She offered him a skeptical smirk. “Why do you think you can help when others can’t?” The smirk faded as she winced.
“I can help you,” he insisted. “Will you let me try?”
“Jax, t—this is all really strange for me. I don't see—”
He gently took her leg between his hands. Her breath hitched and he could feel her watching him closely. He pressed the heel of his palm directly into an area of muscle in her thigh that would hurt but ultimately give her relief. She gasped, looked at him with questions in her eyes, and then closed them.
“Try to relax. Breathe. It will ease off in a second.” He continued to apply the pressure, gently probing with his other hand.
“Jax.” She released a slow breath, wincing. “Okay, it feels better. I think I can manage.” She winced as he ran his hand along the outside of her thigh.
He ignored her, holding her leg firm, continuing to probe. “The key to recovery is to treat the injury, honor where it is, not push through it. When you start to feel pain, that's a sign to stop, breathe deeply into the injury, and determine if it is wise to continue—or not.”
He reached for the hem of her running pants and pushed it upward. “Let's take a look.”
“No, don't.” She clapped her hand over his and pressed it against her knee.
“You don't have to hide anything from me. Trust me, Peyton, I’ve seen it all.” She sucked in a deep breath, her eyes vulnerable. He realized he was pushing her further than she was comfortable with, but something inside of him refused to back off.
Beyond the fear in her eyes, beyond the determination of her will, he believed the next step was for her to accept help, help from someone who could ease the pain. A pain that he suspected didn't exist solely in her leg. The question was, would she be brave enough to let him in? To push past her defenses? Could he push past his own?
“It's not a basic injury,” she admitted, keeping her hand pinned over his, stopping him from moving the pant leg up.
“I know it's not, Peyton.” His eyes assessed hers. “I've known since the first time I saw you. I can help you, but you have to let me. You don't have to do this alone. If you’ll let me teach you how to listen to what the pain is telling you, your leg will heal much faster. Is that what you want?”
“Of course it's what I want,” she spat, anger filling her eyes.
“Then why stop me?” He drew his hand out from under hers and caught the bottom of her running pants again. He looked into her eyes as he eased the hem up along her thigh. With every inch he expected her to stop him, to let him know exactly what she thought of him, but his fingertips soon traced over the edge of her wound.
“You were lucky.” He frowned, probing it.
“Ouch! Lucky to get shot?” She winced. “I'm not sure about that.” She tugged her leg away.
He gently moved it back. “No.” His chest ached. “Lucky that it struck you where it did. I'm sure the doctors told you that.” He ran his thumb gently over her skin with enough pressure to ease some tension in the muscle around the wound.
“They did.” She took a sharp breath, pushing it back through her teeth as he continued to work the area around the wound. She closed her eyes. “They loved to tell me how I could have been permanently disabled or dead.”
He absorbed that information without comment. A leg wound wouldn’t cause death. It must be something else—her stomach—he’d seen her pressing it. “But you're not—dead.” His instincts took over as he continued to massage with deeper strokes, moving her leg to rest on his knee as he knelt in front of her.
“Of course I—” She gasped, but this time it wasn't from pain. Her cheeks flushed.
He’d moved his fingertips further up her inner thigh, working the same muscle that ran the length of her leg next to the wound, and he paused before drawing back. His heart began to pound. He focused on the other side of the wound and kept his gaze trained on her skin—anything but the tendrils that had escaped her ponytail, or her curves, outlined by her tights and sports bra.
She squirmed on the bench and sucked in her breath.
“Sorry,” he offered. You have scar tissue, and working it out can be painful, but if you want full mobility, this is necessary,” he added. “Peyton, sometimes we can be alive, and not really believe it.”
He took a slow breath as he tried to center his mind while denying the desire running from the fingers that touched her all the way to his core. He tried to stay focused on her—on applying the right amount of pressure that would heal, without causing too much pain, rather than focusing on what being close to her was doing to him.
Her skin was soft and warm. He'd never been impacted like this before. Yes, he'd been in relationships, and even engaged, but this was different, and he had to exercise every bit of self-control to stay focused on her wound.
His head spun as her fingertips pressed lightly beneath his chin and tipped his head upward.
“Is that how you feel?” Her eyes connected with his and suddenly he realized he couldn’t give her the answers she sought. He was too damaged. Had too much baggage. He didn’t know what to do when the tide was turned on him, and he felt like a hypocrite.
His fingers paused as the questions in her eyes threatened to crack him wide open. He'd been trying to get past her barriers, but somehow she'd managed to slip right past his.
Twelve
Peyton
Jax flinched, and instantly she regretted the question. He was trying to help her and here she was pushing his buttons.
His touch throbbed through her skin. He was right, it did ease the pain in a way she never thought possible. The problem was, his touch stirred something else, and she had no idea what to do with that.
The urge to kiss him nearly overwhelmed her. She couldn't deny it. She wanted to erase the raw pain radiating in his eyes. A bead of sweat broke out on her forehead.
