Clear as Glass

by Lynn Kellan

  “You’re asking a lot,” Jaye growled.

  “What better place to forgive than in church?” With one last squeeze, Sarah released her.

  Jaye sat and tucked her navy skirt under her thighs, not bothering to unbutton her blazer. Cold apprehension wrapped icy shivers around her arms. At least, her wool blazer would hide the goose bumps.

  Mitch settled beside her.

  In her peripheral vision, she could see the sharp crease running down his trousers. She squeezed her knees together so her thigh wouldn’t touch his. This close, she could smell the minty scent of his soap. Judging by the clean plane of his jaw, he’d given himself a close shave before heading to church. He looked agonizingly handsome.

  Her stomach ached like she’d eaten a handful of shattered glass for breakfast.

  “My father said you convinced him to read my proposal. Now he wants me to expand our product line.” Mitch’s hand curled into a fist, the broad row of knuckles a scant half-inch away from the seam running along the side of her black wool skirt. “Thank you.”

  Gratitude was the last thing she expected. She managed a gentle nod.

  A loud organ chord reverberated through the sanctuary and everyone rose. Mitch opened a hymnal and tilted it toward her.

  Jaye stood on wooden legs, heart-wrenchingly aware of Carter’s off-key voice to her right and Mitch’s absolute silence on her left. Caught between the boy who was too naïve to pick up on her tension and the man who made her wary as a doe on the first day of hunting season, she couldn’t sing one note. The best she could do was pray for the strength to sit through the next forty-five minutes without breaking into a panic attack.

  After what felt like an eternity, the pastor approached the podium and encouraged everyone to sit.

  If today’s sermon was crucial to her salvation, she was doomed to spend her afterlife in a studio apartment smack dab in the middle of Hades. Not one word of the pastor’s message filtered into her brain, for she was too intent on not touching the man beside her.

  He didn’t seem to share the same ambition. His solid leg bumped hers when he handed Carter a worship program. His arm brushed across her shoulders when he reached along the back of the pew to nudge Brody out of a sudden case of the wiggles. Worse of all, his hand touched hers when he passed the offering plate, filling her with unholy memories of what that hand could do inside her jeans.

  The congregation stood for the benediction. Spying a chance to escape, Jaye squeezed past the boys, darted through the throng of people chatting in the center aisle, and strode out of the church.

  Setting a brisk pace along the sidewalk, she headed for her car like it was the last train out of Hell.

  A big hand curled around her elbow. “I want to say something, Jaye.”

  She recognized the urgent possessiveness of that grip and jerked her arm free. Donning an expressionless face that would’ve made her mother proud, she unlocked her car with the remote. “There’s nothing left to say.”

  “I can think of two things.” He remained an arm’s length away. “I’m sorry for acting like a cretin the last night we were together.”

  A cretin? The strong term caught her off guard. Staring blankly, she watched a deep flush creep up Mitch’s neck in slow motion and knew he referred to that night in the hot tub when the trust they’d built evaporated in a hot flume of steam. I won’t believe a fucking word you say.

  Her insides froze like an old computer. No matter what command he tried, she didn’t dare open herself up to someone who refused to listen to her. “What’s the second thing you need to say?”

  Above the crisp collar of his white oxford, his Adam’s apple bobbed in a deep swallow. Pinning his gaze to hers, he stilled like the barren oak standing beside the church—big and stark and silent.

  The wind blew, wiping the frown from his face. His hand twitched, moving briefly toward her before plunging into his suit pocket.

  “The website looks incredible. Thank you, Jaye.” With a solemn nod, he turned and walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jaye saved her document and powered off the laptop. If she worked a few more hours tonight in her hotel room, she might finish the website’s instructions for Veronica.

  Footsteps pounded down the hallway. “Nick? Are you here? Shit.”

  The man’s voice sounded familiar, but the tremble in his last word stood out like a blip in a computer program. She approached her office door, peered into the hallway, and saw Phil.

  He speared a hand through his hair and shot her an agitated look. “Where’s Nick?”

