Uncovering Her Secrets

“I think so.” Dasha shrugged. She really wasn’t going to mention Nettle.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there to help with the situation,” Bill said.

“Don’t. It’s nothing you should apologize for. You’re right where you need to be.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s nothing you should have to get involved with anyway. My doing. All mine.” She thought for a moment and added, “And his father’s not helping. I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of them, but he said some things that makes me think they have a kind of feud.”

“The senior Monroe meddles,” Bill murmured. “We were surprised when you got the fellowship. Davis had arranged for it to go to Preston. All he had to do was show up that day.”

Dasha’s jaw dropped and her stomach curdled. “Why...you never said anything.”

“Would you have felt better?” Bill asked, leaning forward in the chair so he could hold her gaze better as they talked.

“No.” It didn’t really change anything. If anything, it would have made her less certain of Preston’s opportunities. “Probably worse.”

Bill nodded, not elaborating. They’d been protecting her. She still never expected that from anyone, even after the past years of being included in Marjorie and Bill’s lives, even with those she loved, she never expected protection.

“I think I need to stretch my legs.” He stood, and then gestured her to slide into the seat...and off the arm of his favorite chair. “Will you stay?”

She nodded, his revelation spinning in her head.

“Later I’m making my famous takeout,” he said as he wandered toward the door, talking to himself now more than her. “Mexican, I think. Feels like a taco kind of day.”

It felt more like a burrito day to her. Wrapped up, confined, lots of messy stuff hidden beneath a pretty, soft, white, flavorless case.

Why tell her now? To protect her? To give her extra fortitude she’d need to handle whatever Preston threw at her? Or maybe because he’d just known she was ready to hear it. How nice would it be for a relationship man to get her that way?

She’d have to let them know her better for that to happen.

Did Preston even know about the fellowship? Might explain why he thought that Davis was manipulating her into giving him the job.

Well, if he didn’t know, she couldn’t tell him. It didn’t matter, not really. She’d done what she’d done, and saying that he would have gotten it because of his father just sounded like a cop-out. She hadn’t known, she’d just assumed he’d get it because he was better than her. And then she’d consoled herself with the knowledge that he’d have tons of other opportunities, and she needed St. Vincent’s.

No good could come from telling him. Best case scenario, it would just give him something else to resent his father over.

“You’re frowning.”

Dasha looked up when she heard Marjorie’s voice, and then rose to go sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m practicing looking serious and formidable.”

“What are you really thinking?” Marjorie smiled.

“Thinking other less productive things.” Dasha smoothed the blankets down, tucking and tidying. “I got the invitation for the winter ball today. I’m thinking of getting something classy to wear in honor of the fancy-pants hotel where it’s held. You know, slit up to here and down to there, and covered in sequins. I’m thinking orange with lime-green accessories.”

“You should be thinking escorts and not trying to scandalize me with your fluorescent monstrosities,” Marjorie murmured.

She was smiling, though. Dasha would probably wear that hideously described dress if it would make Marjorie smile. “Hair teased out high enough for squirrels to nest in.”

“And a top hat.”

Dasha’s turn to laugh. “Hair teased into the shape of a top hat.”

“Enough foolishness now. How are you doing with Preston?”

“Oh, well...I really have no idea. Mercurial as ever. Evasive then charming. Antagonistic and then playful. I really have no idea. He’s still there and no one has filed any official complaints. At least, not that I know of.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Dasha.”

“He joked with me earlier. And I yelled at him a little bit.” That story lost something in translation.

“Why?”

“It was... I don’t know. I’m not entirely sure what happened.” Dasha waved a hand in the air, trying to get past the subject she suffered a lack of words on. “Don’t worry. I’m not giving up yet, and he might not go nuclear on me.”

“You need to figure it out, honey. Even if you don’t want to dwell on it,” Marjorie advised, and then in her soothing way followed on by addressing the needs of the other soul in her care. “Bill’s said no to outside nursing, but I want you to talk him into getting someone to come in here at night. He’s not sleeping like he should.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure it’s someone good.” Dasha leaned in and kissed Marjorie on the cheek, her throat suddenly thick enough to make her voice raspy. “Just until you’re well enough to look after him yourself.”

She had to hold on to the idea of a miraculous recovery.

CHAPTER THREE

FLOOR-TO-CEILING windows ran the entire length of Preston’s loft, which had been converted from a nineteenth-century third-floor warehouse in the heart of historic downtown Nashville—where much of Nashville’s night-life now was located.

The glow from neon signs and streetlights illuminated his apartment in soothing blues and greens, and unless he had to read something or stab himself in the eye with a needle Preston left the lights off. Even while working out on his climbing machine.

It also made him feel a little better, a salve to his ego, that the low lighting at least downplayed the pink flowers on the stupid gel mask he’d resorted to wearing. The woman at the pharmacy had claimed it soothed tired eyes, but so far he didn’t feel soothed. And neither did his eyes. He might as well have bought pantyhose, feminine hygiene products and something with wings—whatever those were.

So much for the injections fixing the problem. One day. One freaking day without any symptoms, was that too much to ask? Today it had kicked up again, not even at the hospital this time. That was something. He’d noticed the feeling as soon as he’d opened his eyes, so it had started when he’d been asleep. Either that, or he so strongly remembered the sensation he’d worked himself up a phantom leg type of situation.

Whatever the reason, it wasn’t good. He couldn’t do another round of injections already and his attempts to manage it with medication worked about as well. Time for more aggressive tactics—before he lost everything. That possibility seemed more real with the eye situation than it ever had because of his mouth. Felt more personal too. Like a real failing rather than being unable to suffer idiots.

He climbed faster. Running built great endurance, but did nothing for the upper body. And did equally little to help him work out the aggression he’d been feeling of late.

Saturday, on call and nearing evening, it looked like he might have a reprieve. Strange that there’d been no calls. Maybe Dasha just hadn’t called him in.

Maybe it was a hint that he should cut and run. His constant failing on personal vows to maintain professional distance with her said he wasn’t as over her as he wanted to believe. He swung from baiting her to flirting with her to growling at her. Out of his damned mind.