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14

I Thought Billionaires Owned More Things

T he sun was out when Marisol opened her eyes. Patches of golden light made their way into the room from behind the shutters. Still asleep a pillow’s length away from her, Vincent breathed deeply, his back moving up and down with gentle inhales and exhales. His golden hair caught flecks of sunshine.

Something was wrong. She sat up, trying not to rustle the bed. The back of his head was perfect. Yes, that’s what was wrong with it. Hadn’t she taped a wound there a few days ago? There wasn’t even a scratch. Perhaps his cut was buried under the waves of his hair that almost curled into angelic tendrils. She grazed the pads of her fingers over those waves, barely smoothing over the stray wisps. He remained undisturbed, so she combed her fingers through, searching for a flaw.

But the Patron Saint.

She retracted her hand, overcome by a rush of complicated shame. Complicated because she wanted to touch the back of Vincent’s head again. Ashamed because in that wanting, she broke the covenant her kiss made to her Patron Saint. And of course, referring to a rooftop make-out session as a covenant was something she’d have to unpack if she had time for therapy or a good self-help book.

For now, she had to stow her complicated shame away because she accidentally nudged Vincent awake.

Vincent flipped over to face her and nestled against the pillow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stay here.”

“It’s okay. I needed it. Your grip, it’s like a thunder vest for a dog.”

He propped his chin on one hand and smiled. “You’re a dog in this scenario.”

“No.” Marisol smacked him with a pillow. “Only admiring your therapeutic benefits.” Oof! Too much movement. She cradled her side. “Speaking of which, where do you keep your Epsom salt?”

He jumped from the bed and headed into the bathroom. The weight of sleep creased his jeans and white t-shirt. The quiet calm of earlier dissipated as Vincent opened and shut cabinets, gathering supplies. More noise followed—running water and ripping packages.

Once Marisol joined him in the bathroom, he handed her a roll of plastic cling wrap and a cast protector. “For your leg.” With a hurried crack of the packaging, Vincent opened a roll of fresh gauze and soaked it in a wash bowl cloudy with Epsom salt and water. “We’ll wrap this around your bruises once you’ve cleaned up.”

Marisol struggled to bend far enough to wrap the plastic over her foot, finding her once-dependably flexible hamstrings a new source of disappointment. She silently cheered as she secured the plastic wrap, bunching it at her foot. But attempting to wind the plastic around her leg freed it from its hold. Back to square one. In the corner of her eye, she caught Vincent tapping his foot before he asked, “Do you need help with that?”

“I think I have it figured out.” Marisol tossed a limp streamer of plastic far from her target.

Vincent commandeered the plastic wrap and circled it around her cast with seamless precision. As soon as he wrapped around the bottom of her thigh, he gave her the roll. “You rip it.” Marisol tore the plastic off and sealed it against her skin. Vincent grabbed the humongous plastic Christmas stocking of a cast protector and guided it up her leg. “I’d double-check if it seals.” His fingers met hers just above her wrapped thigh.

Heat rose to her face. That was a part of her thigh she wanted the Patron Saint to know, not the siren allure of Vincent. “If your fingers come up any higher, I’ll break your hand.”

Vincent arched a single eyebrow and raised his hands up as if he surrendered to her threat. She sucked in her cheeks to stop a smile from forming. Proper grief limited her smile supply, and smiles weren’t going to be handed out so easily. At least not until he turned his back.

She wheeled to the massive, walk-in shower and eyed the tiled bench at the back that offered a place to sit and a ledge to prop up her leg. However, the shower frame was far too narrow to fit her wheelchair through. “I drag myself across the floor and sit up there to shower? This isn’t exactly ADA compliant.”

“Right.” He scratched his chin. “I could carry you?”

No, no, no, no, no. Way too intimate, Varian. Might as well offer her a sponge bath.

Oh no.

The alternative was a Vincent-assisted sponge bath. Yeah... NO.

