“I didn’t say it would take long. They’re short. I promise.”
“If they’re short, then they’re not important and can wait.”
“They’re important. And if you answer them” —her eyes narrowed to a green glare— “politely and calmly, I’ll tell you what your grandfather told me in the car ride back home. Unless you forgot you drove off without me, leaving me like some unwanted stray. I had to depend on the kindness of an old man who pities me just because I attempt to talk to you.”
I didn’t rise to her bait or let the fact that Grandpa John liked Hope enough to pity her entice me into another battle. Instead, I claimed a fresh glass, looked her dead in the eyes as I poured a generous splash of whiskey, then carried my drink to the dining room table.
I sat stiffly, cursing my shirtless back as the cold wood of the chair hurt my spine and dared, just dared, Hope to take my second drink away.
Her gaze never left my glass as I held it to my lips and drank deeply.
She sighed, moving toward me and sagging in the opposite chair.
I expected her to scold me again for my choice of hydration, but she merely whispered as if afraid of my answer, “What did the doctor say is wrong with you? Is…is it fixable?”
Taking another sip, mainly to vex her as well as keep the fiery taste on my tongue, I replied, “Of course, it’s fixable.”
“So, you haven’t broken your back?”
“What? That’s crazy. Would I be walking if I had?”
She nodded. “I’ve been Googling your symptoms. A lot of sites say you can still walk with a fractured back. If you have pins and needles and trouble peeing, then it’s a possibility.”
“I’m not discussing if I’m having peeing issues with you.”
“But are you?”
“Holy hell, no. Okay?”
She flinched. “Okay, then. So…what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
I looked at the ceiling for strength. “The X-rays and MRI indicate I have swelling in a couple of discs in my spine, which are pressing on my nerves. And a concussion. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” she asked with an incredulous raise of her eyebrows. “That’s not nothing, Jake.”
My fingers curled tight around my glass. “That’s three times now.”
“Three times what?” Her forehead furrowed.
“That you’ve called me Jake instead of Jacob.”
“Oh.” Her gaze kept mine prisoner, trying to read me. “And you don’t like that, I’m guessing.”
“My name is Jacob. That’s what I like.”
“Or Wild One.”
I shot another mouthful down my throat. “That’s for family only.”
“Just like Little Lace is for my dad’s use only.” Her fingers strayed to the locket I’d bought her, peeking out from her nightwear.
“Exactly.” We continued staring at each other, aware that there was a lot unsaid between us. History. Complications. Things that didn’t have a place because we had no history or complications. We were practically strangers. Two strangers too stubborn and opinionated to get along smoothly.
A bad match, through and through.
Changing the subject, she asked gently, “And the concussion? Are there any recommended treatments to speed up your recovery?”
Her gentleness made answering even harder. “Rest, which I can’t afford. And anti-inflammatories to help with the swelling.”
“Okay.” She settled deeper into her chair; her features distracted as if mulling over ideas. “That will work.”
“What will work?”
“My offer.”
“I don’t want any offer.”
“Just hear me out.” Leaning forward, she smiled in a way that made her eyes greener and cheeks pinker. Everything about her seemed so goddamn pretty, it reached into my lungs and stole my breath.
Somehow, she commanded every shred of awareness in one heartbeat. My living room vanished. The chair beneath me was no more. The dawn was utterly inconsequential.
Nothing else existed but her.
What the ever living hell?
I slugged back the rest of my whiskey, coughing a little on the burn.
I decided there and then I preferred her when she was picking a fight with me. I could handle argumentative Hope because anger became my shield. It was easier to lie when nothing but aggravation grew inside me.
Having her so calm and quiet soothed my jangled nerves too much, leaving space for all new issues. Issues I couldn’t ignore the longer we stared at each other across the table.
Her eyes skittered from mine to my naked chest more times than she could control.
That hungry look from yesterday returned. A look far older than her seventeen years but so tentative too, as if she wasn’t used to such a feeling.
My own gaze dropped lower, dancing over the collar of her pyjamas to the white and pink stripes of her full chest. She was well endowed for a girl of her height. It made her look like some erotic doll that dirty men would play with instead of eager kids.
And what the hell was I doing comparing her to a doll?
Was I the dirty old man in this scenario?