Brook Lynn neither stepped away from him nor batted his hand away. "It's funny to me. You truly aren't afraid to lose that hand," she said, utterly calm. "But okay. Fine. Where are the supplies?"
"You'll find everything you need under the kitchen sink. And now, I need to return to my own work." He left her then, forcing himself to walk away.
What else could he say to her, really? Besides, getting chatty with her would be a huge mistake. Already she'd asked a question he 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. "My word is law."
She waved at him through the glass door...and might have also flipped him off.
Did she think she could do whatever she wanted without consequences?
Well, she would have to be taught differently.
Boom!
The noise sent Jase to the ground, already reaching for the hammer, the closest weapon. Sweat beaded at his temples, trickled down, and he had trouble catching his breath--until the purr of a car engine registered, and he realized a vehicle had simply backfired.
He lumbered to unsteady legs. His heartbeat refused to calm, bucking in his chest like a horse trapped in a stall.
It's okay. I'm okay.
At the end of the day, feelings didn't matter. They were unreliable. He chose to believe he was okay, so that would be that.
Once he regained his composure, he toiled over the shingles. A few more hours passed, and he somehow managed to maintain his focus until Brook Lynn stuck her head out the door.
"I spilled cleaner on myself. I need a shower and a shirt," she said. "Would it be okay for me to use your bathroom and dig through your closet?"
Just like that, she fried what was left of his brain. A thousand cars could have backfired, and he wouldn't have noticed.
Shower--she would be naked. Water--it would drip down her body, catching in all the places he longed to lick. A towel--the cloth would rub all over her curves, caressing her skin. His shirt--something that had touched his bare skin would soon cling to hers, his scent fusing with hers.
Hard. As. A. Rock.
"That's fine," he gritted out.
"Thanks." She vanished.
A few more hours passed, and he spent almost every minute imagining the things she was doing to herself. At last the sun began to set on the horizon, dusting the sky with a wealth of gold, pink and purple, drawing his full attention. He stopped what he was doing, utterly transfixed.
While locked away, he'd missed the simple things most. The everyday things he'd once taken for granted. Sunrises and sunsets. Holidays with his friends. The smell of fresh-baked bread and--
Fresh-baked bread?
He sniffed, and sure enough, he caught the telltale scent of yeast. His mouth watered. Almost in a trance, he made his way into the kitchen. Brook Lynn stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot, and oh...damn. Her hair was still damp from her shower, curling at the ends. The shirt she'd chosen read I'm In for the Win, and even though it was too big for her, she made it look like something out of a high-fashion magazine.
My every fantasy made flesh. She was gorgeous. Sexy. And completely within reach...
He rubbed at the newest ache in his chest.
And a meal made from scratch? That was something he'd never really had, even in foster care, where most of the dishes he'd eaten had come from boxes or cans.
Brook Lynn noticed him and waved the steam away from her face. "I hope this shirt isn't one of your favorites."
It is now. "No," he managed.
"Good. I'm afraid I dribbled sauce on it. Oh, and I'm assuming you like cheesy chicken spaghetti and rolls because that's all you had the groceries for."
He had no idea if he liked them or not. He hadn't even bought those groceries. They'd arrived yesterday, a gift from one of the women hoping to sleep with Beck a second time. "We'll have to learn the answer together."
"Well, you're in for a treat," she said, the heat flushing her cheeks to a deep rose. "Everything will be ready in forty-five minutes."
A lump grew in his throat, and he wasn't sure why. "I'm going to shower." Desperate to escape her, he stalked to his bedroom, locked himself inside.
His bathroom smelled of disinfectant and gleamed like a diamond, and all he could do was curse. Damn that girl. She'd cleaned it, even though he'd forbidden it. Did I honestly expect anything less?
He showered quickly, toweled off and dressed. He moved toward the door, only to realize he wasn't quite ready to face Brook Lynn. The urge to touch her still plagued him--and it was stronger than before. He wanted to shake her...then make everything better with his mouth.
Sick to his stomach, he sat down and wrote out a very long, very detailed list. Then, and only then, his mind centered on her upcoming chores, did he return to the kitchen; he placed the list, a wad of cash and a key on the counter.
Brook Lynn looked at everything, looked at him and arched a brow in question.
"Your chores for tomorrow," he said, gazing past her. The ache in his chest bloomed with renewed force. "Also money to pay for the supplies, and a way into the house. I'll be gone. Personal business."
"Well, I am your personal assistant. Right?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I have to go."
"Go?" she echoed. "Now?"
This minute. This second. "I...I'm sorry." He strode out of the kitchen...out of the house, not turning back.
*
SHOCK HELD BROOK LYNN immobile. He'd left. He'd really left. Without telling her about his plans for the evening. Without tasting the food she'd slaved over. Without commenting on all her hard work.
