“That’s all?” she asked with an incredulous raise of her eyebrows. “That’s not nothing, Jake.”
My fingers curled tight around my glass. “That’s three times now.”
“Three times what?” Her forehead furrowed.
“That you’ve called me Jake instead of Jacob.”
“Oh.” Her gaze kept mine prisoner, trying to read me. “And you don’t like that, I’m guessing.”
“My name is Jacob. That’s what I like.”
“Or Wild One.”
I shot another mouthful down my throat. “That’s for family only.”
“Just like Little Lace is for my dad’s use only.” Her fingers strayed to the locket I’d bought her, peeking out from her nightwear.
“Exactly.” We continued staring at each other, aware that there was a lot unsaid between us. History. Complications. Things that didn’t have a place because we had no history or complications. We were practically strangers. Two strangers too stubborn and opinionated to get along smoothly.
A bad match, through and through.
Changing the subject, she asked gently, “And the concussion? Are there any recommended treatments to speed up your recovery?”
Her gentleness made answering even harder. “Rest, which I can’t afford. And anti-inflammatories to help with the swelling.”
“Okay.” She settled deeper into her chair; her features distracted as if mulling over ideas. “That will work.”
“What will work?”
“My offer.”
“I don’t want any offer.”
“Just hear me out.” Leaning forward, she smiled in a way that made her eyes greener and cheeks pinker. Everything about her seemed so goddamn pretty, it reached into my lungs and stole my breath.
Somehow, she commanded every shred of awareness in one heartbeat. My living room vanished. The chair beneath me was no more. The dawn was utterly inconsequential.
Nothing else existed but her.
What the ever living hell?
I slugged back the rest of my whiskey, coughing a little on the burn.
I decided there and then I preferred her when she was picking a fight with me. I could handle argumentative Hope because anger became my shield. It was easier to lie when nothing but aggravation grew inside me.
Having her so calm and quiet soothed my jangled nerves too much, leaving space for all new issues. Issues I couldn’t ignore the longer we stared at each other across the table.
Her eyes skittered from mine to my naked chest more times than she could control.
That hungry look from yesterday returned. A look far older than her seventeen years but so tentative too, as if she wasn’t used to such a feeling.
My own gaze dropped lower, dancing over the collar of her pyjamas to the white and pink stripes of her full chest. She was well endowed for a girl of her height. It made her look like some erotic doll that dirty men would play with instead of eager kids.
And what the hell was I doing comparing her to a doll?
Was I the dirty old man in this scenario?
Not that I want to play with her.
Holy shit, what?
I wanted her out of my house and my life.
Clearing my throat, I tore my eyes away, wishing my heart beat for an entirely different reason to the real one. The one that made me feel twitchy and tingly and wrong.
I shifted in my chair, my hand disappearing under the table to readjust the sudden tightness that wouldn’t stop swelling, no matter how much I commanded it to.
Hope at least distracted me from my impossible dilemma. “So…about my offer.”
“The offer I don’t want.”
She half-smiled. “You truly are hard work. You know that, right? I bet you don’t really want to argue all the time. You’re probably thinking something else entirely.”
The fact that her comment was far too close to the truth made heat travel up my neck.
Nudging my empty glass, I wished I had more whiskey. I glanced at the abandoned bottle in the kitchen but decided against getting more—not just because the thought of standing was too much to bear but because I didn’t want to destroy this kind-of-truce we’d formed.
Plus, the part of me that was turning my life into a nightmare was hard and aching and in no fit state to be seen by a girl—especially one who drove me insane and was unchaperoned in my house at daybreak.
She might see me as a pervert…or worse, a guy issuing an invitation.
She might touch me.
Kiss me.
And I’d break.
Like a fucking coward.
Raking fingers through my hair, I shook away images of kissing someone for the first time, of finding out how wet and soft her tongue was. To peel her clothes off and taste—
I gave up brushing my hair back and squeezed the bridge of my nose instead. It activated my headache, helping me ignore things like naked bodies and hot kisses.
Sure, I’d noticed girls at school. I’d had wet dreams. I’d come by my own hand.
But my fear of touch wasn’t superficial. It wasn’t something I could over-ride.
My need to stay apart from everyone had grown into a non-negotiable law that ensured I chose celibacy over connection because I was weak enough to admit I could never sleep with someone and not care for them.
The heart that’d cursed me to never heal from my father’s death had condemned me to a life of singledom because I wasn’t like the guys in my town. The guys who fucked girls and didn’t call them. The guys who spoke about their conquests as if they were toys.
Those bastards didn’t have hearts.
But I had a broken one.
And I could never experience sex.
I wasn’t prepared to suffer the level of sorrow my parents did on the night of my tenth birthday. I wasn’t capable of enduring tear-filled goodbyes, bloody and soul-shattered for eternity.
“Jacob…” Hope murmured, her chair creaking a little as she reached across the table to touch my arm. “Are you okay? Your headache bad?”
I dropped my fingers, moving away from her. “Yeah, headache. Uh-huh.”
I was gutless.
I would never tell her the truth.
The truth that I needed her to stay mad at me if I had any chance of surviving her.
