Page 41 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis (In The Heart of A Valentine #17)
Chapter
Thirty-One
NAOMI
The first week, I threw myself into work. Applications flooded my desk after the Christina and Clarence situation made national news. Twenty-three women in five days, each one more qualified than the last. Harvard MBAs, former diplomats, classically trained musicians, and the like.
“Ms. Blackford?” Tamara knocked twice before entering my office. “Channel 5 wants another interview about the safety protocols we’ve implemented.”
“Schedule it for next Friday. And get me three references on each of these applicants.” I handed her the stack of new files. “Background checks, credit reports, the full package.”
Tamara nodded, but her eyes lingered on my face. “Ma’am, when’s the last time you ate something?”
“I had coffee.”
“Coffee isn’t food.”
“It is when you add cream.”
She didn’t laugh at my joke, which meant I looked as rough as I felt. “I’ll have lunch delivered.”
The second week brought more success. Three high-profile clients from other agencies, all seeking the discretion and professionalism my business was now famous for.
The Christina incident had done something I never expected—it marked us as the premium service in the city.
Not a brothel, not a madam operation, but an executive companion agency where safety and class came first.
“Naomi Blackford’s agency represents a new standard in the industry,” read the article in Business Weekly. “Where other services operate in moral gray areas, Blackford’s company maintains the highest ethical standards while providing unparalleled sophistication.”
I should have been celebrating. Instead, I was reorganizing my desk drawer for the third time this week when I found the business card I’d been looking for.
Dr. Caroline Mason is a psychiatrist who specializes in trauma therapy.
Journey had given me her number months ago, insisting that I needed to talk to someone about everything that had come before.
I flipped the card between my fingers, reading the same information over and over. Office hours, phone number, credentials. All the details that meant nothing compared to the emptiness spreading through my chest.
The third week, I stopped checking my phone for messages that never came.
Wednesday arrived, and I stayed at the office until midnight, reviewing contracts and conducting video interviews with potential clients in Los Angeles.
Saturday passed with me at my desk again, approving marketing materials and updating our website.
Our Wednesdays. Our Saturdays. The rhythm that had sustained me for over a year no longer existed, and I ached for them, I ached for him.
The fourth week brought the news I’d been waiting for. The charity foundation called on a Tuesday morning, their voice bright with excitement.
“Ms. Blackford, we have wonderful news! Your marathon victory brought in enough additional donations to cover your father’s new wheelchair, and several home modifications as well.”
“What kind of modifications?”
“Ramps for both entrances, a stair lift to the second floor, grab bars in all the bathrooms, and some mobility aids he’s been needing. The installation team can be there Friday morning if that works for your family.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled as relief flooded through me for the first time in a while. “Yes. That works perfectly.”
Friday morning, I drove to my parents’ house with the first smile I’d worn in weeks. The installation team was already there, rolling out blueprints and measuring doorways. My father sat in his old wheelchair, with anticipation flourishing in his highlighted eyes.
“Naomi, look at this.” He gestured to the team working on the front porch. “A ramp that goes all the way down to the driveway. I’ll be able to get to the car by myself.”
“I’m so happy for you, Daddy.”
“And upstairs, they’re putting in one of those chair lifts so I can get to my office again. There are fourteen years of case files up there that I haven’t been able to touch.”
The team worked efficiently, transforming the house I grew up in into a space designed to help my father regain his independence.
My father supervised every detail, his excitement infectious.
When they rolled in the new wheelchair with responsive controls and custom cushioning, his eyes filled with tears.
“Sir, if you’d like to try it out?”
My father transferred himself into the chair like he’d been doing it for years. The fit was perfect, the controls intuitive. He moved forward, backward, and turned in smooth circles.
“Brenda! Brenda, come see this!”
My mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She smiled at the joy her husband bestowed.
“It’s beautiful, Mason.”
“It’s everything. Look how quiet it is, and it’s smooth.” He rolled toward the new ramp, testing the incline. “I can go anywhere now. The grocery store, the park, hell—I could probably make it downtown if I wanted.”
We spent the morning watching him explore every feature and every modification.
“This is because of you,” he said, rolling up beside me. “Because you won that race. You gave me my life back.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
He pulled me into a tight embrace. “I love you so much, baby.”
Lunch was served on the back deck, and my father was positioned at the head of the table in his new chair.
The sun was warm, the conversation light, and for the first time in a month, I wasn’t thinking about Christian or our broken arrangement or the emptiness that had taken up residence in my heart.
I was standing in the kitchen, loading plates into the dishwasher, when my phone buzzed. A text from Journey about dinner plans. I scrolled through my messages—business calls, client requests, the usual stream of professional obligations.
Nothing from Christian. Not that I expected anything, but the absence still stung.
I was reorganizing, sifting through my purse with my bill folder in my hand, when I dropped it and it popped open.
My mom reached for it and lifted the card that was sitting lopsided on the edge to the kitchen light.
“Trauma therapy. Anxiety disorders. Relationship counseling,” she said, reading the credentials.
“What’s this, sweetheart?”
“Just a business card.” I grabbed the business card and wallet and stuffed it back inside. “It’s for a therapist. Journey thinks I should talk to someone.”
“And why does she think that?”
“Apparently, I have trauma from my past marriage.”
My mother moved to the sink beside me, rinsing the serving dishes.
“And what do you think?”
“I do.” I rubbed my temples. “I broke off a beautiful relationship because of it.” I sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay enough to trust wholeheartedly again.”
My mother’s expression softened, and she dried her hands on the dish towel.
“Fear, when there is no real danger, is a debilitating mental dance that does more harm than good. It’s not fear that kills you, it’s your decision to not put one foot in front of the other that keeps you paralyzed and ultimately becomes your end.”
I stopped staring into space and looked at her directly.
“You think I’m being paralyzed by fear?”
“I think you’re protecting yourself from something that you might not need protection from.” She folded the dish towel, her eyes meeting mine. “Sometimes the thing we’re most afraid of losing is the thing we need to fight hardest to keep.”
I considered myself a wise woman, but my mom was the most intelligent between the two of us. All this time, I’d been so focused on the ways Christian could hurt me that I’d forgotten to consider the ways I was hurting him.
My mother was right. If things didn’t work out between Christian and me, I would survive. I’d survived worse. But if I did nothing at all, if I let fear keep me frozen in place, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been.
What didn’t kill you made you stronger. And I was stronger than I’d given myself credit for.
“Thank you, Mama.”
I pulled her into a hug, breathing her in. She held me tight, the way she had when I was a child and the world felt too big and scary to navigate alone.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now help me take this tray out to your father before he comes looking for us.”
I grabbed the tray of iced tea and cookies, following her through the sliding door onto the deck, where my father was demonstrating the features of his new wheelchair to an imaginary audience.
“And the battery life is unparalleled,” he was saying to no one in particular. “Eight hours of continuous use, plus it charges overnight.”
“Dad, are you selling wheelchairs now?”
“I should be! This thing is amazing.” He spun in a circle, grinning like a teenager with a new car. “Do you want to take it for a test drive?”
“I think I’ll stick with walking.”
My mom laughed, and we sat down and enjoyed each other’s company, but underneath the contentment, my mind was working. Planning. Preparing for what came next.
I knew what I had to do.