Deeply Personal

Chapter 1

“The only two men I trust these days are Ben and Jerry—and lately, I’ve started to wonder about Jerry.” —Patty Preston, Singer/Songwriter, YouTuber, 4.3 million views

Jessica

Jessica regained consciousness in the middle of the road. Dizzy and weak, she woke to find herself lying on her back with rough asphalt beneath her. Her eyelids fluttered open to the sight of two baked turkeys staring blankly at her. What the — ? And then it all came back to her: It was November 23rd, and she was participating in the Thanksgiving Day Turkey Trot where the entire main street in Franklin, Tennessee had been cordoned off for the race.

It took a few blinks before Jessica realized that the baked turkeys were merely foam hats worn by two college-aged women standing above her, fearful looks clouding their faces. Next to them stood a tallish man and woman outfitted in his and hers full-regalia turkey outfits, turkey wings and everything. They were pointing and saying things, but their voices were fuzzy, like Jessica was listening from underwater. A few others gathered around, one wearing a T-shirt that said, “I’m Hungary for Turkey!” While a man with ocean-blue eyes and a swirling mess of black hair dripped a wet cloth onto her forehead. He was kneeling at her side. And God, was he hot.

The only explanation was that she’d had a complete blackout—no telling how long. Five minutes? More? Less? Her hands grew sweaty as a jolt of confusion ran through her. What was going on? And why had she decided it would be a good idea for her very first run to be a 5K when she’d never even laced up her sneakers for anything more than short errands before?

A frigid wind blew around her as Mister Blue Eyes checked her pulse, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. He looked familiar too. Was he some kind of celebrity? No. Wait. Of course.

“You okay?” he asked with a serious edge to his voice.

Jessica felt brain-foggy, only half there. “You . . . you didn’t . . . have this many clothes on, did you?” she asked in a lilting, semi-conscious voice.

“Huh?” He shot her a blank look. “What?”

“And the pool, where’s the pool?”

“What pool?” A puzzled expression crossed his face.

She couldn’t shake the fact that Blue Eyes looked very much like the guy in her vivid dream this morning, the hunk who’d stepped out of a clear-blue swimming pool. They’d been surrounded by palm trees and thatched huts and people sipping drinks with paper umbrellas in them. With Dream Guy’s chiseled six-pack wondrously exposed, he’d come closer and closer to her, arms outstretched, and she’d moved toward him as well. Just when they were about to embrace, music from her smart alarm had woken her up. Rude.

The next thing she knew, Mister Blue Eyes was lifting her into the air with the greatest of ease.

“What are you doing?” she blurted.

“Just hold on, okay?” he said.

She found herself enveloped in his muscular arms, and he was whisking her off to . . . Suddenly, she was in dreamland again, that wondrous, beautiful, serene place, and . . . Were they going back to that tranquil swimming pool? But where were all those cute paper umbrellas? The dream drifted away as her mind whirled and her heart started beating in that scary stop-and-start rhythm once again—the way it had before she’d passed out. Crap!

So strange. Usually, her dreams evaporated quickly, but it was as if this one had been burned into the nether regions of her brain. The hunk in her dream had been wearing the briefest of swim briefs since Adam’s fig leaf. Biblical Adam, not her ex, Adam Wright, who, six months ago, had left her—dumped her, let’s face it—and shattered her heart.

Adam Wrong, really.

Blue Eyes thumped along, his stride long and quick as he carried her. He was not breathing hard at all, and she was impressed. His brawny build made her think he was used to hauling heavy things. Or was he some sort of body builder? Surely, he wasn’t kidnapping her.

“I need to take you to the medical tent,” he said in a firm voice.

“Alright,” she answered, then shifted into that foggy, half-conscious dreamy state once again. “Then the pool?”

“No,” he said, frowning at her. “No pool.”

You can take me anywhere.

Talk about being swept off her feet. She wrapped her arms around his thick neck and held on tight, feeling somewhat better, but still alarmed.

She’d never passed out before in her life. She’d never had any weird heart issues either. Fellow Turkey Trotters and people watching the race from the sidelines were staring at her, some even pointing fingers as he carried her along. What an embarrassment. Jessica shut her eyes to avoid looking at them, which just meant that she became all the more aware of the cushion of Blue Eyes’s strong pectorals. Nice. Very nice.