“Did you want to go back to bed?”
Bed was the last place I wanted to be. I was in enough physical and sexual pain without staring at a mattress that could be used for pleasure, granting relief to my current agony and opening the trapdoor to a lifetime of torture.
Daring to meet her gaze, I shook my head. “No. Get it over with. Tell me your offer and then I’m kicking you out of my house so I can rest.”
“You’re saying my company isn’t restful?”
I chuckled despite myself. “I’m saying your company is stressful.”
“I don’t mean it to be.” She swallowed, fiddling with her fingers again, linking and unlinking, looping and unlooping. A habit. A nervous habit that I’d become familiar with, and I hated that I knew that. That we were building a relationship even though I fought against such a dangerous thing. “I’m sorry I’m so annoying. I’m just…I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your job.”
Her eyes caught mine again, snaring me with concern and complications.
I looked away, wiping my mouth with a suddenly shaky hand. “Look…”
“The actor who played you in the movie didn’t show what you went through as a kid adequately.”
“Excuse me?”
“Before I left Scotland, I kind of watched The Boy & His Ribbon.” She noticed my scowl, rushing, “I know what you’re going to say, and to be honest, I don’t like watching the flicks my dad acts in, but he is rather talented, and he made me forget he’s my dad, and I only saw your dad. Not that that’s any better, of course, but it’s a beautiful thing, Jacob, to watch a real-life love story. To know that age couldn’t keep them apart. That circumst
ances and judgments and monsters couldn’t stop them from falling in love and living happily ever after.”
She flinched. “Well, not happily ever after but happily just the same.”
“The ten years that I had him weren’t exactly happy, Hope. He struggled. He died slowly. If that’s the sort of movie you like watching, then you’re sadistic.”
Her chin came up, her readiness to fight brewing. “I’m not sadistic. I’m a stupid romantic. Anyway, that’s not my point. My point is, the more time I spend with you, the more worried I am that you’ve forgotten how to let go…to be free.”
“Freedom is a relative term.”
“Freedom is love.”
We glared at each other. “Keep going down this path, and your welcome will expire forever.”
She tucked hair behind a delicate ear. “Why can’t you just…I dunno, accept me as a confidant if not a friend. I’m only trying to help you.”
“No, you’re pushing me. And I don’t like to be pushed.”
“Maybe you need to be pushed. Maybe that’s my purpose.”
I stood on aching legs. “Maybe it’s time for you to leave.”
She stood too, her temper clashing with mine. “Maybe if you let yourself care about others, you’d see you don’t have to be so alone.”
“Don’t go there, Hope.” I balled my hands. “Not tonight.”
“Well, when can I go there, Jacob? Because someone really needs to make you face your issues. Being afraid of love isn’t healthy. It will end up killing you. You have to be able to see that.”
“Leave.” I marched toward the glass slider and wrenched it open, ignoring the slash of pain in my spine. Muggy summer morning tiptoed in as if sensing my home was full of animosity.
“But I haven’t told you what John said in the car on the way home.”
“Not interested. It’s probably all lies anyway.”
“It’s not. You should talk to him, Jacob. He wants to tell you what’s going on.”
“Too late. He’s dying. That’s all I need to know.” I crossed my arms. “Now, are you leaving, or am I?”
“Just…let’s calm down again, okay? There’s something I want to suggest, and I need you rational in order to do it.”
I laughed coldly. “You’re saying I’m not rational?”
“Not when it comes to family, no. You’re completely irrational.”
“Right. Good to know.” Stalking to the couch where my jacket lay thrown to the side as if Hope had used it as a blanket while she slept uninvited, I shrugged into it with a hiss, shook out the pins and needles in my hands, then headed to the door.
I didn’t bother with shoes. My feet were used to trekking through forest and field. “When I return, I expect you to be gone.”
Slipping into the dawn, I vanished from old pain, new pain, and frustrating girls who thought they could fix me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hope
* * * * * *
I SCREWED UP.
I knew that.
I’d pushed too hard.
I’d annoyed him too much.
Jacob hadn’t talked to me in two days.
Then again, he hadn’t talked to anyone.
Because he wasn’t here.
The next night, when I went to check on him and ensure he wasn’t passed out like last time, all I found was an empty cabin and unmade bed. I flew around, checking the bathroom, the deck, the spare bedroom, terrified I’d find him unconscious or worse.
When I found no signs of him, I’d had no choice but to blurt my fears to Della.
Her reaction wasn’t what I expected.
I’d braced myself for a worried tirade. However, she merely patted my hand and smiled with a knowing mother’s smile and said her son had too much of his father in him, and sometimes, he couldn’t ignore the call of the forest.
He’d gone camping, apparently.
Gone camping with a swollen spine and a concussion.
Out there on his own with no one to check on him, tend to him, help him. Probably drinking when he shouldn’t be drinking and ignoring the recommended dose on painkillers.
What about the farm? What about the hot days coaxing the ground to sprout grass so fast, it visibly grew between one morning and the next?
Della just shrugged and said they had local contractors who could help if Jacob stayed away longer than normal. She acted as if it wasn’t a big deal. That the lost revenue by having a third party do the work didn’t matter.
