Rescuing Isabelle, page 4
“Changed?”
“I assume you made it for him.”
“I didn’t. I just felt like cooking it tonight.”
I totally made it for Booker and hate that I lie to my best friend. The silly thing is that I don’t know why I care, or why I went to the effort of cooking for him.
Maybe, I did it because there’s a part of me that’s missing home. Mom makes this dish.
The Dingleberries might have a point. Maybe it’s time to take a few days off?
Maybe I need a good dose of home?
Or maybe, I’m foolishly trying to impress a man that I can barely stand to be in the same room with?
“Of course you did.” Angie sees right through my bullshit. “Just cooking it for yourself.” She takes my hand. “Now, let’s get in there before the food gets cold.”
I’d love to have what she has; a man who’s strong, but willing to let his woman in, behind his shields. Hell, I’d just settle for a fuck-buddy. Which is funny considering Booker’s practically begging to be exactly that.
If I want him to stay the night, he will in a heartbeat. The sex would be fabulous. I can tell that by looking at him.
A man who looks like him, knows how to please a woman. My fear is what happens after I let my guard down.
Because I will.
I’ll fall hook, line, and sinker because I’m weak like that. But he’s a player, and I’m not interested in playing games.
Not when it comes to my heart.
Not when I know I’ll lose.
Not when I’ve already fallen hard.
But how can it be love when I don’t know the guy?
It’s a feeling in my gut, a warmth in my chest, it’s the way the world seems to make sense when he’s around.
Yeah, I’m sunk.
“You ladies going to join us?” Brady’s deep voice calls out. “Or are you going to keep whispering behind our backs?”
“We’re not talking behind your back.” Angie grabs my hand and drags me back to the living room.
“Sure sounds like it.” Brady winks at his fiancée, then turns his gaze on me. “I hear this is a special recipe. If it tastes half as good as it smells, we need to hurry up and get to the good part.”
“It is a special recipe.” I can’t help but beam with pride. “Passed down through the generations because it’s so wonderful.”
While Brady and Angie take a seat, Booker comes to the kitchen.
“Can I help bring anything out?” The tone of his voice is different from before.
There’s no sign of the harshness from our earlier verbal exchange. Since he sounds sincere, and wants to help, I figure I can do the same.
Be civil, that is.
“Yes, thanks. The bread’s in the oven keeping warm. Oven mits are right there. You can take that straight to the table and put it on the hot pad.”
“I can do that.” He leans in toward the stovetop. “That really does smell incredible.”
His breath whispers against my neck, lifting the fine hairs on my skin and sending a tingle of electricity down my spine.
My breaths accelerate and I don’t dare move.
He takes in another deep sniff.
“Yeah, that smells amazing.”
“Thanks. It tastes even better.”
“Well then, I can’t wait to try it, and hear the story behind it.”
With no further prompting, he slips on the oven mits and takes the hot rolls I made to the table. While he does that, I ladle out four bowls of my mother’s infamous Junkyard stew.
Booker returns and carries two of the bowls to the table, setting them down in front of Brady and Angie. He waits for me as I carry the remaining two to the table. He takes the bowls out of my hands, almost acting like a real gentleman.
“Is there anything else?” He glances toward the kitchen, then places the steaming bowls on the table.
My family’s special concoction of spices floods my senses. Yeah, this is a killer dish…even if it’s stew.
“Nope. This is it.” When I go to sit, Booker surprises me by holding out my chair and helping me scoot in. “Dig in.”
I wait for the three of them to try out my mother’s stew, a bit nervous about their reactions.
Stew, isn’t generally considered a gourmet dish—thus my nerves—but my mother’s brew takes heartwarming to a sublime treat of the senses.
Booker’s eyes widen with his first taste.
“When you mentioned stew, I did not imagine this. What’s in it?”
“Izzy is amazing in the kitchen.” Angie looks at me with a smile and gives me a thumbs up. “I’ve never had soup—”
“Stew.” I correct her.
“I’ve never had a stew that melts in your mouth before. And the flavors. It’s rich, complex, and…simply amazing.”
“This is beyond good, Iz.” When Brady takes a sip, his eyes close with appreciation.“It’s amazing.”
“You’re supposed to take the bread and dip it in the stew.” I show them what I mean.
It’s true, the stew is magical, but combined with my homemade bread, it goes a step beyond.
Dinner conversation ceases as my friends devour the meal. Booker, along with Brady, fill their bowls up three times, and they demolish the bread.
Angie opens a bottle of wine, something I always forget, and we sit back chatting about everything and nothing.
“We watched your training on the wall.” Angie takes a sip of wine. “What was that about?”
Booker gives me a look that makes my belly do this little loopty-loop kind of thing. There’s something about the way he does it that makes me wonder what’s going on inside his head. Especially after our conversation about fantasies.
I doubt he realizes how close he came to nailing my deepest secret on the head.
“The tech team had some new gear they wanted us to try out.” Booker sets his wine glass on the table and grabs the last piece of bread. He uses that to sop up the last of his stew.
