Page 7 of Forever Wild
I park my car at the end of the large circle drive and walk up. Sprinklers are going along the grassy area next to the house. I can’t avoid them as I step closer, and they spray my feet, soaking my flip flops.
A woman appears as I get closer to the van. From her profile, she looks like the sweet grandma everyone wants. Gray hair swept up in a bun, black scrubs, and a Minnie Mouse purse slung over one shoulder. The back door is open, and she stops and pulls out awalker, muttering under her breath. She stops, walker raised, when she spots me. The look on her face makes her look a lot less sweet.
“Hi,” I say tentatively.
The anger on her face slowly melts away and she raises one brow as she takes in my outfit. I did not plan to stop over in a crop top, cut off shorts, and flip flops, but I wasn’t going home to change first just to check in on Jack.
“He says he doesn’t needmyhelp. Maybe you will have better luck looking like that.”
I don’t know what she thinks I’m going to accomplish, but I could walk in there naked and Jack would still be the same stubborn jerk.
She sets the walker down in front of me, shuts the van door, and marches around the front. There’s a window decal on the back with Minnie Mouse and the name Sandra underneath.
I’m still frozen in place as she starts up the engine and pulls away, leaving me in her dust.
An uneasy, foreboding feeling settles over me.
What the hell did he do to sweet Sandra?
I take the walker with me as I approach the house. It’s a heavy, wooden double-door with no windows to look in, but it’s cracked open a tiny bit. Like maybe Sandra slammed it but it bounced open. I ring the doorbell and then knock. I tap my foot impatiently while I wait. Leaning closer, I put my ear up to the crack. The faint sound of music, or maybe the TV, indicates he’s in there.
Pushing it open, I step in. Concern immediately replaces my hesitation at walking in unannounced. What is that smell? I hold my arm over my nose as I continue. It smells like spoiled food or dirty feet. Maybe a combination of the two. And when I see the kitchen, I know why. Empty brown bags and containers of half-eaten food arespread out along the counter.
I set the walker down next to me and pick up a large McDonalds cup with what I think was a strawberry shake. The smell nearly knocks me over. What in the ever-loving hell is going on around here?
“What are you doing here?” The gruff voice sends tingles down my spine.
I drop the cup and then spin around to face him, completely unprepared for the sight that greets me. Jack has the kind of universal good looks that can’t be denied. He towers over most people at six foot three. His dark hair and square jaw give him a rugged edge, but he has a polish to him that reads more white-collar than blue. He’s a professional hockey player so he has the broad shoulders, muscular, thick thighs thing going for him as well. Plus, he just has this arrogant, bossy, I don’t give a fuck attitude that makes people do what he says. People that aren’tme, that is.
But right now, I’m looking at a completely different guy.
His usual neat and put-together appearance is gone and in its place is a surly looking man in baggy shorts, a stained T-shirt, uncombed hair that’s a touch too long and hangs in his eyes, and an unruly beard that is so far beyond the usual playoff beard some of the guys sport this time of year. If I had run into him anywhere else, I’m not even sure I would have recognized him.
“And why is there a fucking walker in my house?” he asks, snapping me out of my shock.
“Nice to see you too.” My smile is saccharine sweet. “Your nurse gave it to me before she peeled out of your driveway, flipping the finger in your general direction. Now I think I know why. What the hell is going on, and why are you holed up in here looking like an injured bear that raided a campsite?”
He makes a harrumph noise that reminds me of a child, then steps forward using a cane as he avoids putting too much weight on his left leg.
Dammit. He’s injured and I’m yelling at him. I swear he just provokes this kind of reaction from me.
“Why are you here, Ev?”
“Should you be standing?” I ask, letting my gaze drop to the bandage on his knee.
His jaw tightens and he doesn’t move.
Okay, I see we’re not going to chitchat. “I’m here to check in on you. Bridget is worried.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because you’re scaring off sweet old nurses.”
“As you can see, I’m fine. Make sure you lock the door on your way out.” He gingerly plops himself down on the couch in front of the TV. He’s watching the Food Network and a woman smiles at the camera as she plates a steak next to steamed vegetables. This is officially the weirdest day of my life.
“Where is your chef?” I pick up a food wrapper and toss it into an empty brown takeout bag. “And your housekeeper?”
“I gave everyone some time off while I recover. I don’t want people in my space right now.” He gives me a pointed stare.
