9. ELECTRIC LOVE
9
ELECTRIC LOVE
B?RNS
DINAH
Holy Moses. Jack wears glasses. He is gloriously shirtless with sweatpants hanging low on his hips and he wears glasses. I say a silent prayer of thanks to the good Lord for making beautiful things, and then try to gain my bearings. When Emory and I were boy-crazed teens, our mama used to teach us to look, appreciate, thank Jesus—with praise hands—and then turn away.
The reasonable side of my brain that knows it's rude—and mildly inappropriate—to stare cannot catch up to the hussie positively drooling over a bare-chested, shockingly ripped Jack with my hand still raised to knock on the door. I turn it into a silent wave, like a complete clown, but it doesn’t ease the tension between us.
His hair is in the most perfect state of disarray I’ve ever witnessed, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw makes me want to break into his bathroom right now and confiscate all his razors.
No need for you fellas here. We’ve got Camping Ken on our hands, and he is a vision.
Jack clears his throat in a raspy, growly sort of way that is doing nothing to keep me from riding far off into delu-lu-land on a unicorn of pent-up angst.
“Hi, Jack.” Waving again, I hold out the bag of pretzel bites Owen ordered and asked me to hand-deliver. “Your brother said you were under the weather and would feel better with some Breakfast Bites.” Shaking the bag like it’ll really sell my presence at his door at six a.m., I paste on my most chipper smile. “Bacon, jalapeno, and cheese. He said you’re a fan.”
I think he’s going to slam the door in my face. That he’ll remind me to keep my music down in the shop today or mention the color of my walls and then send me on my merry way. But instead, he grunts in that Jack way—a sound I’m becoming more accustomed to—and stretches out a shaky hand. Actually, upon closer inspection, it looks like what I thought was a sexy lean against the doorframe is more like Jack can’t hold himself upright.
“Hey, are you okay?” I hold out a hand to steady him, slipping my arm around his bare waist before I can think better of it.
“Yes.” He lets his arm hang over my shoulder, still blocking the path to his home. “No… I— I have a headache.”
“A migraine, right?”
He closes his eyes, sighing. “Owen?”
“Yeah, he, um… He swung by last night.”
Actually, Owen came by my place twice yesterday. Once for what he called emergency supplies and again late last night to explain why the supplies were necessary. Apparently, Jack suffers from something called chronic post-traumatic migraines.
A quick Google search and deep dive into the ocean of WebMD informed me that these migraines are a common and often debilitating issue after suffering from a traumatic brain injury or TBI.
I didn’t know which version of J. Jones I’d get when Owen asked me to check in on him this morning before he’d be able to get here to look after him. But as I look closer and see the exhaustion written across Jack’s face, the dark rings around his eyes, and the sallow pigment of his skin, I’m more than grateful Owen encouraged me to come.
Aside from the thank you card I should pen Owen immediately for the unexpected gift of the welcome I’m receiving this morning, I can’t help but be filled with tenderness towards the man in front of me now. I know Jack and I haven’t had the best of interactions, yet here I am feeling something for this complex person. He looks so unsure, biting his lip and groggily staring back at me like he’s not quite positive I’m real.
I let my gaze travel up the length of his torso, and whoops, we are closer than I thought. Skin-to-skin oxytocin is real, people. I just know I’m glowing. His eyes are hazy and half-lidded, like it's excruciating to have them open. “Why don’t you let me help you to the couch, then I can get out of your hair.”
“You don’t have—”
Before he can argue further, I gently push us through the door and do my best not to investigate every nook and cranny of the room. Jackson seems like such an open book, if you look past the not-telling-me-about-Jack thing. But Jack, grunting and stomping in his well-worn, loose-fitted clothes and grizzly bear attitude, is a mystery I suddenly find I’d like to solve. I want to know how the two pieces of the puzzle fit together.
He falls heavily onto the gray, cloth couch and curls up under the knit blanket hanging over the back.