“What kind of gear?” I can’t stop staring at Booker.
Clean-shaven, square jaw, prominent brow, he looks like a superhero. Many would say, in real life, he is a superhero.
All the Guardians are.
Fierce protectors, they risk everything to save those who can’t save themselves.
He saved me.
If not for the Guardians, I’d still be in that jungle, or dead. There was always that possibility.
Brady jumps in, describing the various devices they were checking out. I follow less than half of the conversation as he and Booker discuss things about sticky boots, self coiling ropes, and levers and pulleys that somehow help them scale sheer rock walls.
The conversation comes to a lull. The wine hits me, putting me in a relaxed state. This is what I miss. It’s what I want in my life.
A sense of belonging to something greater than myself.
Growing up with four older brothers, we often sat around the dinner table long past when the food was gone. We’d talk about everything and anything. My parents provided what guidance they could, while trying not to pry too deeply into their children’s lives.
I miss that.
After two contracts with Doctors Without Borders, it’s been far too long since I’ve been home.
As obnoxious as the Dingleberries have been, I feel that urge to go home.
This is my hard-headedness getting in the way. If my brothers weren’t so obnoxious and demanding, I probably would’ve visited sooner.
It needs to be my idea, and I finally think I’m ready. It’s been a few weeks since the Guardians rescued me and Angie from the jungles of Nicaragua. That’s enough time to take the edges off the whole experience. Meaning, I’m good to talk about it and answer the million questions the Dingleberries will throw at me.
“How about you?” Booker’s deep voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
“I’m sorry. What were you asking?”
“I was asking about Guardian HRS orientation. How’s it going for the two of you?”
“Kind of slow, to be honest.” Angie wipes her mouth with a napkin. “I’m ready to dive in and get back to seeing patients, but there’s a lot of in-processing. Way more than I thought.”
“Well, if anything, the Guardians are a thorough bunch.” Brady leans back and taps his belly. “Iz, when Angie told me you were making stew, I had my doubts, but that was the best meal I’ve had in ages.”
“Thanks.” I push away from the table to begin clearing the plates, but Booker shakes his head.
“She who cooks does not do dishes.” He reaches for my bowl. “Let me.”
“You seriously don’t have to do that.” I scoot back and grab Angie and Brady’s dishes. “I’m a bit weird about that.”
“What do you mean?” He joins me on my way to the kitchen.
“I find doing dishes soothing.”
“You are weird about that.”
Behind us, Brady asks Angie about our day. I give their conversation half an ear as she relays the boring bits.
“You kept the bracelet?” Brady’s voice expresses surprise. “It’s kind of ugly.”
“Yeah, but you gave it to me.” Angie sounds wistful. “I’m attached to it now.”
“It’s not much more than a bit of knotted string.”
“With a tracker in it. If you hadn’t given it to me, who knows where I would be now.”
I know about the bracelet and her attachment to it. When Brady rescued the two of us in Nicaragua, he gave Angie the bracelet.
He’s not wrong about it being not much more than a bit of knotted string, but it’s the tracker embedded within it that saved Angie’s life.
While the Guardians literally swooped in to save me—first, worst, and last helicopter ride of my life—Angie was taken. Brady had to leave her behind.
It eats at him. I see it in the pain of his expressios. The guilt over saving me while losing her to the Coralos cartel.
But it’s because of the tracker that the Guardians were able to find Angie, and the other members of our team who were also abducted.
“What did you pick?” Booker’s deep voice makes me jump, and lifts the fine hairs at my nape.
“Excuse me?”
“The tracker? Angie was saying how the technical team introduced you to the trackers. I was wondering what you picked.”
He refers to the startling array of trackers embedded in pretty much any, and every, type of jewelry known to mankind.
It’s something Guardian HRS does for its employees. That, along with a coded emergency message, are all a part of their many, and varied, security protocols.
“I didn’t.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t?” Booker’s brows practically climb off the top of his head.
“I opted out.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
While his brows levitate off his forehead, mine bunch together, nearly touching.
“Because it’s invasive.” Why am I defending my actions? I look him square in the eye.
“You need one. First thing tomorrow morn—”
“Whoa.” I hold up a hand. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“It’s not invasive. It’s meant to provide a sense of security and protection.” He grabs my upper arms and gives a light squeeze. “And I’m not trying to boss you around. Consider me a concerned citizen.”
“Concerned, or not, I’m not in the jungles of Nicaragua. I don’t need it, and I’m not a fan of Guardian HRS always knowing where I am and what I’m doing. I don’t want it.”
Not that Guardian HRS spies on their employees. Mitzy was very clear about the embedded trackers being a passive system during the briefing.
That means, they’re not actively sending data. Supposedly, they’re activated only in an emergency. There’s not some tech guy in a closet keeping tabs on Guardian HRS employees.
Booker’s expression darkens. He’s on the verge of losing control, but he manages to rein it in with one long deep breath.
All the while, my skin heats beneath his hands. Booker and I never touch. We’re more than standoffish around the other, but the moment his hands touch me, it’s like getting struck by lightning.