  “He left a half hour ago. It’s Monday, so I believe his stepsons have football practice.”

  “Then you’re the only one here.” Another swipe of his hand created furrows through his sandy curls. “Mitch cut himself on a shard of glass. I can’t stick around because I’ve got to pick up my wife at the airport, but I’m worried about him. He sliced himself pretty bad.”

  Numbness spread through her legs. “Does he need stitches?”

  “Probably.” An apology radiated from his gaze. “Listen, Jaye. I know things are strained between the two of you, but could you check on him? If I leave him alone, he won’t go to the hospital.”

  “Why not?”

  “When he was thirteen, he had meningitis. The virus didn’t kill him, but the infection he got in the hospital nearly did. After he was discharged, he swore he’d never go back.”

  Mitch had mentioned the meningitis, but never mentioned he nearly died. No wonder he was reluctant to seek medical help. Jaye shrugged into her blazer, grabbed her purse, and followed Phil through the lobby. As they approached the studio’s heavy door, Jaye curled her toes inside her black heels. If things were dire, could she drag a man Mitch’s size into the emergency room?

  Phil opened the door and pointed to Mitch, who stood by the sink near the coffee station. “Take good care of him, okay?”

  “Everything will be fine.” She nudged Phil. “Go get Patti.”

  He took one last look at his friend and strode away.

  Jaye stepped into the studio and let the door thump shut. The furnace roared in her ears like a dragon who hadn’t been fed in weeks. Orange light caressed Mitch’s impressive back, painting his red T-shirt with gold. He looked invincible, but the blood soaked towel around his forearm proved he was all too mortal. Swallowing thickly, she approached and cast a shadow across the sink.

  “I’m fine, Phil. Go get Patti.” Mitch kept his gaze on his arm and tightened the towel.

  She looked at his workstation a few feet away. Glass shards glittered on the smooth concrete floor. Rusty splats dotted a trail toward the sink—Mitch had started bleeding profusely the minute he cut himself. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

  Mitch turned toward her with a startled jerk. “What are you doing here?”

  “Phil sent me.” She snatched Mitch’s blue coat off a nearby hook. “Let’s go.”

  “No need. I’m fine.” He clamped his hand over his forearm in a makeshift tourniquet. “I don’t need a doctor.”

  “I beg to differ.” She pointed to the three bloody towels discarded on the counter.

  “Did you see the note I put on your desk?”

  “Yes.” A drip of blood escaped from the towel, rolling toward Mitch’s wrist. Jaye watched the drop roll into the crease between his thumb and forefinger. Fear sucked the moisture out of her mouth, making her tongue stick to her teeth. “Applying pressure to your wound isn’t working. You’re still bleeding.”

  “Not as much as before.” He nodded toward a table along the wall. “I made a couple of items I’d like you to photograph.”

  She glanced in that direction, catching sight of a graceful pitcher, a round platter, and a cake pedestal. Guilt clenched around her diaphragm, punching the air out of her lungs. Had he rushed to finish those items so they’d be ready before she left? “Anyone can photograph your new products.”

  “No. You’re the only one who’
ll do them justice.”

  The gruff complement echoed dimly in her ears as she watched a drip of blood fall onto the concrete floor, making a dark red splatter near Mitch’s boot. Jaye’s eyes stung. What if he lost too much blood and she couldn’t get him to the ER in time? “Get in the car, Mitch. Please.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “No, you’re not. What if you nicked an artery or sliced a tendon?” Perhaps a dose of brutal honesty would propel him out of the factory. She swallowed hard, forcing her dry tongue to blurt the ragged truth. “I’m scared. Let me take you to the hospital.”

  “You’re scared?”

  “Terrified. Please come with me. Don’t try to fix this yourself. You need help.” She threw him a pleading look and noticed that the vein in his temple had begun to bulge, a sure sign he was stressed.