“This isn't about me.” He flashed her a brief smile, making her breath catch, massaging her leg again. It was a mix of pain and pleasure. She bit her bottom lip, hard, silenced by the sudden onslaught of sensations from his touch and the confusing way her body reacted to it.
“That's good.” She cleared her throat and pushed his hand away. “It feels better, thanks.”
“Let me—” He reached for her leg again but she moved it off his knee.
“No. I’m good for now, but you helped, thanks.”
He frowned, studied her, then stood up, his 6’3” frame towering over her.
Even though she’d cut him off, she didn’t want the moment to end. They connected; their eyes locked, and she watched pain flicker through him before he shut them down.
“What happened, Jax?” She reached out and touched his hand.
“I don't know what you mean.” His frown deepened, but he didn't pull his hand from hers.
“Who—or what—hurt you?” She entwined her fingers with his.
“It's not important.” He started to tug his hand free.
“Wait, you don't have to tell me,” she spoke softly. “I can’t make you tell me, but I want to tell you something.” She stood up from the bench, his hand still in hers. Her heart pounded as she faced him and sought his eyes. “Are you listening?”
“Yes,” he whispered, his back stiff.
“Whatever it was, whoever it was, you didn't deserve it.” She tilted her head to the side as she watched a hint of moisture glaze his eyes.
“You don't know that,” he scoffed and glanced away. “You have no idea who I am or what I deserve.”
“I do.” She released his hand and reached up to cup his cheek. His jaw rippled under her touch as she gently pressured his head back toward her. The intensity of the pain in his eyes opened a window that she’d thought she’d slammed closed. Warning bells were going off in her head but she ignored them. “I do know who you are.” She rested her palm against his heart and smiled up at him. She was irresistibly drawn to his lips, to his blue eyes with honey-colored specks that danced w
hen he was happy or angry, drawn to his strength, and most of all, his heart. She tried to deny her feelings and stay focused on him—her mind warned her to stop—but her body was inexorably drawn toward his incredibly sexy lips.
It suddenly seemed necessary that she kiss him.
She stood on her tip toes, ignoring the pain that shot up her injured leg, and tentatively moved her lips against his, heat and passion raced through every cell of her body.
His lips responded as he returned the kiss.
An instant later his palms pushed gently but firmly against her shoulders and his lips tore away from hers.
She stared at him, shocked. She had expected a lot of things, but that wasn’t one of them.
“You shouldn't have done that.” He winced as he took a step back from her.
“I thought, I mean—”
“No!” His harsh tone rippled through her senses. “I came here to help you, that's it—I don't know what you had in mind, but it's not happening.” He turned away and moved back to the trail in the direction of the cars.
“Wow!” She blinked, so startled that she couldn't come up with anything more to say. Before he could get far, she jogged after him and grabbed him by the shoulder, trying to turn him to face her. His hand closed around her wrist before she had the chance.
“Don't.” He spoke sternly, but anguish dripped in his voice. “Please, don’t.”
“I'm sorry. I won’t do it again, but I meant what I said, Jax. Even if you never want to see me again, I want you to know that I can see the kind of man you are, and whatever or whoever hurt you, you didn’t deserve it.”
His eyes locked with hers. She couldn't read them, but the heat between them was unmistakable. She braced herself, expecting more of his anger. Instead, he reached out and tugged hard on her wrist, pulling her body snugly against his. She gasped in surprise, suddenly aware of Radar whimpering at her side. She pulled back long enough to say, “It’s okay, boy,” before Jax moved his hand behind her head, bringing her back toward his lips. Why did her heart pound when he was near?
She tried to steady her breath. She muffled a groan as his hand traced her jaw, moving down to her fluttering pulse, leaving tingles in their wake.
His eyes grew dark as he placed his other hand on the small of her back.
Butterflies somersaulted in her stomach.
Electricity flowed between them.
She’d never had a kiss impact her like this before, and although her thoughts were far from rational, she never wanted this moment to stop.
Thirteen
Jax
His mind warned him to stop as he pulled her close. He cursed himself for being weak as his lips sought hers and he savored the heat of her mouth. His muscles rippled with tension as he entertained his mind's warning to resist, but his body defied him by pulling her against him. He didn't want to kiss her. It was the last thing he wanted—but God help him if she didn't look irresistible in the morning light with the sunlight making her honey-colored hair glisten. Her lashes dusted her soft cheeks and her lips were pliant, begging to be kissed.
He dragged his lips away and brushed them along her cheek, toward her ear as he drew a ragged breath.
“Peyton, I'm sorry.” He forced himself to release her even though it took every ounce of self-restraint he had left. His arms ached with the desire to wrap around her and pull her back into his body, but he took a step back and held up his hands in front of him. “This is all my fault.”
“Why would you say that?” She crossed the distance that he'd created and rested her hands on his chest. “It's not something to blame anyone for.”
He wondered if she could feel how wildly his heart beat against her palm. He licked his lips, and they tasted of Peyton. He knew it was a taste he would never forget.
“I shouldn't have and I—”
“Stop.” She let her hands fall away and rolled her eyes. “Nothing happened, all right? It was just a kiss. Let’s not make it more than that.”
