Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,59
found his shoulders and neck stiffening from inactivity. Each time he executed the motion Ciara stared at him. He lowered his hands.
“I do plan on coming back. It’s the last year on my contract. Whether I plan to sign another contract is something I have to discuss with my agent.” He nodded to Aziza.
Aziza returned Brandt’s nod. “And that’s something I have to discuss with my client’s doctor. If he says he can play, then we’ll think about resigning for a year. If not, then Brandt will have to consider his plan B.”
Do you have a plan B? Ciara mused. She hoped Brandt Wainwright did, because judging from the X-rays showing the amount of hardware in her patient’s legs, she doubted whether he would ever play football again. But that wasn’t her call because Brandt was a commodity—a multimillion-dollar commodity.
Aziza moved her chair closer to Ciara’s. “You and I have to get together because I want you to teach me how to make your oven-fried chicken, baked beans and what seasonings you use for the dry rub for the ribs. Jordan lived in Massachusetts for seven years and he claims he had baked beans and fried clam bellies at least three to four times a week.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Try telling that to my husband.”
Ciara glanced at the magnificent yellow diamond in Aziza’s engagement ring. It was as dramatic as the woman who wore it. “We can meet, but it would depend on your schedule.”
“I work from home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Bronxville. But we also have an apartment in Manhattan. I’m willing to go along with whatever is convenient for you and Brandt.”
“He went out yesterday for the first time since his accident and came back a little fatigued.”
Aziza nodded. “Interacting with the kids took a lot of his energy. I’d suggested he leave, but he insisted he wanted to stay and sign autographs for the hospital staff. Perhaps he’s not aware that he had invasive surgery and it’s going to take a while before he’ll feel one hundred percent.”
“I’ll do it, but let me talk to Brandt first.”
“No rush. Jordan and I are planning our first dinner party as a married couple in a couple of months, and I plan to cook and cater.” Aziza leaned closer, her shoulder touching Ciara’s. “I’d like to thank you for helping Brandt out of his funk. His mother told me that he wouldn’t talk to or see anyone until you became his nurse. You should have seen the faces of the children when he let them sign his casts. It was like waking up on Christmas morning and finding everything you’d wanted under the tree.”
Ciara smiled. “Brandt’s got a big bark and no bite.”
“He’s the best, Ciara. I was reluctant to accept him as a client because I didn’t want to have to deal with the overblown ego of a celebrity athlete. After meeting him I realized not only is he an incredible athlete, but he’s also an incredible person. If only all of my clients were like Brandt Wainwright.”
“How many clients do you have?”
“Five, including Brandt.”
“That’s not very many,” Ciara concluded.
“I know. Jordan and I are planning to start a family, and I didn’t want to find myself overwhelmed with running a practice, taking care of my home and a new baby.”
“There are two words that should become a part of your vocabulary: cleaning service.”
Aziza laughed, satisfaction shimmering in her large eyes. “I like you and your style, Ms. Ciara Dennison.”
“Why, thank you so much, Mrs. Wainwright.” She’d perfected an authentic Southern drawl. “Do you mind coming with me to bring up coffee and dessert?”
Aziza popped up. “Let’s go.”
The two women took the elevator to the first-floor kitchen, where Ciara pushed the Brew Cycle button on the coffeemaker, while Aziza set down a platter with cream cheese–topped red velvet cupcakes on a trolley.
Leaning against the countertop, Aziza watched her hostess fill a crystal bowl with sugar and a matching pitcher with cream, moving around the space with the familiarity of someone who’d lived there for more than the few weeks since Brandt had returned to New York from North Carolina.
“You know he likes you.”
Ciara froze for a nanosecond, then continued stacking cocktail napkins on a tray with the cream and sugar. “I’m assuming you’re talking about Brandt?”
“Who else would I be talking about?”
She gave the attorney a direct stare. “Alex.”
Aziza nodded. “You got me there. My brother knew when Brandt called you his date that it was time to dial down the come-on. But