Uncle Kurt had taught her a lot of things she would be better off not knowing, but there was one fact he'd unwittingly driven home. When actions contradicted words, actions won. Every time.
I love you, girls, Uncle Kurt had said. But leaving them destitute wasn't an act of love.
Just now, Jase's actions had said plenty. She wasn't important to him. Her efforts weren't important. But okay. All right. She wasn't here for back pats and flattery. Show me the money. She had worked for grumpy, gruff Mr. Calbert, and she could work for--gorgeous--gruff Jase. Probably. Maybe.
At first, she'd hardly gotten anything done. She'd been too busy peeking out the windows, savoring the sight of him and his mighty hammer, trying to avoid his notice whenever he'd glanced her way. But then she'd somehow found the strength to force him out of her mind and buckle down. She'd cleaned as if the Lord Himself planned to come for a visit, no speck of dust left behind. And, surprise surprise, she'd enjoyed every moment of it, knowing she was making Jase's life just a little bit better, the way he was making hers better. So of course, she'd started thinking about him again...about his strength, his tattoos and his hands...all the naughty things he could do with them.
Then she'd walked past his bedroom and remembered finding her sister in bed with him.
Anger and indignation had hit Brook Lynn, and part of her had even yearned to quit. If only giving up were in her nature. The other part of her had demanded she take a stand and let Jase know she was no pushover. He'd tried to baby her, which was why she'd disobeyed his orders. She'd expected a thank-you afterward, maybe even an admission that he'd been wrong. Hello, backfire.
She put the casserole in the fridge without baking it and left a note on the counter with heating instructions. She bagged the rolls, leaving an air pocket to prevent condensation, and finally read over his list--nearly fainting.
Clean the entire house. Even the rooms you cleaned today. All except for the game room, which you are to avoid. Did you get that, Miss Lynn? AVOID.
Grocery shop. At least two carts' worth.
Bake three cakes--one for every owner of the home. There WILL be a taste test.
Wash the windows. Even the hard-to-reach ones.
Wash and fold the laundry.
She shuddered, wondering if he sorted his laundry like most other men--"filthy" and "filthy but wearable"--and wondering why she wasn't horrified by the thought of handling his underwear.
Iron everything in my closet.
Rearrange the furniture in the living room. Lady's choice. Take a picture, then put everything back the way it was.
Stack the wood outside. Never know when a cold front will come in.
The slam of a door startled her, and she glanced up, her heart beating in time to the newcomer's pounding footsteps. Had Jase returned?
Beck rounded the corner, flooding her with disappointment. No, no. Not disappointment. Relief. Of course.
He drew up short when he noticed her--and grinned. "Well, well. My Christmas present came early this year. West scheduled a late night out, and Jase is obviously gone, co
nsidering his car is missing, so it's just you and me, all alone. Whatever should we do?"
Flirting? Really? He probably couldn't even help himself, it was so ingrained. While Jase had showered, two other women had come knocking, wanting to speak with "my Beck." They'd also demanded to know who the hell Brook Lynn was and what the hell she was doing in My Beck's house. The blatant hostility had merely amused her.
"I don't know if Jase told you," she said, "but he hired me to be his assistant." Maid. "And then he had to go...somewhere."
"An assistant, huh?" Beck pointed at her, waving his finger to indicate her entire head. "You should probably wear glasses and put your hair in a bun."
"Why?"
"For the role-play. Fully committing to your character makes all the difference."
She nearly choked on her tongue. "We are not role-playing. I really am his assistant." Maid.
"If you say so."
"I do. And now I'm leaving. Office hours are officially over."
Beck held out an arm, stopping her from passing. "Hold on a sec, pretty. Your car isn't parked out front."
"That's good, because I walked." There was no reason to use up precious gas when this house was only a mile--or three--from Rhinestone Cowgirl.
He gaped at her. "So...Jase left without giving you a ride?"
"Clearly." Or were they talking about role-playing again? In which case the answer would still be the same. "I'll be fine," she said.
"You sure will, because I'll be driving you to your car." Beck scanned the kitchen and sniffed. "After I eat. Something smells amazing, and I'm not just talking about you."
Good to know. "Hungry?" she asked.
"Starved, actually."
She placed the casserole in the oven. "It'll be ready for consumption in twenty to thirty minutes."
"Just enough time for a shower." He undid the top button of his shirt. "Looks like you could use one, too. Why don't we conserve water and do it together?"
"I would rather be stabbed in the kneecaps before walking on hot coals."
"So...maybe next time?"
"Maybe never."
"Your loss." He winked at her before disappearing around the corner. A door shut.
Another knock sounded from the living room. Another of Beck's women?
With a sigh, she strode to the foyer--and found Jessie Kay on the porch.
"What are you doing here?" Brook Lynn asked with a frown. Her sister had been too hungover this morning to chat about the new job.
The Closer You Come Page 8
