Not His Type (An Opposites Attract Romance) Read online

  Not His Type

  (An Opposites Attract Romance)

  by

  Lisa J. Crane

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  Thank you to all my readers and supporters; I couldn’t do this without you! I hope you enjoy Brooke and Travis’ story, the first in this series. If you do, please watch for Nick Rodgers’ story in the next title, Not Her Type.

  Should you have any questions or find any typographical or grammatical errors, you’d be doing me a tremendous favor if you let me know; you can email me at [email protected]. The favor of a positive review is also greatly appreciated, at www.amazon.com!

  Thanks again, and happy reading!

  Lisa

  Chapter 1

  Brooke hurried outside, ignoring the sounds of construction from the lot next door. The house was almost complete, and as far as she was concerned, it couldn’t be finished soon enough. When she’d sold the lot, she never imagined the noise and the mess that would follow. Everything in her house seemed to sport a fine layer of dust. The noise of hammers, saws, nail guns and construction workers yelling to one another woke her as early as six-thirty some mornings. If she hadn’t needed the money, she’d never have sold the property to begin with; but, she admitted to herself, the money from the sale had paid the back taxes on her own house and the balance of her grandfather’s medical bills and given her a little bit of breathing room.

  Today had been one of the mornings the builders had rattled her out of bed before seven. It was just as well; she’d overslept, after working the late shift at the diner the night before. Now she was going to have to fly if she was going to make it to class on time.

  She’d donned a clean uniform and pulled her hair into a messy ponytail. She poured coffee in a travel mug and grabbed a bagel. Swinging her backpack over her shoulder, she raced out the door…and stopped in her tracks. She had a flat tire.

  Brooke knelt beside the tire, blowing out a sigh of frustration. The gray head of a roofing nail protruded from the tread of the front driver’s side tire. Mentally calculating the cost of a new tire, Brooke realized her “breathing room” was shrinking. And she didn’t have time for this.

  “Looks like you got a flat,” a voice said from behind her.

  Brooke glanced over her shoulder. One of the builders stood behind her, his pose one of practiced nonchalance. He smiled, his dingy teeth almost matching the gray sky of the wet morning. Brooke sighed and straightened.

  “And it looks like one of your roofers is missing a nail,” she said coolly. She narrowed her eyes at the man. “Tell your boss I’d like to talk to him later.”

  “Want me to change it?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t have time right now!” Brooke said.

  She raced inside and quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. She stuffed her uniform into her backpack and hurried back outside. The construction worker still stood at the edge of her driveway, watching Brooke as she unlocked the garage door and shoved it upward. She yanked a cover back, revealing a small motorcycle. Moving quickly and efficiently, Brooke started the engine, backed out of the garage, hopped off, shut, and locked the garage door. She climbed back on the bike and backed out of the driveway.

  Brooke loved riding her bike. She actually preferred it to the ancient car her grandfather had left to her when he died seven months earlier. But when it rained, as it was doing right now, she usually took the car.

  Brooke was almost to the end of the driveway when a movement caught her eye. She stopped and looked up. The man she assumed was the construction boss was waving at her. Brooke waited impatiently as he hurried over.

  “Sorry about the nail!” he shouted over the noise of the motorcycle. “I’ll take care of the tire!”

  “Thanks!” Brooke yelled back. “I really have to go now! I’m gonna be late for school!”

  The man backed up a couple of steps and Brooke shot out of the driveway. The bike’s tires spun on the wet road; Brooke righted the bike then swerved when a worker stepped out from behind a Hummer. There was no righting the bike this time. Brooke felt the tires slide, then felt a burning pain on the left side of her body; she’d thrown on a hoodie over her tee shirt, but it didn’t offer any serious protection as she skidded on the wet asphalt.

  When she finally stopped moving, Brooke lay still for just a second. She began trying to push the bike off her leg, but hands stopped her movements.

