Page 11 of Melting His Grumpy Heart
Ru jerked backwards, as though Jake’s harsh words had been a smack in the face. The shy smile on his face melted away like snow in the desert as a deep flush coloured his cheeks. He switched his attention from Jake to the partially prepared meal, his hands hovering over the cut veg, as if he no longer knew what to do.
“I know, but… Look, if you really don’t want me to…” Ru shrugged, his eyes now wary as they met Jake’s. “Your house, your rules. I’m sorry, I should have taken more notice earlier.”
Jake’s words had come out harsher than he’d intended, clipped and cold in the warm kitchen. The effect had been immediate and crushing. Ru’s smile vanishing, his body tensing as if preparing for a blow. Guilt and shame twisted Jake’s gut.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, forcing his voice to soften. “I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. Just don’t want you to feel compelled, that’s all.”
Ru relaxed slightly, though his eyes were still guarded. “So it came out wrong? Glad I’m not the only one who’s guilty of that.”
Jake ran his fingers through his hair as he looked away. He was embarrassed and chastened, the feelings unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
“No, you’re not.” He returned his gaze to Ru. “And I apologise.”
Relief broke out on Ru’s face as he smiled, a smile Jake knew he’d neither earned nor deserved.
He’d gone on the attack, afraid of the feeling that somebody was, no matter how fleetingly, waiting for him, chasing it away as he bared his teeth like a rabid dog. He didn’t want to have those feelings, because they hurt too damn much.
“It’s just a simple stew, but it’s good. I’ve been making it for years.” Ru turned back to his chopping.
The kitchen felt different with another person in it, warmer somehow, more alive, the usual emptiness filled not with silence but with the sounds of cooking. It should have been an intrusion, an unwelcome disruption to Jake’s regimented and ordered world.
Instead, it felt good, and right, and that frightened the hell out of him.
“I’ve got paperwork to do.” The warm kitchen was hemming him in, and he had to get away.
“This’ll be hours yet…”
But Jake was already fleeing the kitchen, running from everything he’d spent the last three years putting to sleep, and everything he feared was beginning to awaken.
CHAPTER NINE
With the stew slowly cooking on a low heat in the oven, Ru wandered into the living room, glancing up at the wide set of heavy wooden stairs leading to the forbidden office. He paused and cocked his head, listening for any sign of Jake, but there was nothing. Ru might well have been alone in the farmhouse.
So far, he’d barely moved from the kitchen, not comfortable exploring further despite Jake telling him he had the run of the house, bar the restrictions Jake had laid down.
Ru smiled as he entered the living room because it was exactly the kind of room he’d imagined Jake would hunker down in, waiting out the winter storms.
A big, chunky, iron wood burner sat in the brick fireplace, its flames gently flickering. The room was large but the combination of the warmth, the off-white lumpy, bumpy walls and ceiling, just like in the bedroom he’d been given, and the two huge squashy sofas, gave the room a comfortable and lived in feel.
Ru’s gaze fell to the mismatched bookcases taking up almost all of one of the walls.
What kind of man chose to live such an isolated life? Perhaps the bookshelves would provide the answer.
So many books, crammed on the shelves. Some crime fiction, some biographies of past political heavyweights. Books about famous military campaigns. There were also books by popular wilderness gurus he’d seen on the telly, but most were by people he’d not heard of. Ru ran a finger along the spines. Book after book on extreme survival in the mountains, in the jungle, in the desert, in the snow. He huffed at that one; perhaps he should have bought a copy.
“Oh.”
The author name on a book caught his eye. Jake Whitby. The name that was on not just one book but several. Ru tried to pull one out, but it was wedged in tight between its neighbours. Giving up, his gaze fell to an open box nestled on the floor, next to the bookcase. He pushed up the cardboard flaps.
Brochures. Looking at books on bold display on a bookcase was one thing, nosing around in a box was another. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. Was he snooping? It felt like snooping, but Jake had given him almost total free run… He pulled one out.
The brochure showed a muscular arm gripping a climbing rope against what looked like a cliff. Bold text proclaimed ‘Whitby Survival: Test Your Limits.’
He threw a quick glance at the door before flipping through.
Glossy photos of men and women navigating rugged terrain in extreme weather conditions, building shelters, crossing frozen streams, and scaling sheer walls of rock. And there was Jake, looking stern but confident, those impressive muscles of his on full display, demonstrating various techniques. The back page listed Jake’s credentials, along with a stony faced headshot; Ru’s brows arched. Fifteen years’ military experience, including the Special Air Service. Certified instructor in extreme environment survival techniques.
Ex-army. And Special Air Service. Ru’s brow wrinkled. God, the man had been in the SAS.Wonder if he’s still got the uniform…Ru sniggered. He’d always liked a uniform. Armed forces, firemen, airline pilots, even paramedics; he drew the line at traffic wardens and bus drivers, though. But Jake’s background certainly explained a few things. Brusque and to the point, not wasting a single word. Aggressive, even. Along with the air of strict self-control, and competence. No wonder he felt so off-balance around him, because Jake was unlike anyone he’d ever met.
