All I Need: Ian & Annie Read online

  “They have to go,” I managed, wondering if the curtains were actually made of lead instead of velvet. They had to weigh at least 300 pounds a piece.

  I’d slept surprisingly well, then awakened bright and early with fresh resolve to start making some changes. Ian might not want them, but I wasn’t going to spend the next six months living in a mouse-infested crypt.

  “Oh God.” Ian groaned as the heavy burden finally pooled around me down on the floor. Late-morning sunlight streamed into the room. He winced. “What the hell, Annie?”

  “These are disgusting!” I flung my hand at the remaining curtain still hanging from the rod, and a billow of dust emerged. “What’s with these curtains? Did you steal them off the set of a vampire movie?”

  He sat in his wheelchair, not looking amused in the least.

  “Are you a vampire, Ian? Because if you are, we should probably have a chat about it.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint.” He surveyed me. “That was a thing a few years back, wasn’t it? My sister was 16 when those books came out. She was team Edward.”

  “You have a sister!” I couldn’t help it, I clapped my hands together with excitement. That was a bright spot. Maybe she’d come by and visit, have a cup of tea, cheer him the fuck up. “Does she live nearby? I’d love to meet her.”

  “No, she’s in the states.” He pointed up at the bare window. “I don’t care what the hell’s on the windows as long as something’s up over them. This morning light is—” He winced.

  “Waking you up? Resetting your internal clock so you won’t be nocturnal anymore?”

  “I need coffee before dealing with all this.” He headed off to the kitchen. I smiled, overall counting the interaction as a win. First of all, he’d agreed to my taking off the curtains. Not that I would have taken no for an answer. And I’d seen the briefest glimmer of humanity. A sister! On Team Edward! My former team, I had to admit, though I absolutely understood the pull of Team Jacob.

  Taking down the rest of the curtains, finding sheets to tack up in their absence, then heading out to the nearest town took up the next several hours. There wasn’t much to “downtown”, just a few simple shops, but I poked around in them, buying some things for dinner, having a bit of a chat with a couple of the shopkeepers. It couldn’t hurt for them to know I’d moved into the area, just in case Ian did turn out to be a vampire.

  Back in the kitchen, I set to work fixing a simple, hearty soup that could be frozen in batches and reheated as needed. That evening fresh, with just-baked crusty bread, it would be delicious. I thought of Brian, Liv and Jess. Hopefully mum would make it home earlier than usual, or Jess would start stepping up to the plate and fixing dinner more often. Or maybe it would be Liv who’d start cooking more. She certainly loved food the most. I smiled, then laughed, remembering her ridiculous joke the other morning.

  “What’s so funny?” Ian wheeled into the kitchen, his tone implying that nothing could possibly merit my laughing away while I worked at the stove.

  “I doubt you’ll find it funny.” I stirred, not looking over. It was unsettling meeting his eyes, looking straight into that handsome, troubled face.

  “Try me.”

  I turned to him and asked, “What do you call a fish with no eyes?” He shook his head slightly, no answer to volunteer. “F-shhh.” I smiled again, remembering Liv’s reaction, how she’d cackled with the hilarity of it.

  And Ian? What was that at the corner of his mouth? Did I see the slightest hint of a smile? More of a smirk, really, but perhaps something other than a scowl or a wince. His hair somewhat too long and shaggy, his jaw sporting a few days worth of stubble, with those full, sexy lips he had a bit of the rugged pirate to him. I may have looked at his mouth for a few seconds too long.

  When I focused back on the soup again, he returned to his former surly ways. “You don’t need to shop and cook,” he reprimanded. “I have groceries delivered once a week.”

  “You don’t have to eat with me,” I retorted. “But I like a hot meal on a cold winter’s night.”

  He grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He poured himself a glass of scotch, then swallowed down a couple of pills. I couldn’t help shaking my head.

  “What?” he asked, indignant. “You’re not a nurse. What do you care?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but that can’t be good for your body.”

