The Bachelor

“Just taking advantage of the opportunities, Jen.” He aimed his key ring at the vehicle, arming the security device. It squeaked in response. “You did want to get here on time, right?”

Jen. He’d called her Jen. No one called her Jen. It made her feel impossibly sophisticated and on top of things.

For about a second and a half, until he took her arm and escorted her to the electronic courthouse doors.

Having him within ten feet of her did some very strange things to her synapses. Having him touch her, even through clothing, all but short-circuited them. Remembering her name was a challenge.

“It’s on the second floor,” she told him as she held her briefcase open for the guard to check.

They took the escalator up because it was faster than waiting for an elevator. She was acutely aware that he was standing on the step behind her. The fragrance of his cologne made her grab onto her mind before it took off on the wings of fantasy.

Miguel Ortiz and his wife and daughter were already waiting for her. Jenny saw the refurbished wheelchair she’d managed to procure for the man, replacing the wobbly secondhand one he’d been using when he’d first brought the case to her.

The surgeon they were suing had put Miguel in that chair. Permanently.

It had begun as a simple case of a man being injured at his place of work. Something that happened every day somewhere in the country and was usually temporary. Working at the loading dock of one of the country’s more well-known overnight shipping companies, Miguel had hurt his back and neck on the job. After three months of futile visits to various HMO physicians, Miguel was referred to Dr. Wilson Turner, a noted orthopedic surgeon who had been with the HMO only a year. At the time, no one had known that Turner had lost his license in another state. Turner told Miguel that he needed a simple operation to correct the disc problem. One the surgeon had assured Miguel he could do with his eyes shut.

Which was almost the way he’d performed the surgery. It was later discovered that Turner had managed to chip the bone, lodging a sliver into Miguel’s spine. Miguel had emerged from the operation unable to move either one of his legs and was in terrible agony every single moment he was awake.

It took several more operations, done by someone who Miguel’s insurance deemed to be “outside the system” to get him to where his pain was bearable. But there was no reversing the ultimate damage done as a result of Turner’s incompetence. Miguel was disabled.

Stopping before the threesome, Jenny greeted each one warmly.

Alma Ortiz, Miguel’s sixteen-year-old daughter, took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for the afternoon that lay before them. “This is pretty much it, isn’t it?”

There had been investigations, miles of paperwork and scores of interviews. She’d flown to Utah to get firsthand information about the surgeon’s license being revoked and paid for the flight out of her own pocket. And now they were down to the wire.

“Yes, it is. Unless they turn us down,” she qualified. Jenny saw the look of disappointment descending over the girl’s face. “But then we have several ways to go.” She slipped her arm around the girl’s slim shoulders, giving her a quick hug. “I’m not giving up until your dad’s set for life, okay?” She looked at the couple before her, humbled by the trust she saw there.

Rosa Ortiz’s command of the English language was limited, far more so than her husband’s. But both reacted to the confident look in Jenny’s eyes. They nodded in response.

And then, curiously, they shifted their gaze to just beyond her shoulder.

Jenny suddenly realized that for a few moments there, she’d completely forgotten that Eric was with her. Embarrassed, she turned toward him.

“Eric, this is Mr. and Mrs. Ortiz,” she gestured toward the couple, “and their daughter, Alma. This is Eric Logan.”

Eric leaned forward, first shaking Miguel’s hand and then that of his wife and daughter.

Miguel’s dark eyes shifted from Jenny’s face to Eric’s and then back again. He raised a dark eyebrow. “Su novio?”

At the speed of light, Jenny’s complexion turned from white to a deep pink. “No, no,” she uttered emphatically, afraid that Eric understood Spanish. “Eric’s just a friend.”

Unconsciously resting his hand on her waist, Eric leaned into her. He liked the shade of pink he saw creeping up her cheeks again. Pretending he didn’t speak Spanish, he asked, “What did he just ask?”

Stop touching me, Eric. I can’t think if you’re touching me.

“I asked her if you were her intended,” Miguel replied. Then, obviously not satisfied with the word he’d used, he looked at his daughter for help.

“Fiancé,” Alma supplied.

The word did nothing to help Jenny’s skin tone return to normal.

Taking pity on her, Eric explained, “I’m her brother’s best friend.” Then he leaned over and whispered into Jenny’s ear, “Pink looks good on you.”

His warm breath sizzled against her skin. Her embarrassment deepened.

Jenny struggled to focus, to somehow shut out Eric’s presence. To shut out the feel of his breath on her skin, his whisper in her ear. It was like trying to suck up smoke with a vacuum cleaner.