Maybe getting up so early this morning—before even the birds were rubbing their eyes—and driving nearly forty-five minutes to participate in this ridiculously inane Trot hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

No. It was a bad idea. Look at her, completely mortified. Before she’d collapsed, her head had felt like a bowling ball. Now it felt like a mushy ball of cotton. She couldn’t decide which was worse.

“Won’t be long,” Blue Eyes said, his voice calm and steady. “We’re almost there. Hang on tight.”

Gladly.

She felt like saying, Take your time. You’re doing great. By the way, was this the original definition of giving someone a, uh, “lift”?

Finally, they arrived at the medical assistance tent near the finish line, about fifty yards away from where she’d fallen. He laid her gently on a cot beside an ambulance. A gray-haired man who looked to be in his eighties was sitting on a chair nearby, receiving oxygen. Turning toward her, he gave her a sad frown, as if to welcome her into a club that no one in their right mind would want to join.

Two male paramedics approached. Both were short and squat, built like fireplugs, one blond, the other dark-haired with a mustache.

“Passed out during the race,” Blue Eyes told them. He spoke with a rushed intensity that made Jessica’s gut knot up. “I was helping at a water station when I saw her fall.”

“Okay,” the paramedic with the mustache said. He bent down to Jessica. “Follow my finger.” He moved his index finger right and left across her field of vision.

“Guess I overdid it,” she said, her voice shaky.

“Looks like it,” the blond paramedic said. Jessica did not appreciate the note of chastisement in his voice. He took out his stethoscope, squatted by her side, and listened to her heart.

Jessica gazed around as he listened, still feeling embarrassed, dizzy, and tired. Over in the crowd milling near the finish line, she spotted a small child with a big red balloon tied to her wrist. The balloon had a picture of a big fat turkey on it.

“I’m afraid I’m hearing an irregular heartbeat,” the blond paramedic said with a grim look on his face.

Jessica’s throat constricted.

“It’s called an arrhythmia. A stop-and-start delay of your heartbeat. Do you feel it?”

She put a hand to her chest. As a matter of fact, she did. They were odd, hesitant thumps, for sure. Beat. Stop. Beat. Stop. Beat. Beat . Not right at all. “Yes. I felt this at the end of my second mile. I just assumed it was something that happens to people when they run, no?”

The blond paramedic shook his head. “You’ll need to see a doctor as soon as you can. Take some deep breaths and let’s have you drink this cold water, okay? Can you sit up?”

Jessica sat up slowly, cautiously. Still foggy, she took the bottled water and drank gratefully. A few minutes later, after downing the whole bottle, the dizziness and fogginess were gone. Amazing. She felt much better. Had she been that dehydrated?

“Has something like this happened to you before?” the mustached paramedic asked, studying her.

Jessica shook her head and frowned. “No. Never.”

She looked around for Blue Eyes, but he was nowhere in sight. He must have left. Oh, well. No biggie. She squeezed the water bottle, which crinkled back at her.

In the distance, a bluegrass band played away, fiddles, banjos, a singer’s nasally voice intoning: “Just awaitin’ for my love in the hills of Kentuckeeey . . .” The music fit perfectly for Franklin, a slow-moving, small town, with a quaint square and the cutest little boutiques ever. She had visited with friends several times for the shopping and just to stroll around.

Her twin brother, Lenny, who’d zoomed off ahead of her at the start of the race, leaving her in the dust—“Loser!” he’d called back at her—had insisted that she run the Turkey Trot with him, nagging her all week to come. She’d finally given in. This just proved how often she should listen to his ideas—like never.

After she’d taken some deep breaths, the blonde paramedic listened to her chest again.

“Ah, good. Your rhythm is normal now,” he said. “Steady beats. Perfect.” He gave her a quick smile. “How do you feel now?”

“Much better,” she said. “Really, I do.”

The animal galloping away in her chest had definitely settled down. Waves of relief washed over her. It was just so strange.

“It’ll be okay, dear,” the old man said to her, turning her way again.

“Were you drinking water before and during the race?” the mustached paramedic asked.

“No.” Jessica blushed. “I know. Not smart, right?”

“Well, that’s probably why you passed out,” the blond one said. “Always drink water before and during a race, okay? It also may have gotten your heart skipping. Did you have any alcohol last night by chance? That can dry you out too.”

