Chapter 4
Over the following two weeks, Jacob visited his grandmother every single day, always at the same hour, always somehow present during my rounds. He never pushed, never flirted the way I expected a man like him to flirt. He asked about my shift, about Eleanor's appetite, about which floor nurses actually deserved a raise, and slowly I stopped bracing myself when he walked through that door. Eleanor noticed before I let myself admit it. "That boy hasn't smiled like this since his mother passed," she told me one afternoon, patting my hand with fingers still bruised from an IV line. "You're good for him, Emma. Don't you dare pretend otherwise."
I should have listened to the warning underneath her kindness instead of just the kindness itself, because two weeks after Eleanor was discharged, healthy and stubborn as ever, everything I thought I understood about Jacob Bennett detonated in front of half the hospital board.
It happened at the annual Bennett Family Foundation gala, held that year in St. Catherine's own atrium, a black-tie fundraiser I only attended because Eleanor personally insisted the hospital invite the nursing staff who'd cared for her, and because Jacob had quietly arranged for my name to be on that very short list. I wore the one good dress I owned, navy, simple, three years old, and I told myself I was only there to represent the floor, nothing more.
May you like
I was wrong about how simple that night would be.
Jacob's stepbrother, Preston Bennett, cornered me near the champagne table twenty minutes into the event, flanked by two board members who worked for Bennett Capital and clearly answered to him rather than to Jacob. Preston had the same tailored suit, the same expensive cologne, and none of the restraint. "You're the nurse," he said, loud enough for the small circle around us to hear. "The one who fell asleep in Jacob's car like some kind of stray. Careful, sweetheart. Men like my brother collect charity cases for a season and then send them back where they came from."
