Accepting Addy

By A. Lee Nelson

Addy Jordan was an Officer in the U.S. Army when she sustained a serious head injury from a bomb in Afghanistan. The head injury has left her with lasting effects that ultimately forces her out of the military. Now Addy has moved to the always exciting New York City and works as a bank teller with her best friend, Sharleen. What was an ordinary workday turns not so ordinary when the man of her dreams, clothing model Jayden St. George, walks into her bank. Even though Addy believes herself to be an average-looking woman, she decides to take a chance and grabs life by the horns when she tricks Jayden into meeting her out for drinks one night. Just as she believes her love life is starting to look up, the rivalry between Addy and one of her coworkers is quickly intensifying to dangerous levels. Soon Addy is faced with another life and death situation. Addy doesn't know if she will survive to come back to Jayden or if it will all be taken away, like a dream that was too good to be true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098330712

Book preview

cover.jpg

© A. Lee Nelson 2020

ISBN: 978-1-09833-070-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09833-071-2

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

PRELUDE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

PRELUDE

August 12, 2017, Kabul, Afghanistan

W hich chow hall are you thinking for breakfast today? Sergeant First Class Du Monde asks me as we start our walk to work.

Is it French toast sticks day? I asked facetiously.

Sergeant First Class Du Monde and I were the only two people from our Army unit out of Fort Polk, Louisiana, to be stationed on the military base in northern Kabul. Essentially, we only had each other over here, which meant we spent an inordinate amount of time discussing mundane things such as food, workouts and weather to pass the time between work hours.

Sooo the American DFAC it is, then, he replies, using the Army term for Dining Facility.

You got it.

I don’t know why I bother to ask you anymore, ma’am. Every Tuesday and Saturday morning it’s the same thing, he says a little bemused.

Einstein would suggest you might be insane, I say with sarcasm.

Whatever, ma’am. Einstein would recognize a fellow geniu…

Take Cover! Take Cover! Take Cover! Beep! Beep! Beep! Take Cover! Take Cover! Take Cover! The automated voice of an English woman sounds over the loudspeaker. Echoing almost incoherently. Its purpose is to warn everyone on the base that they were only seconds away from being hit by mortars or rockets from an enemy force.

Training kicks in as Sergeant First Class Du Monde and I start running for cover. We duck behind a hesco barrier a split second before the first mortar round hits the base. I can feel the vibrations from the impact through the ground and in the air. I can see smoke where the round hit less than 200 meters to our left.

Dang, they’re close today! he shouts as we look for a cement bunker to run to.

Normally crouching behind a dirt-filled hesco barrier was enough to protect you when the rounds didn’t hit so close. Today, however, it seemed the Taliban brought their A game.

There must be big money on the table if they’re trying this hard to hit us, I joke, crouching further down as I feel the next impact strike even closer.

Damn. It would be our luck we’d be stuck in the middle! Do you see a bunker?? Sergeant First Class Du Monde yells as we see the puff of smoke from a mortar round 50 meters to our right.

Where we lived was an old transient post that was separate from the main base. We had about a mile walk to and from work every day. The walk wasn’t the issue; there being almost no concrete bunkers in between the two locations, however, was.

Sensing a lull in the attack, I straighten up just enough to peer over the barrier to look around again for a bunker. Just then I feel the tell-tale sign of another explosion when the air sucks in around me right before the explosion hits just a few feet away.

The last thing I remember is turning to warn Sergeant First Class Du Monde before the lights went out.

CHAPTER 1

I hope it snows! I looooove the snow! I think to myself as I look up at the gray brooding New York City skies. I’ve always loved cool cloudy days. I think it’s residual from growing up in Germany for part of my childhood. Thinking of my childhood reminds me of my brother Ford. He likes these kinds of days, too.

If I were being completely honest, I think we like them mainly because you don’t have to feel guilty about watching movies and eating comfort food on days like today. Feeling nostalgic, I whip out my phone as I continue walking on my way back to work from my lunch break.

Pulling up my last texts with Ford, I tap into the text box and write a quick note.

Hoping for snow today! I’ll have a Glühwein for both of us after work if it does! ;-)

Glühwein is one of our favorite drinks from Germany. It’s spiced wine served nice and hot on cold days. Usually there were copious amounts of delicious German food to go with the Glühwein, but I would have to pass on that. Being 32 and…well, a little thick in some areas, I could hardly afford both indulgences.

I quickly scan the text for any autocorrected words my iPhone has snuck in on me. As I press send, I think to myself for the millionth time that I should stop using so many exclamation points. Why am I always overly excited on text messages?

