Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,50

question later after my recovery.” He motioned for the man to turn off the recorder. “I came here for the kids, not to give you an interview. Now please get out of my face.”

Brandt returned to his apartment building emotionally exhausted from his first public appearance since the accident. Not only had he interacted with the children, but had lingered to sign countless autographs for hospital staff. The elevator doors opened and Ciara stood there, hands at her waist, waiting for him. Her smile spoke volumes—she was glad to see him.

“I thought I was going to have to send out a search party,” she teased, closing the distance between them and kissing his forehead.

He maneuvered into the entryway. “It lasted longer than I’d expected.”

Ciara pointed to his casts. Most of the names were printed. “Who tagged you?”

Resting his hands on the armrests, Brandt leaned over to look at the childish scrawls. “I let the kids sign my casts.”

“I’m sorry I had to miss that.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said cryptically.

“Why?”

“I saw your ex. He’d come to check on a patient.”

Slipping her hands into the back pockets of her cropped pants, Ciara pulled the fabric taut over her hips. When Brandt had suggested she not accompany him to the hospital, she’d wanted to tell him that he was no better than Victor, telling her what she should do and where he she could go. But after careful thought, Ciara realized Brandt wanted to protect her from a confrontation with Victor and/or gossip surrounding their former relationship.

“It’s good I didn’t go with you.”

Brandt gave her a tired smile. “Thank you for agreeing with me.” He spied the enormous bouquet on the pedestal table between the entryway and great room. “Who sent the flowers?”

“They’re from your mother.”

“What’s the occasion?”

Reaching into the pocket of her cotton blouse, Ciara pulled out a folded check, handing it to Brandt. “Your mother called me to let me know they were coming. She said they’re in appreciation for my taking care of you. If you look at the notation on the memo you’ll see: cooking duties. She doesn’t have to pay me for cooking.”

Brandt unfolded the check, his eyebrows lifting a fraction when he saw the amount. “Either she pays you or someone else does it.”

“I don’t mind cooking, Brandt.”

He folded the check, giving it back to her. “Put it in the bank.”

“What if I give it back to her?”

“Please don’t do that. I’ll be the one who will have to deal with my mother when she has a meltdown because she feels you’ve insulted her.”

“You’re kidding?”

Brandt rolled his eyes upward. “I wish. Please, babe. Deposit the check and let it be.”

“Okay. But tell her I’m not going accept another penny from her.” Ciara’s per diem salary was much more than she would’ve earned if her patient hadn’t been Brandt Wainwright.

“You tell her yourself. I’m not getting caught up in something that has nothing to do with me. Jordan and his wife are coming over tomorrow night. I’d like you to plan a menu, then we can order from a local restaurant.”

“What if we cook rather than order out?” Ciara suggested.

“You’d rather cook?”

“I like cooking, Brandt.” Not only did she enjoy cooking for herself, but she liked knowing exactly what ingredients were going into her body. “I’ll take inventory of the pantry and fridge before we come up with a menu. If there’s anything we’ll need, then it can be ordered and delivered tomorrow.”

Brandt noticed Ciara had mentioned “we” several times. “We” meant they had become a couple. “What about an old-fashioned Southern barbecue, complete with ribs, fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw and baked beans?” she suggested.

Reaching for the handles on the wheelchair, Ciara pushed Brandt into the living room and over to the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun was a large orange ball sinking lower in the sky. She massaged the muscles in his neck. He was tight, tense. Leaning closer, she detected the familiar odor of hand sanitizer.

“I have a recipe for cornmeal-crusted oven-fried chicken that will rival chicken fried in a cast-iron skillet.”

“It sounds good.”

Ciara stared at the ash-blond strands covering Brandt’s head. Shortened, they reminded her of stalks of bleached wheat. She wasn’t familiar with the man the media had dubbed The Viking. The man she knew had gone from sullen, obstinate and surly to laughing, teasing and passionate.

“Are you tired?” His head came up, their eyes meeting.

“A little bit.”

She turned his chair around. “You’re going to take a nap.”

“Will you nap with me?” he