“Fine,” she said. A passionate protest would’ve amused him too much. She pulled off her flannel shirt and stretched her arms above her head. Welts formed tight knots on the underside. She checked them to see bruises pool together at her ribs in a blackish purple hidden by her undershirt. Vincent’s eyes bugged. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” Marisol hugged herself.

He looked at her like he did in the hospital: with pity.

“All right. It’s bad, but I’m alive, aren’t I?” A vision of Annie’s pooling blood and lifeless hand overtook Marisol’s body like a fever chill. “Help me in the damn shower already.”

Vincent nodded and kneeled at her side. Marisol put her good arm around his neck while he wedged his arms under her thighs. He lifted her without grunting. She kept her gaze behind his shoulder. Better to not make a thing of this anymore than she had. Though she cursed her autonomic system for sending blood to places she had no business mentioning in the same breath as Vincent.

He set her down on the tiled bench and pulled the shower head down, handing it to her. “Everything you need—soap, shampoo—is here. I’ll make something to eat. It’s afternoon. Would you like breakfast or lunch?”

“Surprise me.”

He left the shower and tossed a towel over the glass wall within her reach. “When you’re done and dressed, I’ll help you get back in your chair.”

“Vincent?” Marisol called out. The blur of him through the glass stilled. “Thank you.”

He tapped on the doorframe and shut the door behind him.

Finally alone, Marisol flung her undershirt over the shower wall. She wiggled out of her boxers, tossing them toward the same spot. Turning the shower on, she welcomed the warm spray over her skin. One layer of grime washed away, and she felt human again. A few more rinses, and she’d start believing compliments .

A good memory floated into her head—the Patron Saint. She was with him on the rooftop when his body and his heat overpowered the winter cold. He ripped off his mask, revealing the man underneath.

Tobias.

Couldn’t be him, though. He left her, albeit necessarily, on the lurch. Her Patron Saint would handle her situation unhindered by danger and distance. Who could this super cop be? A famous actor moonlighting as a superhero for research? Not her worst idea. No, she saved that for the next thought, intruding with blunt force.

Vincent.

To her horror, she imagined the rest of their tryst mask-free. Her imagination turned the Patron Saint’s kiss into Vincent’s electric kiss. Or, when she thought of black-clad Vincent’s body grinding into her on the rooftop, she instinctively rubbed her thighs together. That thought bubble needed to pop. Now. “Transference,” she muttered before switching the heat down and splashing her face with cold water. That explained her feelings, transference, when a patient mistakes a caregiver’s attention as romantic. Transference because there was no way Vincent was…

She scraped her case of transference off, scrubbing until her skin became raw and pebbled under the cold water. After turning the shower off, she even impressed herself when she yanked down the towel off the shower’s wall, wrapping it around her. With her newfound spryness, she could drag herself the short distance to her wheelchair without Vincent’s help. She lowered herself to the floor, butt barely hovering above it, and distributed her weight between her good leg and arms. A few more scoots, she would be home free.

Another scoot and her hand slipped. Her elbow cracked against the floor. Before pain registered in her synapses, the back of her head hit the tile. Great, after all she’d been through, this was how she’d die? But it was the sharp jab to her dignity that hurt the most, especially as Vincent darted to the bathroom.

“Hell’s bells!” He jerked his gaze to the ceiling. And cursed like a grandpa—a great-grandpa.

“I slipped.”

“I’m trying not to see it.” Vincent draped a towel across his forearms. Eyes to the ceiling, he scooped his arms underneath her and pulled her off the floor. “You’re ice cold.”

Marisol’s loud breath wavered between her trembling and probably blue lips. “Hot water is bad for bruises. It could burst more blood vessels.” A layer of Egyptian cotton towels was not enough protection to guard her from admitting why she really needed a cold shower—stupid, sexy Vincent-induced transference.