  He groaned in annoyance. We faced each other, squaring off.

  “What do you, drink and take pain killers all the time?” I asked.

  “Fucking right I do.”

  “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  “What do you fucking think?”

  “So, explain to me what hurts. Is it the burns? Or some other injury?”

  “You’re a nosy wretch, aren’t you?” He tilted his head, studying me, then sipped his drink.

  “Yes, I am. So tell me.”

  He exhaled, drawing his fingers up across his brow in exasperation. I could almost read his thoughts—she won’t let up, better throw her a bone. “I have what’s called an incomplete spinal cord injury,” he explained. “Which means my brain can still send signals below where I broke my back.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Ah, Mary.” He took another sip of his drink. I almost corrected him that my name was Annie, but he knew that. He’d called me by the right name before. He must have some sort of private joke going on in his head. “What I’ve discovered is that doctors know fuck-all about it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That is right. All of us ‘incomplete injuries’, we’re all different, every one of us. Some days I have some muscle function and sensation, but it comes and goes. What I do have every day is a fuckload of pain.”

  “I’m sorry.” I meant it. How dreadful it must be to suffer like that every day. I honestly knew nothing about chronic pain, but I had to imagine it would be hard not to let it take over all aspects of your life. But he had to have something that lifted his spirits. “What do you do for fun?” I asked.

  He chuckled, the warm, rich sound beckoning me in closer. I wanted to know more. Instead, he said, “I can’t tell you without offending your virginal ears.”

  I blushed and stared down at my soup.

  “Nighty night.” He left me alone, flustered and wondering what he was talking about.

  I ate my soup and bread, delicious yet not as enjoyable by myself. Ian didn’t stir, at least not before I headed up for bed around nine. I lay awake later that night, full of questions. His father had explained that he was injured in an accident, but that was all I knew. What had happened? How old had he been? What was he like before it happened?

  Those moments of amusement, glimpses of his humor, the liveliness that I’d seen possibly still residing beneath the despair—it felt a little addictive. The sight of his half-smile made me want another more than anything else.

  I didn’t even know how long he’d been living there. He sure had the vocabulary of a university man. Had he studied somewhere? Did he have a girlfriend?

  And how could he tell that I was a virgin? I was, sadly. In general, I’d had no time for boys. Too busy with my younger siblings, I’d been living the life of a single mum for some years now.

  Plus there had been that one time that my heart had been ripped clean out of my chest. His name was Geoffrey. Who went with that instead of plain old Geoff? I should have known better, right from the start.

  I supposed I should be grateful that things hadn’t progressed further physically with Geoffrey. It would only have hurt more in the end. One morning, he’d clearly and concisely explained that he didn’t want me anymore. He preferred someone with a bit more class, from a better family, with more connections. He’d sure put me in my place.

  I’d put on a brave face with my sisters and mother, laughed it off with friends, but inside it had cut deep. I’d thrown myself into caretaking, better to be busy than gutted clean open.

  So th
ere I was, 25 and virginal, and apparently so obvious in my status my new boss could tell. It wasn’t that professional of him to bring it up, though. But there wasn’t anything traditionally professional about this arrangement, the two of us living together, remote and isolated. I supposed the growing curiosity I felt about his personal life wasn’t all that professional, either. I’d have to keep that in mind.

  But it didn’t stop my thoughts from wandering as I slowly drifted to sleep. Surly wreck that he was, I couldn’t help but wonder what made him smile? Had I imagined the few moments of heat in his eyes? When he’d told me he didn’t want to be friends, or when he’d said he didn’t want to offend my virginal ears. Why did I get the sense Ian knew a whole lot about things I didn’t, carnal pleasures I only imagined late at night?

  The last image in my mind as I finally drifted off? The stubble along his jaw and his full lips drawn into a tantalizing half-smile.

