CHAPTER TWO
Lisa Reisert was dreaming. It was late spring; all of the windows in her house open, creating a delectable breeze. She was wearing a pale summer dress, printed with delicate flowers…lilies.
She heard a knock on the front door. Getting up and walking slowly down the main hallway with the plush pale Persian carpet indenting under her feet, she caught a glimpse of dark hair through one of the many glass gaps in the door.
Her heart rate sped up and she started running. Throwing the door open, she jumped into Jackson's arms. They hugged as if they were hanging on for dear life, until he lifted her chin. Their eyes met, faces slowly coming together. Just as their lips met, Lisa was jerked awake.
The first thing she noticed upon arrival to the world of the living was that her room smelled almost overwhelmingly of flowers. Rotating her head, she saw that every available surface of the sterile hospital room was covered in floral arrangements. Most of them were lilies.
Sighing, she decided to observe her surroundings more closely. Looking forward, Lisa spotted her father slumped over in a chair, a magazine open on his lap.
"Daddy?" she asked quietly.
He raised his head groggily, but awoke fully upon seeing her.
"Hey Lise. How are you feeling?"
"Alright, I guess." She raised herself so she was resting against the pillows on her bed. "How long was I out?" she asked, eyeing the flowers again.
"A couple of days," he replied. Then he paused, as if considering what to say next. "After the surgery, you were—"
"The surgery?" she cut him off, eyes wide.
He sighed, wondering how to continue. "You have pulmonary valve stenosis. It required surgery."
"How did I get it?" she asked quietly.
"The doctor said it was rheumatic fever." He walked towards the side and gripped her hand. "But you're recovering."
Lisa sighed. She figured there was no point in going into further details; she had an inkling that the doctor would do more than enough of that. After all, she was never one to stomach medical reasoning; she had very nearly vomited when she saw x-rays of her broken right arm at age ten.
"So," she began. "Who are all the flowers from?"
"Well, the gardenias are from me, and the carnations are from that girl you work with. Your mother sent the roses." Lisa noticed that he had begun to look uncomfortable again.
"What about the lilies?"
"I honestly don't know. The card never says who sent them."
Lisa jerked her head up, curious as to who was sending her flowers in secret. Somewhere in the back of her thoughts she wondered if it was Jackson, but she knew that idea was absurd. The man was probably the very reason she was in the hospital in the first place.
She realized that her father was still talking when he got up and went to the table set up in the corner of her room. He came back holding a little white box.
"This arrived today." He handed her the box; she was surprised at how heavy it was.
She was just about to open the box when her father's cell phone rang, and a painful flashback presented itself. Joe quickly mouthed an apology and left the room, leaving her in solitude.
Lisa opened the box, and nearly screamed at what was inside of it. She plucked the little toy airplane out of its container and flung it across the room.
And then she burst into tears.
At the moment, Jackson Rippner was livid.
He was angry at the organization for making him pull that last job. He had almost failed, but his fierce drive to survive no matter the circumstances had prevented that from happening. After the doctor had set to work taking care of Lisa, Jackson had pulled himself together and called the hotel himself. Cynthia had been most willing to cooperate once he told her that if she didn't change the rooms, she would have her co-worker's death on her conscience.
He was angry at Lisa for eliciting feelings he had thought himself no longer capable of. She made him feel alive. Not the sick adrenaline rush of a successful job, but the way you felt when you had something to live for. She had made him fall in love. It had created an indescribable need to wreak havoc, to punish her for giving him this energy and all these pesky emotions. He wanted to kill her mercilessly, and at the same time he wanted to hug her and kiss her and make her focus on him as much as he was focused on her.
He was also more than pissed off at himself for allowing his heart to be touched. He was the best manager his employers had ever had; he did not allow himself to feel. Feelings only created problems: situations that were often impossible to escape.
He couldn't keep from asking himself, thought, if that were true, then why did he smile every time he conjured Lisa's image in his mind? Why did his chest constrict whenever he thought about their time together before the call; the conversations and the ease at which words had come?
At the moment, Jackson wanted to set fire to something.
Very, very badly.
But, knowing that that was certainly not an option, he decided to remind Lisa, or more truthfully himself, that he was still in control. He would not allow feelings to interfere with his one-track existence.
Which was why he started sending her the flowers. At first, he hadn't known what kind to send. Roses would imply romantic interest if sent by a male, and carnations were entirely too common. He had caught himself thinking that they were given during times of death in France.
Why the hell do you care if she dies? He had asked himself whilst gazing at the refrigerated blossoms at the flower shop near his apartment. You don't care about her. Jackson had felt ridiculous. It was as if he was attempting to convince himself of his lack of feeling towards the only woman who had managed to slip past his defenses. But deep down, he knew he was in denial. He knew exactly why he was sending her flowers.
And control was definitely not one of the reasons.
Finally, his eyes had settled on a delicate bouquet of lilies and baby's breath, tied with some pink ribbon. Perfect, he had thought. They were gorgeous, yet at the same time contained a sort of innocent aura.
Just like Lisa, he had mused.
After two days and four bouquets later, Lisa had still not woken up. Worried, he had driven down to the hospital, and when he was sure Joe was preoccupied in the men's room, he had slipped into her room.
The flowers had nearly fallen from his grip at the sight of her. She was laying there, hair splayed against the white pillow, features relaxed. She was the very embodiment of an angel.
Against his better judgment, he had left the plane on the table. Part of him was disappointed that he wouldn't witness her reaction, but a bigger part of him was grateful. He could imagine what her response would be.
The way his heart clenched at the thought was distressing.