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turned away and flipped the last pancake on the griddle. “Can’t say that I have,” he murmured.
“Gee thanks.” She took an extra minute to gaze at him. He was such a wonderful person, and he’d matured into a very handsome man. She couldn’t recall his shoulders being that broad, or his hips that trim. “Do you work out?” she asked, then registered she’d said it aloud. She snapped her gaze from his buttocks to his face just as he turned to look at her.
“What?”
She shrugged sheepishly. “Making conversation. I asked if you work out.”
“Oh.” He nodded and turned away. “I hit the gym several times a week.”
“See, I can compliment you even if you can’t compliment me,” she teased. “You have a great butt.”
He glanced at her again, this time frowning slightly. “Thanks.”
She walked up behind him and slid her arms around his chest to hug him from behind. He felt solid. My good, solid Jax. She inhaled. My good, solid, great smelling Jax. “Isn’t it weird the way we can be apart for so long, but we get back together and it seems like we just saw each other yesterday? I don’t feel like I’ve been away at all.”
He said nothing for a moment then, “Yeah.” He sounded a little hoarse. After a few more seconds, he gently disengaged her hold on him. “Weird isn’t the word.” He turned off the gas and headed to the refrigerator. “Do you want butter, syrup, whipped cream or all of the above?”
Left alone facing the gas range, she made herself useful by taking the serving platter to the table. “Syrup and butter.” She pulled out the chair where he’d set a plate and silverware, then paused to glance at him. “Do you have any nonfat butter?”
A corner of his mouth lifted, but less with mirth than cynicism. “Yeah, sure.”
She shook her head. “Oh, fine. All my efforts will take a big nosedive if you feed me like I’m a two-hundred-fifty-pound trucker.”
“Your reservations were relatively last minute. Even I need a little time to tend to details like nonfat butter, if there is such a thing.”
“Okay, okay.” She sat down. When he brought the syrup dispenser to the table she took his wrist. “Aren’t you going to join me?”
“I just ate.” He took an adjacent seat. His knee grazed hers but she didn’t move away. When he did, she experienced a stab of deprivation. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but Jax seemed somehow different. Like he wasn’t completely thrilled that she was here. Oh, that’s crazy Kimberly, she told herself. He’s your best friend and you’re his. You’re just super-sensitive right now.
“I’m here to listen, remember?”
His prompt brought her back. She nodded. The reminder of why she’d come to him rushed back full force, almost overwhelming her. She struggled to keep from bursting into tears. She stared at the platter of pancakes for a time, then picked up her fork and stabbed several, sliding them onto her plate. She spread butter over them and doused it all with syrup. With a quick, grateful smile in his direction, she picked up her fork, cut into the stack and took a bite. Delicious. Jax’s pancakes were so light and airy they melted in her mouth. She winked her approval at him, feeling less depressed. Upon finishing the first taste, she said, “You, Mr. Gideon, should be in jail.”
“What?” His brow crinkled. He looked so cute she felt a zing in the pit of her stomach. “Why?” he asked.
“Because, it’s a crime that you didn’t go into the pancake-making business. That’s why.”
He lay a forearm on the table and leaned toward her. “I think you’re stalling.” His expression was gentle, earthy brown eyes direct. “So tell me. What happened to get you up here to doom me to prison in the middle of the night?”
“It isn’t the middle of the night.” He might be right. She probably was stalling. But she didn’t intend to admit it, so she checked the kitchen wall clock and said, “It’s not even midnight.”
“Okay, so what got you up here at ‘not even’ midnight?”
She cut into the pancakes and took another bite. This time she had more trouble swallowing. Not because the food was any less delicious, but because Perry’s desertion loomed so large in her mind. The harsh image of that empty condo and the pile of rejected gifts hurt to think about.
Her meal blurred and she blinked back tears. Realizing putting it off would make the telling no less hurtful, she laid her fork aside, but couldn’t bring herself to look at Jax. “Okay, I thought I’d found Mr. Right. But when I got home from a business trip today, I found our place empty, except for a few shirts and other things I’d given him, in an insulting little lump on the bare floor.” She rushed through the story, not wanting to prolong it with whimpery details. “He left a note. Called me commitment phobic and—and…” She choked back a sob. If she planned to make it through without crying, she’d better hurry. “And…well, his rejection was out of the blue—and his so-called reason for leaving totally untrue. Just because I didn’t want to get married, doesn’t mean I wasn’t committed.”
She stared blankly at her cooling food, forearms on the table, every ounce of her attention attuned to the man whose opinion she held in the highest regard. He said nothing for a long time. So long, in fact, she cast him a sidelong look. He was frowning—thoughtful? Compassionate? Dubious that her argument had a leg to stand on? She couldn’t tell. “Gee, thanks, Jax. I’m all better now,” she quipped with false enthusiasm, hoping to prod him into revealing what hid behind that frown.
“He took your things, too?” he asked.
“My things?”
He nodded. “Your furniture, rugs, whatever.”
“Oh.” Why did he have to zero in on that one tiny inconsistency for her “commitment” argument. “Does my heart count?” she asked, wanting to impress upon him what was important here and what wasn’t.
She got a reaction. He winced a little. “Sure, it matters. I meant did he steal your things?”
“No, nothing like that. He left my clothes, the two framed prints I’d bought and a what-not shelf I took from my room when I left home.”
“That’s all that was yours?”
She didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “So what? What are things? It’s the emotions of a relationship that matter, and my emotions were totally—committed.” Why did she falter on that last word? She had been committed to Perry and to their future together.
“Hmmm.” He nodded, his expression solemn. “But you didn’t want to get married?”
“What are you, a prosecuting attorney?” she asked, trying to keep things light so that his probing wouldn’t bug her. She didn’t want to be mad at Jax. “It’s not a felony to say no to a marriage proposal.”
He didn’t smile.
“Come on, Jax. Lighten up. My heart may be broken but I don’t need a transplant. Just tell me it’ll be okay and give me a hug and help me heal like always.”
He cocked his head, watching her. “So you came here for a hug?”
She broke eye contact, embarrassed and unsure why. Antsy, she picked up her fork and toyed with it. “Well…duh.” She ran the fork prongs through the melted butter and syrup, making a curvy row of lines from one edgeof the plate to the other. When she peeked at him again, she was serious. “You know my mother’s story, Jax. Marriage doesn’t guarantee anything. I thought we were fine the way we were. Why rock the boat with meaningless contracts and promises?”
“Apparently they weren’t meaningless to him.”
She hadn’t come here for an inquisition. “Since when did you join the