  4

  Ian

  Heart pounding, I opened my eyes, gasping for breath. Sweaty, in the dark, I felt the burning mast crushing me down, the futile struggle for freedom. Palms to the sheets, I forced myself to close my eyes again and breathe, just breathe. Another night, another nightmare.

  When would they end? It had been 15 years since the accident. I knew PTSD was a documented condition. People who’d gone through traumatic events often re-lived them when faced with trigger events, or in their dreams. But shouldn’t there be an expiration date? Could one night when you were a kid honestly alter the whole rest of your life?

  The answer from a physical standpoint was obviously yes. I’d never run a road race again. But mentally, shouldn’t there come a time when that night no longer haunted me? At 14, my stupid friends and I had stolen a boat and gone for a nautical version of a joy ride. A storm had hit. Chaos had ensued. They’d all walked away. I hadn’t. When did I get to put a fork in it and be done already?

  With a curse of frustration, I turned to my bedside table to take a sip from a water glass. Morning light peeked around the edges of the drawn shades on my windows. A bird twittered beyond the pane. I clicked on my phone to check the time: seven a.m. Damn it, it looked like I was awake early in the morning.

  I blamed Annie. What had she called it, resetting my internal clock or some such nonsense? Whatever label she put on it, it looked like she was having an effect on me. She’d only been living with me for six days—five if you didn’t count the Sunday she’d gone back to her house. Yet there I was, awake and alert at a suspiciously early hour of the day.

  Grumbling, I checked my phone and saw a message.

  * * *

  Liam: call me.

  * * *

  I set my phone back down again. He was going to become my brother-in-law that summer. I should feel happy about it. He was one of my oldest friends, someone I trusted completely, and he’d gone and fallen in love with my sister. I couldn’t imagine her with a better man than Liam the hero. He’d been on the boat that night, diving in to rescue Chase after he’d tumbled off.

  Mostly, though, what I thought about was what a fucking drag it was going to be to go to that wedding. They were going to tie the knot back in Naugatuck and they’d asked me to be the best man. I couldn’t imagine how many prying eyes I’d have to deal with, coupled with all the “How are you?”s as they looked down on me, literally and figuratively. One time at a function my mother had hosted, I’d overheard one guest lament to another, “And he’d been so promising.” As if I’d died.

  An aroma wafted into my room, so mouth-watering and delicious that it made me sit up. Bacon. And coffee. Oh yes.

  Annie must be up and about. As I swung myself into my chair, I could hear her bustling about in the kitchen. What sort of unattractive get-up would she be sporting today? Baggy sweater down to her knees paired with ripped sweatpants? She’d had that on yesterday. Then there was the men’s long underwear shirt she’d worn the other day overlaid with a hideous argyle cardigan sweater.

  “I made it myself!” she’d declared, as if proud of her work. “Popcorn stitch!” She’d pointed to the bulbous, irregular lumps in the pattern.

  I’d never met anyone so hot who had less of a friggin’ clue. Most women with her body would flaunt the shit out of it, knowing the power they could wield with a slight flash of cleavage, the glimpse of bare thigh. Most men became blithering idiots around women with an ass as fine as Annie’s, all round and curvy in exactly the most juicy way.

  She seemed to have no idea. She wasn’t cultivating some sort of quirky aesthetic, either, with off-beat, cutesy clothes. No, it seemed more like she’d grabbed whatever she could find off of some old man’s laundry line and made off with it.

  As I wheeled my way into the kitchen, I nearly laughed over the shade of orange she wore. Her sweater looked like a rotted pumpkin, all droopy and dark orange.

  “Look at you, up so early!” she chirped as she stood by the stove. “Was it the smell of bacon that got you out of bed?”

  “I couldn’t contain my excitement over seeing what you’d wear today.”

  “Do you want to borrow my jumper?” She gave me a sassy look. “It would interrupt your typical color scheme, though. You always go with the whole black-on-black thing.”

  “What do you mean?” I looked down and saw, sure enough, I had on black and dark gray, but there wasn’t anything wrong with that. I was a typical guy when it came to clothes, not so interested. And it wasn’t as if I made it out to parties much, seeing and being seen. Clothes were for function only.