Her cheeks warmed. Your Honor, guilty as charged. She’d gone out with Kristin, her best friend from college last night and hadn’t gotten in until midnight. They’d wound up meeting some bachelorettes from Austin, and she’d drunk two or three margaritas. Oof, and some shots, too. She put a hand to her head. She’d nearly thrown up her chimichanga in the women’s bathroom at a dive bar.

“Well, yeah, a drink or two, I’m afraid,” she lied. Then she confessed: “Actually, uh, more than just a few.”

“That probably contributed as well, then.” Both paramedics gave her frank stares as if she had no business trying to be a Turkey Trotter. They were probably right.

“Guess I learned my lesson the hard way.” She tried to smile up at them but her lips wouldn’t cooperate.

The mustached paramedic looked her over and nodded. “It happens a lot. Trust me. Did you come with anyone you can call?”

“My twin brother.”

“Do you want to call him?” he asked.

She took out her phone from her pocket and dialed Lenny, but he didn’t answer.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll catch up with him. He’s probably around here somewhere.”

The paramedics studied her as a plane flew overhead; no doubt, Turkey Airlines.

“Okay, then,” the mustached one said. “Since your rhythm is back to normal, we’ll release you, but please take it easy, and you need to be seen by your doctor ASAP, okay?”

She frowned. “Of course. Is it serious?”

The old man was leaning forward, listening in.

The paramedic’s brown eyes stared back at her, giving away nothing. “You’ll have to talk to your doctor,” he repeated.

What kind of answer was that?

“And make sure you take your medication,” the old man said, wagging a bony finger at her. “I have heart issues too. It’s no fun, trust me.”

She didn’t have medicine to take, aside from perhaps some ibuprofen she should’ve swallowed to stave off her hangover. But he didn’t need to know that. She gave him a wry smile. “Thanks for the advice.”

Jessica gingerly stood and accepted the cookie the medic handed her. Plus another bottled water. Sweetness slid over her tongue but did nothing to reduce the headache that buzzed at the back of her skull. She took a minute to get her bearings. The paramedic helped her, holding her arm. Taking a step on her own, she found herself able to walk just fine.

Leaving the tent, she saw that the race was nearing its end, except for a few stragglers. Just as she texted Lenny, she spied the man of her dreams—well, sort of—again. Blue Eyes. Was he cute or what? Geez. He was standing ten feet ahead of her, laughing about something, with a tall thin man who looked like a marathon runner, and the man’s freckled, blond-haired son. The boy was wearing a Pilgrim’s hat and a brown sweatshirt that read “It’s Turkey Time!” in big letters. As soon as Blue Eyes spotted Jessica, he shook the man’s hand, patted the little boy on the head, and came right up to her.

“You alright?” he asked, looking her over. His smile faded into a look of concern. “I was worried. Sorry, I would have stayed with you but I needed to get back to my water station.”

She let her eyes run over the lines of his face, the hills and valleys, the broad forehead, the squared-off chin. A man with a chin like that must surely know his purpose in life. He’d be bold and adventurous. It was a George-Washington-crossing-the-Delaware kind of chin if there ever was one. Jessica winced inside. Damn! Men this good-looking should be outlawed, like meth or bad manners or . . . designing your bedroom too matchy-matchy.

“I’m better,” she said. She tried to make a joke out of it. “But for a while, my heart felt like the big bass drum in the Macy’s Parade. Then it started doing this weird delay thing, like an out-of-whack metronome. Guess I’m more out of shape than I realized.” She managed a smile and sank into the depths of his eyes. “Thanks so much for your help. I really appreciate it.”

“Hey, not a problem. The name’s Paul by the way. Paul Brady.” He extended a hand and flashed a bright grin that made her insides flutter.

“Jessica Chandler,” she said, shaking it. The pads of her fingers pressed into his rough, callused skin, his hand swallowing hers in a powerful grip. Her blush returned, heat climbing over her cheeks and down her throat.

“Hey. Things happen, you know? I’m glad I was able to help.” He ran a hand through his thick hair. With the morning sun shining behind him, he looked like an angelic being with a halo—minus the wings. She snorted to herself. An angel? Well, probably not, knowing what she knew about men, especially Adam Wrong.

