Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,23

from the hospital. What he had recognized immediately was the fragrance wafting in his nostrils.

“What’s the score?”

Ciara lowered the rails to the bed. “I don’t know.” Brandt had fallen asleep with the television on and when she’d come into the bedroom the image of an infomercial spokesperson had been flickering across the screen.

Pushing himself into sitting position, he stared at Ciara. There was something about her that was different this morning. A knowing smile tilted the corners of his mouth. It was her hair. A ponytail had replaced the unattractive bun.

“I like what you’ve done with your—” His compliment was preempted when she placed the thermometer under his tongue.

Ciara stared at Brandt watching her like a predator contemplating his next meal. “I got a text on my cell that the therapist will be here at nine. That means you’ll have to shower and eat before he arrives.” He nodded as she took his blood pressure, checked his vitals, writing down the results that she would later transfer to her laptop and subsequently forward to Brandt’s doctor’s office for an update.

He’d noticed something else about Ciara this morning. She was all business. “Everything okay?” he asked when she put her medical equipment away in the canvas bag.

“Your lungs are clear and all of your vitals are within the normal range. I’ll wait until after you’ve eaten to give you your vitamins and blood thinner. I won’t give you anything for pain until after your therapy session.”

“I’m going to try and do without it today.”

Ciara met his steady gaze. “You don’t have to be a martyr, Brandt.”

He scratched the growth on his chin. “I don’t want to become dependent on them.”

“I’ll make certain you won’t become dependent.”

Brandt continued to scratch his bearded face. “I think it’s time I shave this stuff off my face. It’s itching like hell.” Ciara’s eyebrows shot up. “I know. I’ll pay up later.”

“I have everything set up for you in the bathroom except your shaving stuff.”

Brandt threw back the sheets and, using the strength in his upper body, managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed, wincing from the effort. “There’s a razor and shaving cream in a drawer under the vanity. Please bring the chair closer.”

It was as if whatever had passed between them the day before hadn’t happened at all. He was the patient and Ciara Dennison was the nurse Leona Wainwright had hired for his long recuperation.

Maybe, Brandt mused, he’d come on too strong when he’d pressed Ciara about going out with him. Was he beginning to believe his own hype because he was a Super Bowl MVP? Was it because he’d had the highest quarterback rating for two consecutive seasons? Or was it because women threw themselves at him that he’d believed any woman should be grateful he’d shown them some attention?

It was apparent Ciara was different—in appearance and in temperament—from the other women he’d gone out with. That was something he would make certain to remember in the coming weeks and months.

The women from the cleaning service arrived minutes after the therapist, who wheeled Brandt into his home gym for his first session. Ciara retreated to the solarium to wait. She’d stripped the beds and stored the linens in hampers in the laundry room.

She made a mental note not to have the therapist and cleaning service come in on the same day. There was just too much activity. The sound of vacuuming and people going in and coming out of rooms had upset the calm Brandt needed for his rehabilitation.

Reaching for her cell, she dialed her roommate’s number. “Did I wake you?” she said when hearing her greeting.

“No. I just came in from jogging.”

“Since when did you start jogging?” Ciara asked Sofia Martinez.

“Since Bobby invited me to go with him on his morning run.”

“You’re dating your boss?”

“He’s not really my boss, chica. His father is my boss. Bobby and I are coworkers.”

“Sure. And I plan to join the circus next week,” she teased.

“Enough about me, chica. You left me a text saying you didn’t know when you’d be home. What’s up?”

Although she and Sofia were roommates, they rarely saw each other. Whenever Ciara had a private nursing assignment, she usually left a text on Sofia’s cell telling her she would be away for several days, or even a week or two. Sofia, who owned the two-bedroom co-op, worked as a chef in a popular Washington Heights restaurant and worked different shifts. There were times when she went in early