After my close call in Afghanistan, I had to be medically retired. I took a serious blow to the head from flying shrapnel that gave me searing headaches accompanied by what can only be described as the opposite of a blackout. A blinding white light would explode through my head. I tried everything from medication to meditation to manage them, but I still get them. It wouldn’t be a big deal but I literally go blind with this white light and my head feels like it’s going to burst before I pass out. Thankfully, they seem to be getting fewer and fewer as time goes on.

Once I left the military, I went back to school and got an MBA from the College of William & Mary. After graduation, I got a job at a bank in New York City. The job isn’t really what drove me to New York City. I think I wanted to work in New York to prove that I could be sophisticated enough to make it in the big city if I wanted to.

Humming Taylor Swift’s Blank Space, I pushed the big glass doors to the bank open. As I walk through the doors, I greet one of our daytime security guards. Hey Harv, anyone rob the place while I was gone?

Harvey Williams was a tall, lean man with freckled mahogany skin and a graying beard. He was originally from Atlanta but moved to New York for work a few decades ago. We had a standing bet that the place would get robbed while we were working. I bet that it would be a crazy third-generation Italian man driven to the breaking point by his nagging wife, and he bet that it would be a psycho white guy who lived with his mother and had never dated.

Not yet—but the day is only half over! he replies, with false hope in his voice.

Too true my friend. Too true.

The lobby was large and open. With a bank of tellers behind glass on a raised platform straight across from the door. The lighting was warm and there was plenty of marble and faux red velvet to give the place a rich yet cozy feel. It’s actually why I decided I wanted to work at this bank in particular.

I was overqualified for being a bank teller and could have applied for one of their management positions, but I wanted a low-stress job with manageable hours. After over eight years of service with two commands and two deployments, followed by recovering from a traumatic brain injury and getting a master’s, I wanted time to live my life for a while.

I got back to my teller booth in time to hear the end of Sharleen’s conversation with her boyfriend. She sits in the booth next to me most days of the week. Except Tuesdays. Then I sit next to the dreaded Doug. He technically has no power over me, but he’s been a bank teller longer than I have so he thinks that gives him some sort of authority. Mostly I’m annoyed he ruins a perfectly good Taco Tuesday.

No Joey, I don’t consider taking me to your dad’s restaurant a date, Sharleen says in her nasally voice. We go there every night for dinner!...Yeah you and your ‘I’ll make it up to you’...Fine one last chance, but it better be someplace fancy next time!...Okay, whateva. I gotta go. Lunch is almost ovah…uh-huh. Bu-bye.

Sharleen and Joey had been going out off and on since high school but more seriously for the past four years. They’re always on the verge of breaking up, but I’m pretty sure, being traditional Italian New Yorkers, they had been promised to each other from birth. Not really, but still…

I take it date night didn’t go well last night? I asked her with barely suppressed humor in my voice. We had this conversation at least once a week.

Ugh. You would not believe it, she exclaimed in a heavy New York accent. He took me to Café Roma’s, you know, his dad’s place, and sat watching the game on TV the whole time. He and Papa Joe sat there arguing the plays for our whole date. I was wearing a new top and everything! She had thick, curly black hair and bright red lipstick to help hide the fact that her nose was just a little too big. I couldn’t tell if she was pretty or if I just thought she was because she was my friend.

Sharleen, we’ve talked about this. You need to change date night to any night that doesn’t have a football game going on, I say with exasperation.

Why should I? I’m way more important than football! she replied with wounded feminine pride. I’m never going to say yes if he doesn’t realize what a catch I am. I’m only giving him one more chance or I swear I’m leaving his no-good Italian ass.

Okay, have it your way. Just don’t mess up that hairdo banging your head against the wall, I say, mocking her accent and giving her a wink.

I turned to look at the customer who came through the door. He was drop-dead gorgeous. I watched him walk through the serpentine and stop dutifully at the Do Not Cross line. Since Sharleen was busy texting with Joey, I waved him over. Secretly super excited I would get to talk to him. Seriously, this guy could be a model or something.

Good afternoon, Sir, how can I help you? I tried not to say too giddily.

He was probably 6’4" with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He looked to be around mid- to late thirties, but you could hardly tell. He had just the slightest hint of salt in his sandy blond hair and stubble. I could tell he was super fit by the way his waffle-top shirt clung to his muscles.

Umm. Yeah, he replied nervously.

I had to suppress the urge to make a stupid remark. I talk entirely too much sometimes, especially when I’m nervous.

He started again, Yeah, I need a cashier’s check, please.

Are you sure? You don’t sound too confident about that, I said despite my best efforts to keep my silly comments to myself.

He smiles at me. I could just melt! Don’t say anything else stupid!! You promised you’d work on this, Addy! I chastise myself mentally.

Yes. I’m sure.

Well alright then. What is the name on the account?

Jayden St. George.