  “The bleeding is slowing down. I’m fi—”

  “You’re not fine. There’s a deep gash on your arm. You can’t fix it by yourself. We’re going to the ER.” She softened her command with a heartfelt promise. “I won’t leave your side until you’re patched up.”

  He arched one bronze brow. “Could take all night. A trip to the hospital is never quick.”

  “I don’t have plans.” She hugged his coat against her chest. “If you saw that Carter or Brody had a cut like yours, would you take them to the hospital?”

  “Yeah.” He reached into his pocket with his good arm and extracted his keys. “Drive the truck. I don’t want to bleed all over your car.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.” She snatched the keys out of his hand before he could change his mind.

  By the time they reached the hospital, the towel around his arm was soaked a deep, crimson red.

  The ER nurse at the admitting desk took one look at the bloody towel and blanched. “How long have you been bleeding like that?”

  Mitch shrugged. “Half hour.”

  “We’ll fill out the paperwork later. Follow me.” The nurse led them down a corridor and stuck her head into one of the examining rooms. “Dr. Spencer, a patient needs you right away. I’ll put him in room three.”

  With the efficiency of an army nurse, she herded Mitch onto an examining table and peeled away the bloody towel to expose a four-inch gash along his forearm.

  Jaye pressed her hand over her mouth to silence a frightened gasp. Wavering darkness fogged the edges of her vision, but she took a strengthening gulp of air so she wouldn’t faint.

  A doctor wearing a white lab coat walked in and gave Mitch a broad smile. “Thought I’d never see you waiting for stitches.”

  “Don’t gloat, Tom.” Mitch grumbled, allowing the nurse to push him into a semi-reclining position on the adjustable table.

  The doctor took a look at the laceration and let out a low whistle. “That’s quite a cut. What happened?”

  “I dropped a piece of glass. One of the shards got me.”

  “Ah. The mighty Mitchell Blake is human, after all.” The doctor washed his hands and glanced at Jaye. “Did you bring him in?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Tom Spencer. Mitch and I played football together in high school. I can’t tell you how many times he saved my butt on the field.” He gave Mitch a lopsided smile. “Now I get the chance to return the favor.”

  Mitch gave a terse nod and stared up at the ceiling.

  The nurse none-too-gently propped his injured limb on a padded arm of the examining table.

  Jaye stood near the chair placed in the corner of the room, studying the rigid tension bunched across Mitch’s brow. The pucker along his forehead was so tight, his skin turned a pale white along the crease.

  Tom donned latex gloves and picked up a syringe. “You’ve seen me do this on your glassblowers, Mitch, so you know the drill. I’ll inject some anesthetic into the wound, give you a few moments to get numb, and then I’ll clean out the wound before I sew you up.” He placed his hand on Mitch’s wounded forearm. “Sorry about this, but I’ve got to hold you down. Try to relax. I won’t insult your intelligence by saying this won’t hurt, but it’s got to be done.”

  Mitch’s fingers curled into his palms.

  Jaye shoved his coat into the chair and jammed her purse on top. Ignoring the nurse’s disapproving frown, she walked to the opposite side of the examining table and touched Mitch’s fist. “Hold onto me.”

  His fingers sprung open to twine with hers.

  The doctor inserted the sharp needle into Mitch’s ripped flesh.

  Jaye studied his face for any sign of pain. The lines across his forehead deepened, but that was all. He fused his gaze to their intertwined hands and his grip remained gentle, his thumb sliding back and forth over her knuckles in a soft, steady rhythm.

  Taking advantage of being close again, she took a mental picture of how he looked to file away in her mind. His cropped blond hair was half an inch long and ultra thick. Despite the short length, she couldn’t see his scalp. The small, brown mole on his forehead was slightly darker than his nicely shaped eyebrows—a dark caramel color. The bridge of his nose was straight and slightly broad, testifying he’d managed to play years of football without sustaining a deviated septum. His cheeks were slightly hollow under his cheekbones, evidence he carried very little body fat. His upper lip was thinner than his bottom one, both set in a firm line.

