So that was it? No questions about what had caused it to happen in the first place?
Far, far too good for me.
The ache he’d by now grown used to intensified, sharper than ever before, as if it had sunk deeper inside him, spread and taken up more space—but he sat.
She cleaned the wound with soap, water and then peroxide. Blood continued to leak from the long slit that stretched from his index finger to his wrist, and though her touch was gentle, every bit of pressure stung. He’d endured worse countless times before, so maintaining a neutral expression wasn’t difficult. He’d never allow her to feel guilty about hurting him.
The fact that she’d stayed to help baffled him. Thrilled him. Even humbled him. He felt as if she might actually...care for him.
How was that possible?
After she squeezed antibiotic cream on the injury and wrapped a bandage around his hand, she studied her handiwork and frowned. “I’m clearly not a medical professional. You probably need stitches.”
“Nah. The cut isn’t that deep.”
She met his gaze with a gentleness that confused him. “How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“Jase.” She crouched between his legs. “We need to talk.”
Words every man dreaded, but she was so close he could smell the sweetness of her scent, feel the sensual heat of her, and both short-circuited his brain waves. He had to grip the sink on one side of him and the tub on the other to keep his hands away from her.
Tension grew between them, sharpened, until it was utterly unbearable. He imagined his mouth on hers and had to cut back a groan. He imagined his fingers trailing over her curves and had to cut back a plea.
He was clean. He even had the paperwork to prove it. He could take her, thrust inside her and—
“Be honest with me,” she said quietly.
Reason returned, and he tensed. Here came the questions.
“Were you a cop?”
Wait. What? “A cop?”
She nodded, the ends of those pale tendrils caressing his thighs.
“Why would you think that?”
“Okay, I’ll take that as a no.” Her mouth tugged into a frown. “Were you in the military?”
Understanding suddenly dawned, bright and devastating. She thought he had PTSD because he’d defended his country. She wanted to think the best of him, probably couldn’t even conceive the horrors that had led to the incident outside.
How disappointed she would be when she learned the truth.
Another reason to get rid of her.
“Brook Lynn,” he said and sighed. “It’s time for you to go.” He’d beg her if necessary.
She shook her head, stubborn. “No way. I’m staying until either West or Beck return. I’m not leaving you on your own.”
The ache...so much worse. “It’s just a cut.”
“And it could open up again, and you could pass out, bleed out.”
“It won’t. I won’t.”
“Jase,” she said, raising her chin with more stubborn determination. “The only way you’re getting me out of this house is if you carry me kicking and screaming.”
* * *
BROOK LYNN SETTLED on the plush leather couch in the living room. Jase had not been happy with her refusal to leave and had muttered, “If you’re going to stay, fine. But I’m going to work, and you’re not, because you’re still fired,” before stomping into the kitchen to peel wallpaper. He’d admitted he eventually needed to open up the walls and replace all the wiring and pipes, but he didn’t want to be without a kitchen while she was the chef.
He didn’t peel long. From the sounds of it he’d noticed the sandwiches she’d prepared and dug in. A short while later, he called, “You’re rehired, effective immediately.”
She was worried about him. Not about the cut on his hand. He was right—it wasn’t that deep and probably wouldn’t open back up. But he was so closed off right now. It scared her even more than the push. And the fact that he hadn’t flinched as she’d doctored him, when it must have stung like an SOB...there was something wrong with that. Though it had been sexy.
But mostly wrong. And sexy.
Why did he go to such lengths to keep his emotions hidden? Because he did have them. She knew that now. The intensity of his rage...
If he’d served in the military, he could be having flashbacks.
She remembered how Beck and West had mentioned “six months” the night of the party. Had Jase been discharged six months ago? Well, no wonder he hadn’t yet acclimated.
“Need any help in there?” she called, knowing he’d finished his meal and had restarted his newest task.
He came barreling into the living room, pointing a sheet of wallpaper at her as if it was a weapon. “You’re on a break. You shouldn’t be offering to help.”
She leaned against the arm of the couch, getting more comfortable. “Good friend that I am, I’m willing to cut the break short just for you.”
“I’d rather you—” His gaze landed on her midsection, and he sucked in a breath. The muscles stretching from his shoulders to his fingers flexed as he stepped closer to her.
She glanced down. The hem of her shirt had ridden up, baring her midriff—now quivering under the heat of his masculine attention.
Her eyes flipped back up, locking on his. The whole atmosphere of the room seemed to change in an instant, the air sizzling with sudden awareness. Of him. Of her. Of what they could do together...