  “Be still,” a deep voice said. “We’ll get it. Just be still.”

  Brooke obeyed. She wasn’t completely sure she could’ve gotten out from under the bike anyway. It wasn’t a huge bike, but her left arm hurt terribly and her left leg didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

  “Uh, boss,” another voice said. “You might wanna take a look at this.”

  “Let me up,” Brooke muttered. “Is my bike all right? I need to get to class.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re not goin’ anywhere but the hospital right now,” the first voice said. It was deep and soothing to Brooke’s ears.

  “No!” Brooke said adamantly, trying to sit up. She pushed at the hands that held her, but was having trouble focusing on any one thing. “I have a test this morning! I have to go!”

  The motorcycle had been lifted off Brooke and she tried to rise, pushing herself up. Her left leg buckled and another searing pain tore through her. She collapsed into a pair of strong arms. The last thing she remembered was a pair of crystal blue eyes, and that deep voice.

  “I’ve got you,” the voice said. “You’re gonna be okay.” Travis Cooper tossed his keys to the man beside him. “You drive, I’ll sit in the back with her.”

  “She’s gonna get blood all over your truck, boss,” the man said.

  “I don’t care!” Travis snapped. “Let’s go! We can be there faster than an ambulance can come get her!”

  In the back seat of his Hummer, Travis pulled off his denim shirt, leaving his white tee shirt in its place. He folded the shirt and pressed it tightly against the woman’s thigh; he did his best not to press against the jagged piece of metal protruding from her leg. Blood had already soaked the left leg of her jeans and the front of Travis’ clothing as well; he was concerned about the amount of blood that continued to soak through the shirt he held against the gash that ran the length of her thigh. He looked up and saw the doors of the hospital ER and relief washed over him. He slid from the back seat, the woman’s limp form in his arms, calling for help.

  The automatic doors slid open and several people wearing various colors of scrubs poured out, pushing a gurney. Travis gently laid the woman on the gurney and followed along, answering questions as best he could.

  “What happened?” a doctor asked.

  “Motorcycle accident,” Travis answered. “She sliced her leg open on a piece of metal gutter. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “All right,” the doctor said. “We’ll take care of her. Why don’t you go see Admissions about filling out some forms.”

  “But I don’t….”

  They were gone, pushing the blood-soaked woman through a set of swinging doors. A passing orderly pointed down the hall.

  “Admissions is that way.”

  Travis walked down the hall to the Admissions office. He went in and looked around blankly. An older woman looked up and smiled at him.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “I just brought someone in to the ER,” he answered. “They told me to come here and fill out forms, but
I don’t really –“

  “Oh, certainly!” she said brightly. She waved at a chair beside her desk. “Have a seat, dear.” She turned to her computer and tapped the keyboard. “Patient’s name?”

  “Brooklyn Valentine,” Travis answered. He knew that much from the realtor who’d handled the sale of the lot he’d purchased from her.

  “Middle name?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Address?”

  Travis knew that, as well. He gave the woman the address of the house next door to the one he was building.

  “Date of birth?” the woman asked.

  “No clue.”

  The woman looked up. She gave Travis an odd look. Her gaze went back to her computer screen.

  “Social security number?” At his silence, the woman’s gaze swung back to Travis. Without taking her eyes from him, she said, “Drug allergies? Medical history? Next of kin? Emergency contact?”

  “Me!” Travis blurted out, grateful to be able to give the woman an answer; her welcoming smile had turned to a frown of disapproval. “I’m her emergency contact!” Travis shook his head. “Look, I don’t really know her. I’m her new neighbor, that’s all.”

  “Oh!” the woman said, all smiles again. “Why didn’t you say so, dear? In that case, we’ll finish these later.”

  “Oh, you can also put me down as the responsible party,” Travis added. He gave her his address and cell phone number.

  “All right, we’ll get everything else we need when your neighbor can help us.”

