Page 99 of Finding Jack
“I’ve been itching to get my hands on this since you got to town,” she said, picking up a section of his hair and peering at it more closely.
“You and half the women in Featherton,” Cheryl said.
Linda shot her a quelling glance. “I mean in a professional capacity.”
“I didn’t,” Cheryl said, which made Jack squeeze his eyes shut like he thought it would make him invisible, and I laughed.
“Cut it off,” I said. “Then maybe the ladies will leave you alone.”
“I don’t know,” Linda mused, combing through it some more. “I kind of worry if we sheared him that none of the single ladies in town will survive a clean-cut Jack.”
I rose and came to stand beside her, studying Jack in the mirror as she pulled his hair back. “You’re right. Right now, he’s barely resistible. I’m in trouble if he goes clean-cut.”
He met my eyes in the mirror for a long second, and the jokes drained right out of me. I wasn’t kidding anymore. I had almost no defenses against this man or his deep, thoughtful gazes that seemed to see beyond everything I said to all the things I didn’t.
“You’re safe,” he said at last, reaching behind him to undo the Velcro of the cape. “I’m not cutting it.”
“Hey, I still need to dry it,” Linda protested as he rose from the chair.
“I always just let it air dry,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. It’s getting late, and I need to figure out what to do with this woman for dinner.”
“I can draw you a diagram,” Cheryl said, and when Linda hooted with laughter, I wasn’t sure whether it was Jack or I who was more embarrassed as he tossed some bills on Linda’s counter on our way out of the salon.
“Sorry about that.” He smiled down at me when we reached the safety of the sidewalk. “I can’t promise it won’t happen with someone else. Anyone my mom’s age or older around here likes to bust my chops.”
“Why won’t you cut your hair?” I asked. The question surprised me. I’d wanted to know for almost as long as I’d known Jack, but I hadn’t known I was about to ask.
“That’s a long story.”
“I’ve got a few days.” I held my breath, hoping he wasn’t about to retreat again the way he had in so many other conversations.
He tucked a strand of it behind his ear. “Tell you what. Let’s grab some stuff at the grocery store and make dinner at my house. I’ll tell you the story, and if you’re still in the mood we can watch a movie after or something.”
“Works for me.”
He pulled out his phone. “I’ll text you directions because Google Maps doesn’t acknowledge its existence. That way you can follow me and leave if you want to.”
“Why would I want to?”
But he didn’t answer, instead tapping at his phone and nodding when my cell buzzed. “There. Let’s hit the grocery store and get this over with.”
Chapter 36
Two hours later we sat at the small table in his little cabin in the woods. It was a one-bedroom caretaker’s cabin located a hundred yards from a much larger custom log home. The big house belonged to a tech executive who was rich enough to afford it but too busy to use it much, according to Jack. He had the run of the place so long as he kept an eye on things and made sure the cupboards stayed stocked. He’d offered to prep and serve dinner up at the main house, but I wanted to stay in the little cabin, in his space.
I glanced around as I twirled the fettucine on my fork. Jack had made alfredo sauce while I prepped a salad, but I suddenly didn’t have much of an appetite. My eyes wandered the cabin for the hundredth time, trying to ferret out more details about Jack, who he was, what went on in his mind. But the small living room and kitchenette told me no more than what he’d shown me weeks ago on FaceTime.
“Something wrong?” he asked, and my attention snapped back to him. His expression was neutral except for his watchful eyes. I had a feeling they didn’t miss much—now or ever.
“I’m waiting to hear the story of why you don’t cut your hair.”
He sighed. “Dinner probably isn’t the time for it. It’s sad.”
“Is there ever going to be a good time for it?”
“I guess not.” He pushed his noodles around on his plate. They were good, but he didn’t seem to have any interest in the food. “You know I was a pediatric oncologist. I picked that specialty when I was young and dumb because I thought I could make a difference. When I was a kid, I had this best friend named Lucas who lived three houses down, and he died of kidney cancer when we were nine. It sucked. When I did my oncology rotation, something clicked for me. I was young and full of energy and most importantly, wildly arrogant. You have to be to succeed as a specialist.”
He took a few bites, lost in his thoughts. I ate quietly and let him wander until he was ready. “I was willing to take risks that older and more seasoned doctors wouldn’t. I pushed for experimental treatments that patients could only get at the elite hospitals in the country, but I wanted them here, in Oregon, for kids whose families couldn’t uproot everything to go to the Mayo Clinic or Johns-Hopkins. And it worked more than it didn’t. The board quit fighting me and started giving me free rein in trying these experimental protocols. It went to my head. I started to believe that I could work miracles.”