My entire body wakes up and comes alive beneath his touch. It’s all I can do not to squirm.
“You never know when you’re going to need it.” His glare makes my insides twist, almost as if I’ve done something wrong. “And there’s no way to know whether what happened in Nicaragua will follow you.”
“Follow me?” My caustic laugh is building into something derisive and not at all friendly.
I’m not a fan of my actions being questioned by anyone; Dingleberry or Guardian.
“There are unresolved issues.” He presses his point.
“Like what?”
“What Jerald said before he died, for one thing.” He gives me a look like this should all be obvious.
Truthfully, I’m eager to put the whole wretched experience behind me.
Jerald was one of our mechanics and general helpers. When our medical team was taken, he was kidnapped with us. The only females, Angie and I were immediately separated from the men.
The first night we narrowly escaped rape, but Brady showed up on the other side of a river which flowed next to the encampment.
What followed after that was a day and a half of the most terrifying moments of my life.
I’m afraid of water; we went for a swim.
I’m afraid of heights; we descended a steep path around a waterfall.
That’s where I injured my ankle and ultimately led to Angie being left behind. Since I couldn’t walk, Brady carried me out of the jungle. Angie ran behind us.
The rest of Bravo team swooped in on a helicopter and scooped me out of the jungle.
Hello? Afraid of heights here.
That bracelet Brady gave Angie is how the Guardians tracked her down and rescued not only her, but the rest of our team.
All because of the tracking device in that bracelet.
Everyone except Jerald.
We thought he was being held separately, since he wasn’t medical, but it turns out he was working with the cartel.
He later tracked down and attacked Angie, saying something crazy about diamonds. As far as I know, no one knows what he was talking about.
Booker continues to loom over me. Sculpted chest huffing and puffing as he tries to rein in his anger. Damn but the man smells amazing; spice and musk and holy hellfire, I could sniff him all day long.
Wrong move. I place my hand over his chest—holy moly wow cow, that’s some muscular definition—and push him away.
He releases my arms, but only to fold them over his broad chest and scowl down at me.
“Until that’s sorted, you need a tracker.”
“What part of I don’t want one do you not understand?”
“What part of it’s for your safety do you not get?”
“Look, I grew up with four overprotective brothers. I don’t need to add an overbearing Guardian to the Dingleberry squad.”
“The what?”
“The Dingleberry squad. It’s what I call my brothers when they get overbearing, overprotective, and overly obnoxious.”
“Caring about you doesn’t make me overbearing. If you could get out of your own way, you’d understand what it means.”
“Talking down to me like I’m some child who doesn’t know what’s good for me is a sure fire way to piss me the fuck off.” I lift on tiptoe, needing to equalize some of our height.
It does nothing, because he towers over me, but it makes me feel a little better.
“I’m not talking down to you.”
“This conversation is over.” I turn on my heels and stomp down to my bedroom, leaving Booker to clean up after dinner.
What I need is distance from Booker.
Space to work him out of my system.
Orientation for Guardian HRS is in progress, which makes texting my new boss, Skye Summers, more than awkward.
After a little back and forth, I tell her why I need a few days to go home, playing up the trauma angle from my recent abduction. She has zero problem with me taking a couple of weeks off.
I wanted a couple of days.
Don’t think I can survive a couple of weeks with the Dingleberries.
While still fuming over my conversation with Booker, I book a midnight flight out of California to Texas. Then I pack a bag, including the most important thing; a rabbit’s foot that’s seen better days.
Given to me by Jerald on the first day of our mission for good luck, I kept it with me all through the harrowing escape through the jungle.
Suspicious by nature, I believe the mangled rabbit’s foot saved my life. Considering I faced practically all my fears during that escape, the rabbit’s foot goes with me everywhere.
It’s threadbare—or is that fur-bare?—and looks like it’s been put through the ringer, but I place it around my neck and write a note for Angie.
I could leave in the morning, but if I stay the night, I might lose my nerve. Packed up, and ready to go, I call for a car to take me to the airport.
Midnight checkin at the counter goes smoothly. Security is a breeze. All that’s left is to boarding, and getting over my fear of flying.
That fear isn’t enough to keep me from air travel, but I’m definitely what they call a nervous traveler.
I kiss the mangled rabbit’s foot just prior to takeoff, and again just prior to landing. It’s not as scary as a helicopter, but I’m still afraid of flying. The rabbit’s foot may be a bit of foolish nonsense, but it got me out of the jungles of Nicaragua intact, and it’ll get me through this flight.
I text the Elder Dingleberry an hour before the plane touches down. I want my visit to be a surprise and tell him to let no one know.
When I make it through baggage claim, tears fill my eyes.
All the Dingleberries are there.
They move as a group toward me, then fold themselves around me in one massive group hug.
I didn’t realize how much I missed them and the tears catch me by complete surprise.
“Hey sis.” Gareth, the eldest, soothes me with his deep Texan twang. “How was the flight?”
Gareth knows about my many, and varied, fears. There’s a twinkle in his eye, teasing me, but affection resides there as well.
