knight in shining armor when I’d been a petrified nine-year-old and he’d held my hand and told me we’d slay the mean old leukemia dragon together. And to this day I hold on to some of that old hero worship. I can’t help it—he’s like Santa Claus and Pa from Little House combined into one awesome guy.

  “Where are you working these days?” he asked, knowing my penchant for drifting from job to job. I released him, and he walked back to the chair behind his giant oak desk, a smirk on his face. Did I say Santa Claus? Maybe not.

  “Haha,” I responded, but really had no good comeback. I had only been at my current job for two months after quitting my last one where I’d been working as a gofer for a promotions company and getting a skeevy vibe from my boss. Can you blame me for quitting? Well, technically I was fired, but who’s keeping track? My new job wasn’t anything glamorous, but at least my boss was cool and he didn’t hit on me. “I’m working for a landscaping company answering phones and filing and stuff,” I answered, knowing just how unexciting it sounded.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, genuinely interested, I knew.

  Ugh. I felt like I was disappointing him. “Yeah!” I said cheerfully, hoping to move on to the next topic. My job was only slightly more interesting than watching golf on TV, but I didn’t mind. It was stress-free and it didn’t hurt my brain.

  “Hmph.” He let out a small sound, communicating just how unconvincing I’d been. “All right. I’ll let you off the hook and get down to business.” He raised his glasses to his eyes and opened the file sitting on his desk.

  My heart rate suddenly skyrocketed and I had the distinct sensation that I might actually faint. What was wrong with me? My breathing picked up. Surely he wouldn’t have been so nice and casual if there was bad news to deliver. Pa Ingalls would never do that!

  Breathe, Fiona. It’s been thirteen years.

  “Your blood tests look great.”

  Mini heart attack averted. Whoa, Nelly.

  See what I did there? Nelly from Little House?

  No? Okay, whatever. I was nervous—you can’t expect perfection.

  My hand went to my chest where my heart was still working overtime. “Wow, I didn’t expect to feel this anxious after all this time. I mean, I know you only see me because my mother hounds you,” I noted with the best grin I could muster.

  “You know I look forward to our visits, sweetheart. And your smiling face always brightens my day.” I knew what he meant without him having to explain. We share an unshakable affection for one another, but he is a pediatric oncologist and doesn’t get to deliver tons of good news on a daily basis.

  “As do I,” I told him. “Kind of.” I smiled.

  He gave a low chuckle. “Okay, lab work aside, I also got the results back from your cardiologist and things look good on that front as well. Have you noticed any changes either physically or mentally that I should be aware of?” he asked.

  Ugh. “Not really. My memory is still a bit screwy, as usual, and my cycle is practically nonexistent. I’m still waiting for that growth spurt I know is coming any day for sure, though,” I joked, trying to keep things light. I even threw in a cheesy smile and a thumbs-up.

  “Are you able to keep a handle on it?” he asked, ignoring my lame attempts at humor.

  “Pretty much.” I held up my phone. “That’s why I have a phone that’s smart—so I don’t have to be,” I tried to joke again but he was having none of it. I took in his chastising expression and thought about trying again—I’ll tell you, doc, the damn thing vibrates so much it almost eliminates the need for a date!

  Maybe not.

  Quick! Change of topic!

  “So how are your kids?” I blurted out.

  Dr. Brandon has three grown children and is amassing a collection of grandkids that seems to grow like a rabbit colony every year. It’s as if the women in his family are in competition with the Duggars to see whose uterus will fall out of her body first. Perhaps that was a bit hostile—I expected my wine to taste a tad sour this evening.

  “Wonderful, as usual—Jenny and Isaac just opened a spa in High Point—did I tell you that?” he asked, already knowing he hadn’t, but proud of his daughter and needing to brag on her a bit. “And three new grandkids since I saw you last.” He pointed to a corkboard on his wall that was crammed with photo after photo of cute little kids (and some not so cute, but I oohed and aahed anyway). “What about you?” he asked.

  I was momentarily shocked as I wondered what would possess him to ask such an insensitive question—until I noticed his pose. He was leaned into his desk with his hands folded perfectly in front of him and his head lowered just enough that he could look over his glasses.

  Oh no. Lecture pose.

  Retreat!

  “What about me?” I laughed lightly, fooling no one.

  “When are you going to find a nice guy and settle down?”

  I waved him off. “Doc, I’m only twenty-four. What’s the hurry?”

  “Uh-huh, I know, but that’s been your excuse the last four times I’ve asked and I know for a fact you haven’t had
a single boyfriend.”

  I inhaled sharply. “How do you know that?!”

  “How do you think I know that?” His left eyebrow quirked.

  Damn meddling mother! Damn HIPPA—I sign away my privacy way too quickly.

  Crap!

  Dr. Brandon is a close friend of my parents, as they’ve worked together on many projects with The Foundation since he became my oncologist years ago. He has offices in Raleigh and Greensboro, and I swear his presence in this city was one of the reasons my mother relented when I wanted to move here. Additionally, I unfailingly sign my stupid HIPPA paperwork every year, allowing the good doctor to discuss my medical information with my mother and father at will. Unfortunately, my mother doesn’t seem to find it inappropriate to reciprocate by sharing my dating history with him! Dammit!

  “I’m disowning her,” I declared.

  He laughed. “She’s just worried about you.”

  “Well, she’ll be a lot more worried when I disappear to Fiji and stop speaking to her.”

  “Fiona.” He looked at me over his glasses again.

  I couldn’t help it. I hung my head and folded my hands in my lap. “What?”

  “What you’re feeling is not at all abnormal. Lots of survivors have a hard time forging personal and intimate relationships. I just don’t want you to miss out on the good stuff in life because of fear. You may not believe it but you’re one of the toughest people I know and I—we—want you to be happy and fulfilled. Moving from job to job and guy to guy without establishing any roots? Is this making you happy?”

  I started to tear up because he wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. But I’m usually great at putting on a happy face and shoving the truth down deep where I don’t have to acknowledge it.