Dripping and shivering, Marisol accepted another dry towel around her shoulders. Vincent’s soaked T-shirt clung to him, revealing compact muscles. Middleweight but with those muscles? He could pack a heavyweight punch. Hell’s bells, indeed.

Marisol pointed to his T-shirt as she squeezed her wet hair into the towel. “Sorry. I got you wet.”

“I don’t care.” He piled more towels around her, patting at her arms and shoulders as if she wasn’t capable of drying herself off. Vincent unsealed the protector bag and pulled it off her cast. He draped it over the edge of the shower wall. “Sorry,” he said, “please don’t break my fingers.” A corner of his mouth curled into a smile.

Marisol wouldn’t follow through on her threat. He had been quick enough about removing the cast protector; it didn’t give Marisol time to keep her defenses up. She unraveled the plastic wrap from her leg and wadded it. “You have a good bedside manner.”

“Must’ve learned it from my dad.” He cleared his throat as he placed a white terrycloth robe next to her. “Dinner’s almost ready. I could serve it to you in your room.”

Eat alone? With her current luck, she’d cut herself with a spoon. Even if she surrounded herself in bubble wrap, eating alone would leave her with only her thoughts, which opened her up to the living nightmares. “I’d rather eat with you.” And judging by his wet T-shirt, she was trading avoiding the nightmares with uncomfortable, one-sided sexual tension. She tightened a towel closer around herself .

Vincent pulled at his T-shirt and wrung a few drops of water out of it. He cleared his throat again and left.

After wrapping the Epsom salt gauze around her ribs and right underarm, she slid into the bathrobe. It tingled against her skin with a pattering of static shocks. Straight from the dryer. It smelled of Vincent, a faint scent of sandalwood.

Dressed in a clean shirt and shorts, Marisol kept the robe on. The warm scent of sandalwood comforted her, but another smell wafted into her bedroom. Marisol wheeled out into the hallway, following the scent of cumin and chili to the kitchen.

In a dry T-shirt and jeans, Vincent moved around the kitchen with the same fervor as he had in the bathroom. He ladled soup into a bowl and set it at an empty place at the table. Marisol rolled up to the table and set her brakes.

She recognized the aroma. “Pozole?”

“Yes. No fresh ingredients, but it will make-do.”

“You made it from scratch?”

“Relatively.”

Marisol dug in. The flavors of hominy, cumin, jalapeno, and a hint of lime reminded her of Abuelita’s cooking. “You’re a good cook.”

“You’re too kind. I emptied cans and heated them. And a weak attempt at that. “

With a full mouth, Marisol said, “Don’t be so modest.” She held her hand over her face, forgetting her table manners. “You won’t give my abuelita a run for her money, but you’re good.”

“Thank you.”

“Her food was the best. Cooking was how she loved. She barely put up with my dad, but I knew she loved him when she’d make kielbasa and dumplings.”

Vincent smiled. Although she was far from home, she had pieces of it with her—the spice of the food and the warmth of his smile.

A sudden snap sounded from the record player and called her to attention. She had tuned out the music until now. After a grainy whisper, the needle settled on a smooth groove and jazz music played faint and low. The jazz singer’s alto voice was beautiful but raspy, as if her grief and exhaustion came out with each note. The music unsettled Marisol and reminded her she was in a strange place. She pulled the robe closer around her. “What’s with the music? Figured you’d be listening to something more contemporary.”

Vincent chortled. “You’re right. The music belonged to an old friend of mine.”

“Grandpa’s home and a friend’s music. I thought billionaires owned more things.”

“I suppose I’m atypical.” His spoon pinged at the bottom of his empty bowl. Vincent walked to the giant record player swallowing up half the living room. “I’ll change the music, but we’re limited to ol’ Leonard’s tastes, I’m afraid.”

“Leonard is your friend?” she asked.

He nodded.

