Rescued By A Perfect Stranger: A Single Dad, Age Gap Romance (Bearberry Bay - Rescue Series Book 4)

Chapter 7

~~ Lorelai ~~

I wake on day four of being shut in the cabin to Rusty nosing my hand. James has been up earlier than I have every day until now. I get up carefully, finding I can put more weight on my ankle than the day before. Being as quiet as I can, I hobble to the back door off the kitchen to let Rusty out.

I look around the tiny kitchen, noting the dry goods in the pantry. I bet I can manage breakfast. I check to see what’s in the fridge and gather a few things. By the time I’ve measured and chopped and mixed and put everything into the oven, my knee is really starting to hurt. I pour a cup of coffee, grab a stool, and make an ice pack out of the kitchen towel. I sit at the counter with my leg outstretched and the towel pressed to the wrap on my knee until I hear Rusty scrape at the door and I hobble over to let him in..

Rusty sits watching, his tail beating a rhythm on the floor as I close the oven door and set the square baking dish on top of the stove. Then a voice startles me from the doorway, “What are you—”

My heart stops and I turn toward the sound, my elbow hitting the cup of coffee I left on the counter. I see it in slow motion sloshing over as it heads to the floor.

Rusty rushes by me in the same moment I turn, knocking against my sore knee, and then I’m sliding on the spilled coffee.

I close my eyes and brace for the fall.

I hear the crash of the cup splintering into pieces as it lands.

But I don’t.

I don’t fall.

James is there pulling me against his hard body. Holding me up.

I’m not breathing.

All that”s in my head is the sound of the cup breaking.

I push backward out of reach of his hands as fast as my legs will let me, my whole body suddenly shaking. ”I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying over and over.

I bend to pick up the shards of the ceramic mug, balancing on my other knee.

I grab the towel that had fallen and swipe desperately at the spilled coffee.

The shattering reverberates through my head over and over, and I feel vomit at the back of my throat around the words still spilling out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I hear James’s footsteps come closer, and I flinch. I still hear the cracking and breaking sounds repeating.

I feel him crouch down. I’m only seeing all the sharp pieces of the cup, and I’m still mopping at the coffee with the towel.

I hear the shattering again in my head, over and over and over.

Then his hands cover mine, stopping the movement. My whole body freezes. This is it. This is when it happens.

“Move.” I hear the words in my head.

I know.

I know I need to move.

I can’t. I can’t move.

There is no breath left in my lungs and I’m gasping.

I squeeze my eyes closed.

I feel James’s hands leave mine and I’m ready. I’m as ready as I can be for when the strike comes.

I wait for it.

I don’t know how long I stay there on one knee with my other leg stretched out. I barely hear the clank of cup pieces being stacked together, water running in the sink, cloth rubbing softly over the floor.

Then the presence is back. Hulking over me, and I try to get smaller, willing the shaking to stop.

One finger tips up my chin and then is gone before I can flinch.

“Open your eyes, Lorelai.” His tone is low, soft even, but there is a command in his voice I can’t disobey.

I open my eyes a small slit. I see that he’s sitting on the floor in front of me. He isn’t looming.

“Breathe,” he says. “Breathe.” He sucks in a breath and then lets it whoosh out. My eyes jump to his face. He isn’t angry.

“Breathe with me,” and again I hear him breath in and then out. I realize then that I’m wheezing, gasping for air.

“Breathe,” he says again. I find myself breathing with him. In, and then out. In, and out again. Over and over, until the steel band releases my chest, until the grayness dissipates from my vision, until the shaking slows, until the tension in my body eases.

He just sits on the floor facing me, breathing for me, setting a pace for me to match.

Finally, I rub my face with one hand as consciousness rolls back in. Fuck.

“Is it okay if I lift you up,” he asks. I test out my limbs, but they don”t listen to what I want. So I nod.

He gets up and leans over toward me. I feel his hands grip my waist, and he lifts me up like a child and settles me onto the stool he righted with a foot. Then he steps back and gets plates from the cabinet, and cuts into the casserole, dishing out sections. He pulls down another couple of cups from the hooks on the walls and fills them from the pot.

I sit on the stool, watching him act like I didn’t just have a panic attack over a spilled cup of coffee. He loads the plates and cups onto a tray, adding cutlery and cream and sugar and napkins. He carries it around the other doorway to the little table and unloads it one thing at a time. After he has everything on the table, he reaches to the shelf over the loveseat, grabs a lighter, and lights the votive in the center of the table.

“Need a hand?” He asks, motioning to the table.

I feel sturdier now, so I shake my head. Once he’s seated, I limp over and take the other chair. My cheeks are flaming red, I’m sure. I feel them blazing.

This man has been nothing but gentle and kind to me, and I don’t want him to think he caused my freak out. I feel like I should explain. I start, but the words get stuck in the back of my throat. I can’t force them out.

James has forked a few mouthfuls already by the time I give up. He shakes his fork at the plate and swallows before he asks,” What do you call this? It’s delicious.”

I answer automatically. “I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve made from the time I was young.” I shrug. “Cornbread breakfast casserole, I guess.”

“When you were young?” The surprise is clear on his face. “How old were you when you started making this?”

“I don’t know. Seven, maybe.” I see his disbelief. “The mission was always giving us cornmeal. I guess there must’ve been a cornbread recipe on the bag. I’m sure I’ve altered it from the original over the years.”

“You made cornbread when you were seven?”

“Well, w— I wanted to eat.” I stumble over the words a little. “Eggs and bacon were always sparse, so when I layered them like this, it made a larger meal. I saw you had sausage, so that works, too.” I pause wondering if I overstepped, or used ingredients that were allocated for something else. “I hope that was okay. You’ve been doing all the cooking, and I wanted to help.”

“It’s fabulous. Thank you.” He says. But still he shakes his head. “Seven! Didn”t your parents cook for you?”

I don’t ever talk about my childhood. I know I was sidetracked with thinking about my damned panic attack, but how did he drag that out of me? I don’t know where to go with this conversation now.

“Um. Well, my mom wasn’t around, and my father was... He was gone a lot.”

“Who took care of you?”

“I mostly took care of myself. I mean, there were teachers at school, and the church ladies who sometimes came by.”

His beautiful mouth is turned down now, and he rakes a hand through his hair.

“There are a lot of latchkey kids, James.” I say in a quiet tone, trying to throw my lot in with that category even though I know it wasn’t quite the same.

“Okay, you’re right.” He doesn’t sound very accepting, but he drops it. He goes on to talk about family recipes his mom taught him and his brother when they were teenagers.