As he worked, several town residents swung by to “check on things.” Namely: to probe into his life. What did he do for a living? Was he single or dating Peggy Newcomb’s granddaughter? Would he be able to fix the clock tower in town? He knew he’d invited the attention by helping out two of the town’s chattiest residents, but still—small-town living was sometimes more nightmare than dream. He wasn’t rude, but he definitely wasn’t welcoming, either, and he absolutely did not answer any questions. Also, a handful of women brought Beck baskets of food. The disturbances put him behind schedule.
When Jase finally finished cleaning the gutters, he turned his attention to the fence surrounding the property. His mind continually drifted to Brook Lynn. He liked that she’d hustled him. That she’d enjoyed every moment of it...then kissed him as if only his lungs contained the air she needed to survive. He’d been on fire for her. Still was.
He wasn’t sure how many more hours passed before she returned and called him inside for lunch.
As he walked into the house, he tried to summon all his strength.
She had her back to him, steam wafting around her as she drained a pot of noodles. “Hungry?”
“Yes.” For more than food. He used a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. “I’m sorry I was so abrupt with you this morning.”
“That’s good.”
“I’m...ready to talk about what happened last night.” Maybe then he’d finally unknot.
She stiffened slightly. “Oh. You mean the fact that we made out again and you liked it?”
Loved it. “Yes.”
“Well, then. Talk away.”
Tell her the truth. Tell her everything—well, almost everything. “You make me feel things I’ve never felt before, and I don’t know how to deal.”
She spun, her blue eyes wide. “You feel things? What kind of things?”
“You can’t tell?” He took a step toward her.
“Well, last night you were aroused. But right now? I have no idea. Like I told you before, you’re very difficult to read.”
The doorbell rang, stopping him from taking another step. He was disappointed. He was relieved. “I’ll get it.”
She sighed. “Put on a shirt at least.”
No need. It was his friend Pepe, the tattoo artist.
Pepe held a big black bag of necessary equipment, and when Jase explained that he’d brought the tattoo shop to Brook Lynn, he expected her to chicken out—he might even have wanted her to chicken out, because he couldn’t bear the thought of her in any kind of pain. But he’d promised to help her, so he would help her.
She trembled as Pepe showed her the book of designs he’d created just for her, and didn’t seem to notice when the guy looked her up and down with interest. Jase grew tenser by the second. He’d paid the guy to work, not to scope out a potential lay.
“Sure you want to do this, honey?” Jase asked her. Without the whiskey giving her courage, and the cigar making her feel badass, maybe she’d decide—
“Yes,” she said with a nod, pointing to the design she wanted. She raised her chin, determined. Always determined. Her against the world.
He wondered how many times he’d done the same thing when backed against a wall, in prison and out, when things were at their worst. Even when things were at their best—knowing that could end at any moment. Determination and pride were all he’d had. And it shouldn’t be that way for her, he thought. Not now, not ever.
Not that determination was a bad thing; it wasn’t. But he hated the circumstances that had robbed her of her innocence. Circumstances he could guess. People making fun of her for her condition. Her parents dying, one after the other. Her uncle abandoning her. Becoming the mother to her sister. Worn down by too many responsibilities. Never able to do the things she wanted.
Rather than allowing her to remove her T-shirt for Pepe, Jase had her change into one of his tanks. He liked seeing her in his clothes. A lot. She pulled down one strap. As Pepe labored on her shoulder and the back of her neck, she continually flinched.
Jase took her hand in his, squeezed. She squeezed back in wordless thanks and cast him a sweet smile.
“You’re doing great, honey. Better than I did.”
“Oh, yeah? Did you cry?”
“Like a baby.” But only the first time. Because he’d been in prison—and he hadn’t wanted the tattoo at all. A group of inmates had held him down, given him a gang symbol he’d hated with every fiber of his being, nothing but a representation of humiliation and subjection.