  “It’s your vampire look.” As she took out plates, forks and knives, she blithely informed me I had the fashion sense of a Goth. “Do you sleep in a coffin?” she teased as she set out two glasses, then filled them with orange juice.

  I gave her a dark look. I’d show her where I slept. She could join me.

  But, as usual, she didn’t follow my train of thought. “You know, I was thinking, we need to get you out of that thing and using a walker.” She gestured toward the wheelchair. “The more time you spend sitting, the more that’s all you’ll be able to do.”

  “Can you please shut up until I’ve had some coffee?” I’d never exactly held my tongue around Annie, but after even just six days of cohabitation I was finding myself speaking quite freely.

  We sat together in silence at the kitchen table, both of us eating bacon and toast. Bloody delicious. I’d wake up early if I could eat home-cooked bacon every morning. I wasn’t telling Annie that, though. It would give her ideas, and the last thing that woman needed was more fuel to feed her constantly upbeat fire.

  She gazed out the window as she ate. Her eyes looked dark blue today. Sometimes they looked lighter, especially when she was angry or frustrated with me, which happened quite a bit. Other times they’d flash electric blue, bright and fierce. Today, though, she looked mellow and somewhat contemplative, her eyes a deep cobalt. Her cheeks were flushed, though she was simply sitting at rest, as if she had her own internal fire burning within.

  “What?” She turned to me, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re staring. Do I have something on my face?” She wiped herself with a napkin.

  “No, it’s nothing.” Never had I met a woman less aware of her own beauty. Had she never had a boyfriend? Never had someone worship her, make her feel like a goddess?

  “You’ve got some on yours.” She reached over with her napkin and gave my cheek a swipe.

  “That’s enough of that.” I caught her wrist and held it for a heartbeat. She met my gaze, her lips slightly parted. I could feel the connection between us, pulsing and ready. Since she’d been under my roof, I’d been successful at keeping my distance, and she’d maintained her peppy, all-business demeanor, but it was always there between us, a live current of attraction, threatening to electrify at any moment.

  Now wasn’t the time. I dropped her wrist.

  “Well.” She stood up, brushing nonexistent crumbs off her hideous jumper. “I
’m going to head into town and pick up a few things for dinner tonight. And then I’m tucking into the garden. You should come outside and help me. Fresh air would do you good.”

  I harrumphed and wheeled on out, grump that I was. But it was amazing how long a day could be when you woke up at seven a.m. By the time noon rolled around, when I was typically just starting to crack open my eyes, I’d been awake for five whole hours. I’d already spent two in my home gym punishing myself through a grueling workout, sweat dripping out of every pore as I pushed myself to the absolute physical limit. There was nothing wrong with the muscles in my upper body and I tore into them as if I were exacting vengeance, building them up with all the power my legs lacked.

  I didn’t go easy on my legs, either. I gutted myself, pain rippling through me as I pushed to work my scarred calves, my hamstrings tight with thick, burned skin. That morning I even forced myself to walk, slowly on a treadmill, for the longest ten minutes recorded in human history.

  By two in the afternoon, I’d showered, caught up on news I didn’t particularly care about, and wasted time on social media, so I finally ventured out into the main quarters of the house. Annie wasn’t inside, but I caught sight of her out the window. What was the woman trying to do, skewer herself on a rosebush? February in Scotland and she was out tangoing with a shrub twice her size. She looked like she was about to lose an eye.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” I muttered, pulling on a jacket. I headed outside, making my way over the uneven stone path as best I could in my chair. Honestly, it had been months since I’d used my walker. I hated the damn thing, hated even more that I knew she was right when she’d told me I should use it. My parents had paid therapist after physical therapist and they’d all said the same thing. But I’d like to see them wake up every morning with the same mangled body and maintain their “can-do” attitude. Sometimes, a body just couldn’t do.