  Travis walked back down to the ER waiting room. Will sat looking very nervous, as if he might catch some horrible disease sitting there. When he saw Travis, he shot up and held out a backpack.

  “Hey, this is hers,” Will said, practically throwing the pack at Travis. He shook his head. “Listen, I don’t do hospitals, man. I gotta get outta here. Nick’s comin’ to pick me up. I’ll get back to work, all right?”

  “That’s fine,” Travis said. “Thanks for drivin’ me. I’m gonna stay with her for a while, make sure she’s all right.” He hefted the damp backpack. “Maybe I can find some information in here.”

  After Will left, Travis sat down in the waiting room. He unzipped the backpack and dug through its contents. He placed them on the seat beside him. A uniform made of the ugliest golden-yellow polyester known to man; Travis remembered seeing the woman next door in that uniform a couple of times. Three heavy textbooks; economics, business administration and marketing. A second uniform? Well, not so much a uniform as a tee shirt with the name of a fast food restaurant emblazoned across the chest; he’d seen her wearing at least two shirts like this one. Did his neighbor work two jobs? And go to school?

  “Aha!” Travis murmured to himself. In the bottom of the backpack, he found a cell phone and a worn purple leather wallet. He opened the wallet. There was her driver’s license; Bunny Brooklyn Valentine. Bunny? Who named their kid Bunny? And no wonder she went by Brooke. She was twenty-four years old. She had no credit cards. A public library card, a student ID from the local community college and three dollars in cash. There were two photographs, one of an old man and one of a woman and a little girl; the woman looked angry and bitter, the little girl sad and hopeful at the same time. The expression on her tiny face bothered Travis; it was as if she knew her life had no chance of turning out well, and yet she dared to dream it might.

  Shaking off the feeling, Travis set the wallet aside and picked up the cell phone. He couldn’t help but compare it to his own; his phone was the latest in technology, all the bells and whistles a phone could possibly have. The model in the backpack was several years old; calls and text only. It was nearly impossible to imagine a twenty-four year old woman with a phone this simple.

  Travis flipped the phone open and scrolled through the contact list. As if he’d conjured someone up, the phone rang in his hand. The screen read, “Satin”. Satin? Travis hesitated just a moment, then answered the phone.

  “Um…hello?” he said.

  “Who’s this?” a strident voice queried. “Where’s Bunny?”

  “My name is Travis Cooper,” he said. “I’m Brooke’s, uh, Bunny’s new neighbor.”

  “Why’re you answerin’ her phone?” Travis thought the woman slurred her words a bit.

  “Are you a friend of Brooke’s?” Travis asked politely.

  The woman laughed, the hoarse, raucous laugh of a heavy smoker. “Oh, I dunno if she’d call me a friend, even though I gave that girl everything. With no help from her no-good father, either!”

  “Oh! Then you’re her mother?”

  “Maybe. Who’s askin’?”

  “Brooke was injured in an accident, ma’am,” Travis said, trying not to frighten the woman. “I haven’t talked to a doctor yet, but I’m sure she’s gonna be fine. She –“

  “Ah, she’ll be fine,” the woman interrupted. “That girl’s like a cat. Always lands on her feet, y’know? Listen, do me a favor. When you talk to her, tell her I didn’t get my check. Tell her I need her to overnight it, wouldja?”

  And just like that, the call was over. Travis stared at the phone. Well, now he knew what kind of person named their daughter Bunny, anyway. He continued scrolling through the contacts. Here was one that looked promising: Grandpa. Travis dialed the number and waited for someone to answer; the voice on the other end didn’t sound like anyone’s grandfather.

  “This is gonna sound strange,” Travis said. “But would you happen to know a young woman named Brooke Valentine?”

  “Yes,” the man said. “Well, no. I mean, I don’t actually know her. This was her grandfather’s phone number. He died several months ago, and she hasn’t been able to take the number out of her phone, poor kid. She pocket-dialed me a few times, so one day I called her back and we talked for a bit. She all right?”