Leonard was the old man in the painting hanging back at the estate. “And grandpa,” she noted. She loved her abuelita, but they weren’t friends. If she dished to Abuelita the way she did to Annie, the old woman would pinch her as a stern reminder to be a lady, whatever that meant.

“We spent a lot of time together until he died. A little over a year ago, actually. A hundred and five years old, yet I was like a father to him.”

“You mean, he was like a father to you.”

“Right. Today’s excitement is getting to me.” He stretched his arms above his head and seemed to focus on the living room full of objects. “He turned this place into his escape. Being here makes me feel like he never really left, in a way.”

The objects that kept Abuelita’s presence alive were at Marisol’s childhood home in the closet-sized bedroom. Pictures of Abuelita’s favorite saints hung from the walls, and in its corner, stood a small table overcrowded with candles in various stages of life, from a pool of wax to an untouched candle with a singed wick. Marisol fidgeted with her cross pendant, moving it up and down the chain on her neck. What objects would remind her of Annie? A stack of magazines? A beaker ?

Her attention drifted back to Vincent, who changed the music and put on an up-tempo number with a bouncing and plucking jazz guitar. “I believe I found just the thing.”

Marisol expressed her approval with a rhythmic nod. Vincent’s shoulders relaxed, as if his entire fate relied on that nod. Now, he moved with graceful speed from the living room to the kitchen. He cleared the table and washed the dishes. While he worked, Marisol wheeled over to a shelf of old and hard-bound books. She squinted at the titles. Only a few letters were recognizable among other rune-like shapes. She touched the book’s spine. “These books, were they Leonard’s as well?”

He called back from the sink, “Yes. They’re Russian translations of some classics. Dracula, Frankenstein, Phantom of the Opera.”

She took in a short breath. “You can read Russian?”

“I can read a lot of languages. I can read one to you.”

With that prep school affectation? “Sure. A little later maybe.” She ran her finger along the edge of the shelf, zigging and zagging around the trinkets of a by-gone era. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like the womanizer that everyone says you are. You’re too…” She searched for the word in his face. “Sentimental.”

He dried his hands on a dish towel. “Really?”

“The records, the books, the comfort food? Definitely sentimental.”

He stepped out of the kitchen and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

Scratch sentimental. He was delusional. “Um—” she gestured to her wheelchair.

“Activity will be good for you. Help you recover faster.”

And now she knew why patients scowled at her when she’d say that exact same thing. “I’m not objecting because of that. I can’t—”

He took control of the wheelchair and pushed her into the hallway, riding the back like she was a shopping cart.

Marisol braced for the impact of the wall at the end of the hallway. “Vincent! We’ll crash!”

He wheeled her in a circle, skidding her to a stop. He held out his hand. Marisol scrutinized the eager expression on his face. Surely, he was pranking her. But she found only sincerity in his twinkling eyes and silly smirk. She took his hand. He grabbed her other hand and swiveled her in alternating, sweeping arcs down the hallway.

She surprised herself as her hips swayed, despite being bound to a wheelchair. “I’ll give you credit. You can make a set of wheels dance.”

“I practiced with children recovering in the hospital.” He rolled her under his arm in a turn.

“That’s sweet.” Wait, he hadn’t danced with the kids since she worked there. “But you don’t do it anymore?”

He shrugged .

“A dance would mean more to them than a well-lit photograph.”

“Hm.” The grip of his hand loosened.

She sensed he was closing himself off from her. She pulled him in to face her. “Think about it. You and the kids smiling? A genuine story? If you danced at your so-called ball, you’d make serious bank.”

“It wasn’t the greatest environment for dancing. Too many egos in the room.”

Marisol chuckled. She remembered the ball and Annie standing in front of the board. They laughed at her when she mentioned the potential of her research. She mentioned her research at the ball. Then the Bloodsucker got her. Marisol gripped the arms of her chair.

Vincent stopped swiveling her around to the music. “What is it?”

The Bloodsucker had to be at the ball. “I think I know who the Bloodsucker is.”