Page 35 of Fighting For You
I tipped the dough into the preheated Dutch oven and slipped on the lid, a lick of satisfaction hitting at the sound of the sizzle where dough met heated cast iron.
“I have a poor selection of movies, or I haveParks and Rec. We can try the internet but it’s never that great for streaming.” I needed enough reception for calls, texts, and emergencies, but getting away from the constant scrolling and input was part of the point of being here, so I’d made no effort to improve.
“Oh, definitelyParks and Rec.”
A half smile was already on my face when I shut the oven and turned toward her. “Excellent choice.”
Two hours later, we were settled into opposite ends of the couch, her legs stretching across the cushions toward me. We’d feasted on bread still crackling from the heat of the oven—an admission that would have Dorian cringing andlikely any other bread baker I knew, but oh, well—and stew. Jess had found her appetite again and I could say with certainty I’d never had more satisfaction witnessing someone eat a meal. And that was saying something, because I’d witnessed men who were literally starving take a bite of food.
Caring for Jess had taken on a life of its own. Or maybe my desire to had. In the short forty-eight hours since she’d arrived, I’d moved through so many responses and settled on one unavoidable truth—I wanted to meet her every need. And in doing so, the shroud of grief had eased a touch.
Acknowledging the thought made my gut tighten and I shifted in my seat, then decided to take a break.
“Need anything?”
She gave me those dark eyes of hers. “No, thank you.” Then Andy Dwyer did something ridiculous on the screen and her face split into a wide, unfettered smile.
My stomach swooped low and I turned away, busying myself refilling my water and double-checking the stove knobs to confirm they were all off. Of course they were, but it gave me a reason to linger and take a second to calm the stupid swell of my heart.
Not this again. Not this.
Only she gave me this feeling—this skin-too-tight, heart-too-big feeling. I could feel it when I hated her for hating me, and I’d felt it… before that. I’d felt it when we were friends, before she and Kurt got serious. Before I accepted she’d never be mine because she was falling for him, so I removed myself. It’d been painful, but I’d known removing myself and locking myself down was what I had to do. It’d been clear.
Until it’d gotten murky. Until he’d screwed up so badly I couldn’t give him the benefit of the doubt anymore.
Until she started hating me for ruining everything, and Icouldn’t bring myself to tell her just how bad Kurt had been because it would’ve hurt her more.
And in truth, there had been a nasty part of me that’d been relieved. I hated myself for admitting it, but I’d been glad I finally had a reason to push him enough so he ran away with his tail between his legs. I knew he’d never confess to what he’d done, and then he was gone. But it certainly hadn’t given me a chance with her.
I exhaled silently and willed away that rabbit trail. Nothing good came from digging around in those old feelings. The fact that they’d sprung up again and very much against my will… I had to hold out maybe twelve more hours. Then we’d be out of here and deal with whatever happened next.
I poured myself a highball of whiskey. I hadn’t planned on getting roaring drunk and staring at the ceiling every night I was here, but it had been on the docket for at least one before Jess had showed up. While I wouldn’t do that now, a drink would give me something to do—somewhere to focus the energy that kept centering in on her.
Returning to the couch, I took my same seat, but she was sitting closer to the middle and Bones had taken up residence where her spot had been. She must’ve shifted around long enough to let the little thief come steal her warmth.
When my thigh brushed hers, she raised a brow. “No whiskey for me?”
I scowled.
She pressed her pretty lips together, but her eyes lit in the way they did so I knew she was smiling, even if she was hiding it.
“I should know better than to think you’d give me alcohol after being so sick.”
I only gave her a look.
“I don’t actually want any.”
“Good. You can’t have any.”
She chuckled and knocked into me, her shoulder bumping into mine. A cascade of sensation at the voluntary contact shimmered out from the touch point, a wave of fizzing awareness sliding down my arm and up my neck and across my chest.
She settled back into the couch, one hand occasionally testing Bones’ patience by petting him as we binged the show. She laughed and grinned, commented on how much Dove reminded her of Leslie Knope, and how she imagined Wilder was actually a lot like Ron Swanson. I refilled my whiskey and teased her by bringing her two glasses of water.
But mostly, we were quiet.
After some amount of time, a soft weight pressed into my shoulder.Her head.She’d fallen asleep and her head now rested against me.
A sharp longing hit me. I breathed out like I would if I were queasy. She was so stubborn and beautiful and hard and soft andeverything.