“It’s my own damn fault. My twin brother bet me that I couldn’t finish the Trot in under thirty-five minutes, you know around twelve-minute miles? And I felt sure I could do it, but only if I didn’t slow my pace, so I passed the water stations without stopping and…well, that was that.”

But what if it wasn’t so simple? What if this was the prelude to something worse, some kind of actual heart condition? The fear dug into her, and she did her best to shake it away.

“Thirty-five minutes? Kind of specific, no?” he asked, his smile lighting up his eyes.

“That’s my brother,” Jessica said, unable to stop herself from admiring his chiseled features, his well-toned, athletic body. “He quantifies everything. He’s probably the only person in the known universe who’d brush his teeth for exactly two minutes and twelve seconds before facing a firing squad in the morning. You know, clean teeth and all before you get shot to death.”

Paul laughed. “I know the type. Well, at least you’re better now. Take care of yourself, okay?” He started walking away.

“Hey,” she called him back. “Are you some kind of paramedic yourself?”

He turned around and smiled broadly, arms folded across his broad, muscular chest. “Me? No. I’m a personal trainer. I have first aid and CPR training.”

“Oh.” She nodded. That made sense. The image hit her full-on: Paul, clad in a tank top and shorts, his muscles bulging as he imperiously commanded a rapt, sweaty, totally besotted female client.

She looked at the card he handed her:

Paul Brady

Holistic Health Coach

Take it to the next level

It had his address, phone number, email, social media, and website on the back.

“Thanks,” she said. “It looks like you’re totally reachable.”

“I am.” He shot her another fantastic grin and began walking away. “But are you totally teachable?” he asked, turning around from ten feet away.

She shrugged. “Don’t know till you try, right?”

He pointed a finger at her. “Exactly.”

Her breath quickened as she watched him until he disappeared in the crowd. Lord. What a way to meet a man. Collapsing at a race? Seriously? She had to smile. It was one of those moments you’d recall with your grandchildren fifty years from now.

“And there he was, your grandfather, appearing out of nowhere right when I fainted, and he swooped in to save me, carrying me away in his arms . . .”

Please stop. This was ridiculous. She was definitely not in the meet-a-man business. Not right now in her life. Not after all she’d gone through with Adam earlier this year—the suffering, the grief, the damage of losing him mixed in with the overall pain. Just like the song said: “Love hurts.” It certainly did, and she wasn’t about to try again anytime soon. No way.

Still…Should she set up an appointment with him? After all, being unable to finish a silly Turkey Trot was not good news. Of course she was out of shape. She knew it all too well.

But she hated exercising. To her, all that bouncing around and jumping and running made no sense at all. It just seemed so unnatural. Barre? Pilates? Spin class? Imagine primitive tribes doing formal exercises like jumping jacks and sit-ups before they set out to track down wild animals in the jungle. It was absurd. The human race had survived up until now without exercise classes, thank you very much. And so would she. Besides, just the mere thought of doing push-ups made her want to open a bottle of Maker’s Mark, pour herself a double shot, and take a load off.

Then another realization stormed across her mind: she’d officially lost the bet to Lenny, and knowing her wombmate, she’d never hear the end of it. Oh, great! What a morning this was turning out to be. Worse than the day the Jacobs Architecture job had fallen through, designing the kitchen for sixty-four villas in a new upscale subdivision for the fifty-five-plus crowd. She’d had the polished marble mosaic backsplash tiles picked out and everything.

The problem was that Jessica hadn’t been able to say no to his bet because they’d always been competitive. A hundred bucks says you’re too chicken to try skydiving. Ten bucks if you can sink a balled-up paper in a trash can three times in a row. They’d gone off the rails at a putt-putt golf course in Florida once, betting on every hole. By the end, they’d gotten so mad they’d lashed out at each other with their putters, fencing with them as if they were swords.

“Fifty bucks says you can’t run this thing in thirty-five minutes,” he’d said before the race began, and that familiar competitive flame had burned inside her.

“You got it,” she’d replied, without even thinking about it. She’d pushed a finger into his chest. “And you may as well hand over the money now because you are going to L-O-S-E.”

It was amazing what a good bet did to her spirits. A little hungover? So what?

“You’re on, sucker,” he’d said. “I'm taking you down.”

Now Jessica looked out over the other runners as she rubbed her hands. Oh, boy. Here he comes. Great.