Wow, what a name. So strong and masculine just like him. Uhhhg pull it together, girl! You’re being ridiculous. Which account would you like to use?

Checking, please, he says with a lopsided grin.

Why is he smiling at me like that? Do I have food on me from lunch? I bet he thinks I’m ridiculous from making stupid comments.

I get to work looking up his account information, zoning out for a minute while I complete the mundane task of clicking through automated computer screens.

I love that song, he says as I type in his information.

Oops! Dang it, Taylor, why do you have to sing such catchy songs?? Laughing, I look at him, quirking an eyebrow slightly. Is that so?

Don’t Judge me! he said with maybe just a touch of embarrassment.

Splaying my hands in front of me in mock surrender, I replied, I would never...judge a six-four grown man singing Taylor Swift….

Uh huh. Yeah, I believe you. He rolled his eyes at me but grinned nonetheless. I met her once, you know, he said with a hint of boyish excitement.

Stunned, my hands drop into my lap and I turn wide-eyed to face him. No. You. Did. Not.

Oh yes I did. She performed at one of our shows. I got to shake her hand and everything. His eyebrow twitches up as he looked away, feigning arrogance.

Automatically I said, Pics or it didn’t happen.

He spluttered a little and I swear it was the cutest thing ever. I wasn’t wearing anything with pockets! Plus, we aren’t allowed to have our phones on us during a show! he said in his own defense.

He was so cute when he was flustered. I couldn’t help myself: I giggled. Alright, I believe you. Back to work, shall we? Who would you like me to make this out to?

Plastic Surgery Center NYC for uhh… He fumbles in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a slip of paper and continuing: $3,500, he says in a hushed tone.

I turn to face him again and give him a look that clearly says Are you F-ing kidding me? This better not be for you, you perfect specimen you. I am cursed with having the opposite of a resting bitch face. I have an overly expressive face and he can read what I’m thinking like it’s a book.

Look…it’s… he stammers a bit. It’s not my idea. It’s for work.

How can your work tell you to get plastic surgery?? I think as my head cocks to the side and I narrow my eyes a bit trying to understand.

I uhhhh…model.

I literally have nothing to say to that, so I just stare at him like an idiot.

You know, mostly outdoor stuff and sporting equipment, he keeps explaining. My blank stare must be making him nervous. He starts rubbing the back of his neck.

But, you’re perfect…what would they ever want to change? Oh my goooosh!! What is wrong with me?! Why won’t my brain work?? I think I’ll just die now.

They want me to get my crow’s feet smoothed out.

I hear Sharleen laughing. I look over at her and she quickly averts her gaze to her computer. OMG just do your job already, Addy! But he doesn’t need the surgery. His crow’s feet make him look more irresistible and like you could trust him with all your secrets. I especially like the way they crinkle when he smiles at me….

I get an idea. An absolutely impulsive, crazy idea that will probably get me fired, but without thinking I do it anyway.

Very well, Mr. St. George, I say as professionally as possible.

I type information into my computer before discreetly placing a folded piece of paper inside an envelope. Tapping the back of the envelope shut I try to rectify some of the damage to my super-cool persona by being mysterious. Have a nice day, Mr. St. George. I hope you find this helps.

Looking slightly confused he takes the envelope and says, Thank you, Ms.…uhm…

Jordan.

Ah. Yes. Thank you, Ms. Jordan. He gives me an odd little smile before turning to leave.

I wait until he gets through the door before turning to Sharleen and dropping my head in my hands. Was that as bad as I think?

She busts out laughing so hard she had to stop polishing her brightly colored nails. Well, you’re no Rico Suave, hunny.

Uhhhhg. I knew it. Kill me now, I utter in complete misery.

Why? It’s not like you’re going to see him again.

Ummmm…well…about that, I say guiltily.

Sharleen puts down her nail file to face me. What did you do?

Nothing really, I say a little too brightly.

Ohhhh no you don’t! I know when you’re hiding something, Addy, so spill it, she says as she places both hands on the side of her desk and leans closer to the glass partition between us.

Well…I…may have put an, umm…dinner invitation in the envelope instead of his cashier’s check, I say with false innocence. My voice is not as strong and confident as I was going for. I quickly try to act busy while conveying through body language that it was no big deal.

Oh. My. God! Sharleen exclaims with an even thicker nasally accent than usual. I know I’m in for it now. What were you thinking?! You could get fired for that! What if he comes back and complains?? she says like a scolding mother.

Looking at her with false bravado, I say, Well I’ll just…you know… I’ll just tell him…it was an accident? Giving up, I put my head on the desk and continue miserably, Oh I don’t know, Sharleen. Ask for forgiveness, I suppose.

Just then a handful of customers stream through the door, forcing us to get back to business and put my—as yet to be seen—faux pas behind us for the moment.