“What do you mean?” He narrowed his eyes. He couldn't deny that what he felt amounted to far more than just a kiss.
“Exactly what I said,” Peyton was back in control. “We both have our ghosts, Jax, I get that. It wasn't my intention to kiss you either. We're both adults; it's not a big deal.” Her eyes challenged him.
He studied her eyes. Her face paled, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her again. But he couldn't, he wouldn't. He shook his head and took another step back. “I honestly only wanted to help, Peyton, I never planned for this to happen.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, his eyes locked with hers. He wanted to memorize exactly how she looked because he’d decided he couldn’t see her again. He turned and began walking toward the entrance of the park.
“Wait, a minute!” She walked up beside him, then stepped in front of him. He slowed. “I thought you said you were going to help me?”
“I did. You asked me to stop.” He crossed his arms as he looked at her. Her fire drew him in like a magnet, and it was almost impossible to resist kissing her again. But resist is exactly what he did. He had to.
She licked her lips. “What do you mean?” She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. It was almost his undoing. “I just told you it was nothing, and I don’t mean you’re not a good kisser, because, well,” she grinned an impish grin, “you are. I think we need to be realistic about this.”
“I can't.” He swallowed hard. His mind flashed back to the moment that he'd walked in on his fiancé. Anger coursed through him so unexpectedly that the force of it made him to shudder. “No,” he added with more emphasis. He stepped around her again, and this time, when she tried to step in front him, he sidestepped her. “Enough, Peyton, this isn't a game.”
“No, you’re right.” She agreed. “Good luck, Jax. I really do hope you'll be able to face whatever you're running from.”
Long strides moved him closer to his Jeep. His heart ached, but he knew it was the right thing.
He drove slowly back to Matt’s house. As soon as he was inside, he knocked a bar stool to the floor, standing in the center of the room with his hands clenched by his side.
No, he wasn't what Peyton thought he was. He never would be. His fiancé and his brother—his brother—had taken his ability to trust away from him, and he wasn't sure how to get beyond it.
He sank to the floor.
He felt weak, he felt wrecked, and he felt scared.
Fourteen
Peyton
Peyton couldn’t sleep. Why had she kissed him? She stared at the ceiling, regret and uncertainty flooded her body. Had she misread the signals? Had she moved too fast? Had he truly been uninterested in her?
More importantly, why did it matter?
It didn’t.
Peyton closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was exactly why she didn’t allow relationships—or men—into her personal life. Men were unpredictable at best, unfaithful at most, and a distraction every day of the week.
This was the perfect opportunity to re-focus.
In the short-term, she needed to improve her cupcake baking skills, stop letting those pesky goats get the better of her, and… and take Jax’s advice to heart and really focus on listening to her body and giving it the chance to heal.
That was what she wanted, right? She wanted it to heal so she could return to the FBI?
Right.
People were largely fickle, the federal government bogged down with paperwork and diplomacy, but Radar and her career? Front and center.
All that mattered.
* * *
Over the next few days, Peyton created an ultra-efficient system for baking and icing cupcakes, and she never had another emergency like she’d had the day Jax showed up at the bakery. That didn’t change the fact that every day she looked for him, hoped that he might show up, and yes, maybe even rescue her from a cupcake emergency.
But he didn’t.
In fact, she hadn’t seen or heard from him in five days, a
nd it was killing her. She’d even gone to the park for the last two days at sunrise, hoping to run into him. He was persona non grata, and she didn’t know where he lived in Four Corners—or if he lived here.
It drove her crazy that she worked for the FBI and had little to no details about a man who had won her heart (for the first time) and taught her how to listen to her body so that it could heal. Worry knit her brow—no respectable FBI agent acted the way she had.
Jax had done more for her in the few days that she’d known him than almost anyone else in her life. He was a servant.
Her mind went back to one of her father’s sermons from when she was a child. He’d spoken about a servant’s heart and how rare it was—how sacred. That was it—sacred. She recognized that in Jax. He was selfless and gave despite his own pain and suffering. It was rare, and probably the single thing that drew her to him the most.
Peyton took the knowledge he’d given her and put it into practice every day. It was the one thing that made the biggest difference in her recovery and she finally believed she could heal and return to her career with the FBI, possibly even by week twelve.
She’d also created a new routine with Radar. She made up a new word that would help him switch from domesticated dog to a focused FBI K-9, and although confused at first, he picked it up quickly. It made them both very happy.
Peyton chewed on her bottom lip and brushed her hair away from her eyes as she moved to the next batch of cupcakes. Paige would be home in two days. Dread weighted her stomach. Would she ever see Jax again?
Of course she wanted her sister to come home, and she loved hearing Paige’s excitement over what she’d learned at the culinary program--it was contagious; her tales of her fellow students and some of their antics had them both laughing so hard they ended up in tears, but part of Peyton felt numb, and she knew it was a space reserved for the one man who had managed to wiggle his way into her skeptical and career-focused heart.
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