  She’d seen his face bearing many expressions—humor, anger, and passion, just to name a few—but the sober mask currently covering his features was the most disturbing. Even his gaze was shuttered, hiding his emotions from her probing gaze.

  A tremor ran beneath her skin, whispering the truth along her nerve endings. Over the past four weeks, knowing how he felt had become vitally important.

  Tom placed the syringe on a tray and released Mitch’s forearm. “I’ll give you a few moments to get numb. Looks like the bleeding is stopping, which is a good sign. I’ll be back in a minute to finish the job.”

  The nurse and doctor left the room.

  Mitch glanced at Jaye, his eyes a dull blue from the pain. “Thank you for sitting with us in church yesterday.” His voice was low, like they still sat in the hushed sanctuary. “The boys would have been crushed if you said no.”

  “You’re welcome.” In the time since their argument, he’d apologized once and thanked her three times—for the website, for her photographs, and now this. Which one was the real Mitchell Blake? The merciless man with a blistering temper, or the penitent man who acknowledged what she’d done right?

  He caressed her hand one more time and opened his fingers, releasing her. Closing his eyes, he didn’t say anything else.

  Jaye tested the diced potatoes with a fork. The tines pierced the crispy skin, penetrating the tender insides. She turned down the heat on Mitch’s stove and glanced over her shoulder.

  He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the glass of water. The base of the stem was an inch away from the house key she’d put on the kitchen table seven days ago.

  Dropping her gaze to his forearm, she breathed a soft sigh of relief. The large gauze bandage was a bright, clean white. He’d stopped bleeding. Jaye wondered if he would have gotten himself to the ER if she hadn’t showed up.

  She didn’t want to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t. “Go ahead and take your antibiotic,” she urged. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Her phone chirped. She nudged her cell out of the front pocket of her slacks and glanced at the screen.

  “How are you?”

  David again. Shoving the phone into her pocket, Jaye jammed the spatula under the potatoes with an angry thrust. Just her luck, the ghosts from her past loved to text her.

  Mitch rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh. “I assume that message is from David, since you’re not responding. Does he ever leave you alone?”

  “He’ll stop if I ask him to.”

  “Why don’t you?” Mitch’s fist thudded onto the kitchen table with a soft thump. “Why does a smart girl like you let a jerk like David stay in her life?”


  Anger popped through her bloodstream like the butter bubbling in the frying pan. He had no right to pry into her pathetic private life. “I won’t talk about David.”

  “Isn’t that part of our problem? I talk. You don’t.” He stared from beneath the taut line of his brow. “If you won’t tell David to back off, you must feel something for him.”

  “Yes. I feel angry.” She slapped a steak onto a plate and scooped a heap of onions on top.

  “Every time he texts you, he’s getting inside your head. He cheated on you, Jaye. Why does he deserve a second of your time?”

  “Because he didn’t cheat on me with just one woman.” She ladled the potatoes onto the plate with a flick of her wrist. Maybe Mitch would back off if she spilled the truth. Question was, would he believe her? “Last time I counted, there were eight. In some way, I could understand if David fooled around with one woman, but eight? I need to figure out how he could profess to love me, yet sleep with so many others.”

  Mitch choked out a strangled oath. “That bastard told you he had a sex addiction, didn’t he?”

  “Three therapists confirmed his self-diagnosis.” She placed the food in front of Mitch.

  He looked up at her, his eyes narrowed into a squint. “How can you go back to work with this guy after what he did to you?”

  “Because I have to.” She filled the dirty frying pan with water. “Before David and I broke up, my father made a deal with Cruz Technologies to develop marketing software for small businesses. Dad asked me to run the project.”

  “You don’t have to do anything, least of all work with a blockhead who broke your heart.”

  Unused to being around anyone who cared about her heart, Jaye wondered what agenda Mitch was trying to push. “I’m not backing out of my obligations just because my feelings are hurt.” If she offered such a lame excuse, she’d give her father good reason to believe she was weak. “Collaborating with David will create many jobs. I have to do what’s right for the people who work for us.”