CHAPTER 2

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. "Well you have to. You can’t very well stand up a male model on a date you asked him on, now can you?" I say to my reflection in the mirror. I’m furiously trying to cover up my bright red face with foundation. Why do other women get a sexy sweat men go crazy over after a workout, and I turn into a walking tomato for hours??

After applying a liberal amount of foundation, I dab some darker foundation into the middle of my cheek, trying to create a contour to make my face look slimmer. It’s not like he’s actually showing up, Addy, so stop acting like a crazy person. Sheesh!

I cannot believe you did this! Acting like a common civilian fanning over a pretty face. What would you say to yourself, Captain Jordan?? Rolling my eyes in disgust I apply eye shadow to the lids of my eyes and mascara to the lashes. I wish I knew anything about makeup. A smoky eye would be great…I think.

There! You look absolutely… ordinary. Surveying my results in the mirror, I couldn’t be less impressed. Well, it’s honest, Addy. You’re not a supermodel and you’ve never been one to sell a lie. Let’s just hope he’s into sarcastic personalities instead of stunning good looks.

After applying the most expert level of makeup I could manage, I turned to the bed where a cream-colored sweater and dark jeans were laid out. I silently prayed that the jeans would fit before pulling on the outfit. After appraising the results in the mirror, I decided it was as good as could be expected. I finished the outfit with some dark brown knee-high boots and a gold necklace that had a little studded circle dangling from it.

I picked up an envelope on my dining room table before grabbing my jacket on my way out of the house. The Uber I had called was waiting outside.

Are you Ms. Jordan? the driver asked.

Yes. I’m headed to the Ten Bells on Broome Street, I replied.

During the ride there, I recalled my actions earlier in the day. Instead of putting the cashier’s check into Mr. St. George’s envelope, I had typed a note instead. It read:

Dear Mr. St. George,

You are perfect. No one should dream of asking you to change who you are inside or out. You are more than you tell yourself. If you don’t believe me, you can ask me. Either way, I’ll be at the Ten Bells, 247 Broome St., with your cashier’s check at 7 p.m. tonight.

Honestly,

Addison Jordan

As the Uber driver took me closer to my destination, I became increasingly worried that my rash decision would result in the cops waiting for me at the bar for attempted theft or whatever the charge would be. Or that he would come storming in and immediately cause a scene by yelling at me and telling me it was none of my damn business, which was completely true. Oh my goodness, what if he called his lawyer!?! I am the stupidest woman on earth!! I groaned in the back seat of the car. I should have picked a bar where no one I knew would be present to witness my total embarrassment, but I of course I had chosen one of my frequent haunts.

I loved the Ten Bells. It was a small European tavern not far from where I worked. I had immediately fallen in love with its warm wooden ceiling and tables with worn brick walls. It had a cozy and inviting atmosphere. I was also a huge fan of the food and drinks they served up.

Arriving promptly at 6:50—because as every good Soldier knows, to arrive early is on time, and to arrive on time is late. It was one of the many habits I couldn’t seem to break. Like wearing my hair in a tight bun for work every day. I know I could change it, but it just seems so unprofessional to look like a dating website profile at work. Then again, what would I know? I’d only been a civilian for a few years now.

I sat at the bar. I didn’t want to look like a stood-up date when Mr. St. George, or Jayden as the name on his account read, never showed. I hope he lets me use his first name. Mr. St. George is such a mouthful to say all the time.

Chad nodded at me from the other end of the bar, letting me know he would be with me as soon as he finished with his latest customers. I tried to distract myself from my nerves by methodically thinking through what I should order. I could get my normal Mich Ultra, but that might seem cheap and common. I thought maybe I could go for wine and seem sophisticated and mysterious. Then I remembered how wine makes me tipsy and giggly like a schoolgirl. Definitely not something I’d want in front of St. George. As I contemplated what I should get, the bell on the door tolled with a new arrival.

It was Jayden. It was only 6:56. Either he was hard pressed to get his check or he was eager to see me.

I looked at him. Handsome from head to toe. He wore a midnight-blue pea jacket over a deep royal blue sweater with dark brown toggles left undone, leaving a V exposed on his chest. A faded pair of jeans that fit like they were made for him with a pair of smart brown workman’s boots. He could be going for a drink with the boys or a fashion shoot in Times Square. It didn’t seem to matter to him.

Realizing I was staring like a besotted schoolgirl, I put my hand up in a slight wave. When he saw me, he hesitated for a moment, a look of confusion on his face. I supposed it was because my hair was down instead of in a bun. After a moment, he came over and asked, You’re Addison, yes? The lady from the bank?

My heart melting like a snowball in summer, I thought to myself, You’re St. George, right? The man of my dreams! Instead, I heroically managed I would be she. I said it like I have