But it mattered a great deal to me.
I wanted to work the land.
I wanted to know what it felt like to drive a tractor and watch lush grass fall to the ground and turn into golden hay. I wanted to be dirty and sunburned and thirsty and so, so proud of being a fundamental piece of the seasons and nature itself.
I wanted it so bad, I silently hated Jacob for running before I’d been able to deliver my proposal. A proposal I doubted he’d take, but I would risk asking anyway.
By the third day of Jacob vanishing into the thick forest surrounding Cherry River, the sun was determined to bake the land and turn me into a roast chicken. Instead of riding, Della loaned me a black and pink bikini, pressed a fresh beach towel into my arms, a bag with cold lemonade and pasta salad, and told me to spend the day swimming in the large pond.
I guessed I’d overstepped yet another welcome, driving her mad with my hovering and constant enquires on when her son would return. Although, she hadn’t asked when I would be leaving, and when Dad called, he didn’t push me to go home.
So that was something.
I didn’t want to go back yet, and luckily, the adults didn’t pressure me to give up this wonderful existence, even if Jacob turned it into an occasional nightmare.
So there I sat, bikini hiding the important bits, sun cream protecting my skin from crisping, a delicious, untouched lunch, and my e-reader full of books. I’d returned for it after tending to Jacob, but instead of reading, my attention stayed locked on the horizon, waiting for a glimpse of the wayward wanderer to return.
For an hour, I daydreamed of Jacob appearing, walking proud and tall from the trees. I indulged in a fantasy where he’d stride straight toward me as if he knew I’d been waiting for him, drink in my half-naked body, and stop being so afraid of the chemistry rapidly growing hotter between us.
He wouldn’t try to push me away or scare me off.
He’d slink his arms around my waist, grab a handful of my hair, and kiss me.
Truly, truly kiss me.
Not the teenage experiments I’d experienced with Brian. Not the in-the-dark fumbling where un-educated fingers pinched my nipples far too hard.
I hadn’t gone far in my sexual exploration. Brian taught me how to squeeze and coax him to an orgasm. And he’d promised to make me feel good with his fingers in my body.
However, it hadn’t felt good.
I hadn’t come.
He’d gotten mad.
It’d left me feeling mostly empty.
My experience lacked any spark or magic, leaving me disillusioned with the lust part of being in love. If being touched and made love to was so great, why hadn’t I managed to find a hint of it yet?
I scowled into the sunshine.
You’re lying to yourself.
Out of all my intrepid excursions into growing up and figuring out sex, I could list on one hand how many times I’d earned butterflies.
And not just butterflies, but cannon-exploding, powdery-wing-confetti butterflies.
And they all centred on Jacob.
A kiss from Brian was nothing, nothing compared to a stare from Jacob.
A single stare from the boy who wanted nothing to do with me managed to hijack my entire nervous system leaving me hot and cold, brave and jittery, dry-mouthed and wet-pantied.
My heartbeat quickened as I fell deeper into my fantasy. A fantasy where Jacob would kiss me until my legs collapsed and my mind turned blank. Where he scooped me up like any gallant hero a
nd carried me back to his place. Where he stripped me naked, licked the sweat from my skin, and bit me in punishment for making him crave me as much as I craved him.
I shivered in the hot afternoon, goosebumps scattering over my arms as nipples tingled and lips throbbed for such a thing.
What would it be like to see him naked? To feel his body on mine, in mine?
A full flush made me very aware I was breaking some unspoken rule by having such daydreams about Jacob Wild.
Standing, I abandoned my lunch and e-reader. Moving closer to the pond, I padded down the small jetty someone had built. My pulse was erratic, my breathing shallow. I needed to expend my nervous energy in some way.
A swim would hopefully help.
In icy water to douse my needy thirst.
Spreading my arms, I leapt into the lily-pad decorated pond.
I expected a refreshing chill, but what I got was a tepid, sun-warmed bath.
Breaking the surface, I cursed my overly explicit imagination. My skin still sparkled for touch. My tummy clenching for something I hadn’t experienced before.
But none of that mattered as I twisted in the liquid, brushed back wet hair, and squinted once again at the trees acting as sentries around Cherry River.
And unlike before when the horizon had been empty of people, now, it held a solitary figure.
A boy.
A man moving stiffly, slowly with a small backpack on his bruised spine and a weathered cowboy hat on his concussed head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hope
* * * * * *
I MOVED FAST but not too fast.
After all, I didn’t want to seem desperate.
Hoisting myself from pond to jetty, I flew to where I’d laid my frangipani-flowered towel and quickly wrapped it around my dripping body. Looking over my shoulder to make sure Jacob was still there, I scooped up the lunch Della had packed and slipped my feet into glittery flip-flops.
Armed with a peace offering and barely dressed, I made my way out of the willow grotto and toward Jacob who laboured toward his house a paddock away.
He hadn’t seen me—either too focused on his pain or deliberately blocking everything out. Either way, it gave me time to delete some distance between us before I called, “Jacob. Hi.”
The Son & His Hope Page 23