  “Well, she was in a motorcycle accident,” Travis said. “I was just goin’ through her phone, lookin’ for friends or family.”

  “Oh, sorry, I can’t help you with that,” the man replied. “I don’t think she has family in the area since her grandpa died. I don’t know about friends. I hope she’s okay.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Travis agreed. “Thanks anyway.”

  As Travis ended the call, the doctor came to the waiting room. Travis stood as the doctor approached, his expression serious.

  “Are you her husband?” the doctor asked.

  “No, I’m her neighbor,” Travis answered. “She’s not married and she has no family that I know of.”

  “Well….” The doctor hesitated.

  “How is she?”

  “I’m not supposed to release information to someone who’s not a family member.”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Travis said quickly. “I’m her fiancé.”

  “Not family?” the doctor said, one brow arched meaningfully.

  “Brother!” Travis amended. “I’m her brother!”

  “Good enough,” the doctor said, nodding. “We’re going to have to operate.”

  “What? Why?”

  “To repair the femoral artery.” He shook his head. “She’s lucky she didn’t bleed out. The artery has a pretty good tear in it. Good call on not removing the metal until you got her here. I think there may also be some nerve damage. I’ve called in a specialist to see how much we can repair.”

  Travis felt like he’d been punched in the gut. It was a nail from his roof that flattened the tire on her car, necessitating her riding the motorcycle. And it was one of the men building his house who’d stepped out in front of her, and a piece of his guttering that had laid open her thigh.

  “How bad is the nerve damage?” Travis asked. “And what does that mean?”

  “It’s not my field, of course, so I really can’t say how extensive the damage is. As far as what the damage could mean, it could mean anything from difficulty walking – though I doubt that – to something as minor as a little numbness or tingling of the leg.”

  “Please, Doc,” Travis sai
d grimly. “Do whatever it takes.”

  Chapter 2

  Brooke felt as if she were swimming up from the bottom of a deep, dark lake. She struggled upward, pushing against the darkness that seemed to envelope her. Her left leg ached, the pain deep and fiery. Was she caught on something under the water? She heard a hoarse moan, not recognizing the voice. Finally, with a colossal effort, she opened her eyes.

  She was in a strange bed in a strange room. A soft beep sounded nearby; Brooke turned her head toward the sound, seeing some kind of monitor beside her. And was that…an IV pole? She turned her head slowly the other direction. A man sat in a chair nearby; as if sensing her eyes on him, he looked up from his phone.

  “Construction guy?” Brooke said, her voice weak and papery.

  “Travis,” the man said, standing up and moving next to the bed. “Travis Cooper. How’re you feeling?”

  “Weak,” she said. “Sore. What happened? Why does my leg hurt so badly?”

  “Do you remember spinning out on your bike yesterday?” he asked.

  “Yesterday?” Brooke moaned, her had falling back on the pillows. “I had a test in economics. And I was supposed to work.”

  “I’m sure your professor and your boss will both understand.”

  “Not likely,” she mumbled. “What’s wrong with my leg? Wait! How’s my bike?”

  “Your bike is fine,” he answered, chuckling. “I put it in my garage. Your leg, on the other hand, could be better.”

  “What happened?”

  “You slid on the wet street when one of the workers stepped out from behind my Hummer. There was a piece of guttering lying in the street and you slid over it. Sliced your leg open from just above your knee to just below your hip.”

  “Stitches, huh?”

  “Um, not just stitches, Brooke,” Travis said. “You had to have surgery to repair a torn femoral artery and to repair some nerve damage. You were in surgery for over five hours. And actually, they used staples, not stitches.”

  “I’ve been out of it since yesterday morning? What time is it anyway? Why are you here?”

  Travis thought she seemed to be on the verge of panicking; he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, saying, “Yes, they’ve had you on some pretty strong pain killers. I came by last night after work and again this evening to check on you.”