The Closer You Come. Gena Showalter
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hadn’t been prepared to answer. Is that how you guys met?
His past was his business and not a topic for conversation.
He shut himself outside, hoping the distance between them would help him relax. He only tensed further. It was almost as if he...missed her? Already? She was just so bright, a total contrast with his mind, which was always so dark. He felt drawn to her, and it both ramped him up and soothed him. It was difficult not to crave her presence.
Had to be the summer heat. Yeah. Definitely the heat. The air was thick with humidity, already stifling. He removed his shirt and picked up his hammer. He’d finished repairs on the shed just before Brook Lynn arrived, knowing it was always best to ensure his tools had a proper place for storage before he took on any other projects. Without tools, a man couldn’t work. Without work, Jase would have to listen to his own thoughts.
He labored on the house for an hour...two...replacing slats on the shutters. His gaze constantly strayed to the kitchen window, his desperation to catch a glimpse of Brook Lynn maddening but undeniable. The first time she appeared, he struck his thumb with the hammer and had to choke down a curse. He was grateful she never glanced in his direction.
When he finished with the shutters, he moved on to siding, removing and replacing damaged panels. Sweat continually poured from him and had he been alone, he would have stripped bare and jumped in the pool he’d repaired the first week he’d moved here.
What would Brook Lynn think about skinny-dipping?
She’d let him know, that was for sure. Girl was opinionated. He didn’t have to wonder where he stood with her, a trait he liked. In prison, inmates smiled to his face and stabbed at his back. In a few of his foster homes, parents laughed with him at lunch and had hushed, closed-door conversations about him after dinner.
Not that every moment of his life had been terrible. There’d been good times. A lot of good times. With Beck and West. Tessa. Daphne. A few foster families. But the bad times had been so damn bad, they often completely eclipsed the good. Could he even remember the last time he’d laughed?
What had Brook Lynn’s childhood been like? She seemed well-adjusted, if a little overly concerned with her sister. Straitlaced. Normal. The kind of girl who would fear a guy like him, once she discovered the truth. He wouldn’t be able to blame her.
Keeping her at a distance was now his only defense.
Tomorrow he had a meeting with his new parole officer and— Jase stiffened as problems crystallized. Brook Lynn wouldn’t understand a day off so soon. And what if his parole officer ever came for a surprise home visit while she was here?
Damn it, he should have thought this through. Now it was too late.
He’d give her the list of supplies he’d planned to pick up. She could— No, she couldn’t. Her beater of a car wouldn’t be able to hold pipes and wood planks and boxes of marble. He didn’t even want her trying to carry those things.
He’d tell Beck to let her borrow the truck. And for Beck to go with her, do all the heavy lifting.
Jase stiffened all over again. He didn’t like the thought of Brook Lynn and Beck spending time together. Alone. In a cramped space.
“Thirsty?”
Her voice startled him, and he almost reintroduced his thumb to the hammer. Damn it! He never lost awareness of his surroundings. He’d trained himself to listen for every incoming footstep, every whisper of movement. That kind of OCD diligence had saved his life on more than one occasion.
In an act of self-preservation, he threw the hammer in the toolbox. As he climbed down the ladder and faced her, this new bane of his existence, she held a glass of ice water out for him.
The thoughtful gesture unnerved him. “Thank you,” he muttered and drained the contents. The chill of the liquid soothed the dry heat in his throat.
“You’re welcome.” She took the empty glass from him and stepped away. “So...three women have already come to the door looking for Beck.”
“So few?” And what do you think of Beck, Miss Dillon? He looked her over, noticing the streak of dirt on her cheek, the smudges of grease on her shirt. So adorable. “How old are you?” he asked then flinched at the accusation in his tone.
Most women would have glared at him. She didn’t miss a beat. “Twenty-five. What about you?”
“Twenty-eight.” Considering he had the life experience of a gutter rat, he felt decades older.
“Have you ever been married?” she asked.
There was only one reason the answer would matter to her, and it caused him to shoot harder than those steel pipes he was going to ask her to buy.
“No,” he rasped. “No wife.” He’d had a few girlfriends before Daphne, but nobody nearly as serious.
Daphne had seemed to accept him just as he was...until his sentence was handed down, and she realized she’d have to live without him for almost a decade—more than that, he wouldn’t be the same when he got out. He’d be different. An ex-con. Harder. Probably mean as hell. Teenagers never fared well behind bars.
He’d begged her to stick around, to trust him, promising to be whatever she needed the day they were reunited. Part of him had still been a little boy, desperate to hold on to some kind of family.
She’d sobbed while she’d walked away, but she’d still walked. He’d cursed her, apologized, begged some more. She hadn’t turned around, hadn’t even slowed. It had hurt then, and yeah, it still hurt now, but he saw it for what it was. Self-preservation. He couldn’t blame her for that.
Had life treated her well? Hell, maybe she was married with a dozen kids. Maybe not.
What would he say to her, if he saw her again? You were the best thing to happen to me. I miss you.
Was that still true? And would the man he had become even appeal to her? If she found out some of the things he’d endured throughout the years...would she react as fearfully as he suspected Brook Lynn would?
“Jase?”
Brook Lynn’s voice, gentle now, summoned him out of the dark mire of his head. He blinked and found her standing directly in front of him, her cool, dainty palm resting on his knotted shoulder. His hands were fisted, he realized, his nails cutting into his skin. Razors seemed to have grown in his nose and lungs, turning every breath into an act of torture.
Steady. When his gaze met hers, she dropped her arm and backed away.
“So...uh...yeah. I’ve finished the living room and kitchen.” She ran her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly nervous. “What would you like me to do next?”
Put your hand on me again. Never let go. “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Go home.” Before I do something stupid.
“But I’ve only worked three hours.”
Only, she’d said. “Your check isn’t contingent on the number of hours you’re here, honey. Simply on doing what I say.”
She shook her head, saying, “Why don’t I clean the bathrooms?”
He did not like the thought of this girl scrubbing toilets. “No bathrooms.”
“Bathrooms,” she insisted. “Then I’ll wash up and cook dinner. Unless you have plans?”
He bristled. “No bathrooms. No dinner.”
“I’ll take that to mean ‘no plans.’”
“If you want to do something, clean the garage.”
“Great. I will. After I take care of the bathrooms.” With a saccharine-sweet smile, she skipped into the house.
“Stay away from the bathrooms. That’s an order, Brook Lynn,” he called.