Lenny approached her, making his way through the Trotters, tall, lean like a tennis player, his blond hair artfully styled. He was dressed in the absolute latest running attire. Mr. Perfection. They were unmistakable in their twinness: same light-blond hair—Jessica wore hers long, down past her shoulder blades; Lenny’s was cut close and short—matching aquamarine eyes, and the infamous V-shaped chin that seemed to be locked into place by a cleft in the center. Their father had that very same cleft. Where they differed was in their noses—Lenny’s, red from the cold, was slightly bent and bulbous; hers was straight and pointed.

“What in God’s name happened to you? Couldn’t even finish, eh?” he said in a mocking tone as he walked up to her. “It’s called a Turkey Trot, not a turtle walk.”

Oh, God. Snarky as ever. She recalled what she’d told him when he’d first asked her about doing a Turkey Trot with him: “I’d rather sky dive straight into Hell.”

Okay, maybe snarky ran in the family.

He’d persisted and nagged and finally she’d agreed just to shut him up. She’d been late getting here, too. And that had really annoyed him. To Lenny, being late was almost as much of a horror as running out of dental floss.

Now she scowled at him but she wasn’t going to disclose what really happened. She didn’t want to worry him about something that was probably nothing. He’d start pestering her about diet and exercise even more than he already did. Lenny couldn’t understand why the entire world wasn’t living on bean burgers and salads and frickin’ edamame.

“I . . . I tripped on something and banged my knee,” she lied. “Twisted my ankle. Really embarrassing.”

“Oh, crap.” He moved closer to her as his eyes softened and his brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I guess.” She rubbed her ankle, hoping he’d feel sorry for her. “So bet’s off, right?” She gave him a hopeful look.

“Well . . . I didn’t want to win like this,” he said. Ah, some consideration. That was new.

But then there it was, that thought-flash they shared sometimes as twins. I knew I’d take you. “But . . .” He looked her over, no doubt wondering if she was telling the truth or not. “A win is a win, Jess—if you know what I mean.”

“Sure, Len,” she said dryly. “To you it is. A frickin’ win is a frickin’ win.”

She got out her phone, rolled her eyes, and reluctantly Venmoed him the money. “Happy now?” she asked, a bitter edge to her voice.

“You betcha,” he said without hesitation. “Victory is so sweet. But the money is sweeter.”

“Anyway . . . it’s been a real Turkey Trot kind of blast,” Jessica said. “And now I need a shower and some coffee. And I still need to make the sweet potato casserole for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Thanks for coming,” Lenny said. “The Turkey Trotters of America appreciate it sincerely.” He gave her a ridiculous bow.

Oh, how she could unleash on him right now about how she’d never wanted to be in this stupid race in the first place, and how she’d had to wake up so early to get here and drive all this way . . . and . . . what else? Lots of things.

“You can tell the Turkey Trotters of America to kiss my sweet ass,” she finally managed to say, summing it all up and telling him what she really thought.

As Jessica fake-limped away, putting on a performance that would have surely won her an Oscar, she could literally feel Lenny’s perceptive eyes studying her ankle. In the end, she didn’t think he’d bought her “lame” excuse one bit. Oh well. She would tell him the truth later on. At Thanksgiving dinner. Yes. Definitely.

As she headed to her car, she stared at Paul’s business card for a long moment, the image of his blue eyes running through her mind, then tossed it into a nearby trash can. Nope. Not going to happen. When it came to her heart, her emotional heart, she was definitely not ready to start over with someone new—not after all she’d been through with Adam Wrong. Not now, anyway. Maybe not ever. She was still in the wallowing-in-her-sweatpants, Hilary-Duff-movies-binge-watching phase.

And as far as her physical heart was concerned? She might need to exercise, but she’d do it on her own. Buy some barbells, maybe an elliptical. How hard could it be? It was so much cheaper than hiring a trainer or joining one of those expensive gyms.

Ah, but a nice, cold, sugary coffee drink? Now that was just what the doctor ordered. The Frothy Monkey wasn’t far. They were famous for their chocolate java mint frappes. She’d had one or two before, and after all she’d been through, surely she deserved one now.

She just had to make sure that her strange heart problem didn’t start up again. She hated even the thought of it. She would definitely see a doctor ASAP.