“Maybe you can eat the bites later when you’re feeling better?” I say hopefully, earning a closed-eyed nod as I place the bag of still-warm pretzels on the table beside the couch. “Do you need anything else, Jack? I don’t want to leave you here if you need something.”
“Owen will be here soon.”
I give him a once over and have to hold myself back from running a hand across his forehead. He’s so vulnerable. The irony of seeing him like this after he walked in to find me crying is not lost on me. Knowing what I know about him now has me assessing every interaction I’ve had with Jack. And with Jackson.
What would it look like to know them both? How different are they really?
“You’re still here, Polly.” Jack shakes me from my open gawking without ever opening his eyes.
“I am. Sorry. I just— I wish I could do something to help you.”
He peeks one eye open, glasses slightly askew, and I lean down to remove them from his face. It’s odd how strangely comfortable I am touching this man’s face when I was all but yelling at it just days ago.
“I just need sleep. And quiet.”
“I’ll keep my music off today, okay? And I can check in on you later if ya want. Or not. Never mind. I won’t… but if you want me to, it wouldn’t be—”
He grabs my wrist, locking me in place. My palm rests against his bristly, but warm cheek. Since he essentially invited it there, I let myself cup his jaw. Let me tell you, it is comfy.
And… is he nuzzling?
“Thank you, Dinah.”
His thumb swipes three times across my wrist, mirroring my thumb against his cheek, before he releases me.
Wrapping my other hand around the spot where I can still feel his touch, I back away slowly like I’ve committed a crime.
“You’re welcome, Jack.”
When he doesn’t move or open his eyes again, I tiptoe my way outta there as fast as possible.
“Molly Dolly.” I pull my niece into the quaint coffee shop on the corner of the downtown area in Sugartree. “Let me grab a cup of coffee and visit Ms. Chloe for a bit, then I promise we’ll go see what all the hustle and bustle down the street is all about.”
When I told Emory about my plans to take Molly off her hands for the day, she pointed me in the direction of Sugartree, where Chloe happens to work. She said they’ve always got some sort of festival or other happening. Looks like, as usual, Emory was right.
“Fiiiine.” Molly drags her feet over the threshold, all dramatics. “But I want one of Ms. Chloe’s cookies.”
“Deal.”
“If I told y’all once, I’ve told ya a thousand times…” A small, shaking elderly woman hollers from a small table at the entrance to the shop. A man, her companion or husband maybe, shakes his head and grins ear-to-ear at her side. “Ya gotta speak up. Our ears aren’t as young as y’alls, alright now? Don’t be rude.”
What did we just walk into? Placing Molly at my back, I cautiously close the door behind me and take in the scene. Chloe casually sits on the counter of the shop with what looks like a small family sipping drinks in front of her.
She quickly waves at me like a patron yelling at her is nothing at all, then gives all of her attention to the elderly woman, who’s leaning as far over her table as she possibly can without laying across it.
“And we’ve told you, Mrs. Woodhouse, that if we want ya to know our business, we’ll do just that.”
I have a hard time holding in my laughter as the woman—Mrs. Woodhouse—scoffs, grasping her chest dramatically, and then sips her tea like it offended her. The man at her side chuckles and kisses her cheek before nodding his understanding.
“She’s just curious is all, Ms. Chloe,” he says, and I get the feeling this is a common occurrence at Good Start Coffee.
“If you’re patient, I’ll give ya some good gossip on the dramatics surrounding the Spring Fling and a certain Cake Walk Competition,” Chloe offers, and whatever that sentence means, it absolutely appeases Mrs. Woodhouse.
“Throw in a couple danishes and we’ll call it a deal.”
Chloe nods but then turns her attention back to the family, jumping off the counter. She seems well acquainted with them, high-fiving the little boy who looks close to Molly’s age and offering the woman, a baby wrapped tight against her chest, a hug.
“Perfect timin’, y’all,” Chloe says, coming around the counter and sneaking a cookie to the boy, a look of delighted mischief on his round face. “I want ya to meet my friend, Dinah. We met in culinary school.”
She gestures to the man first, who looks like he strutted right out of an L.L. Bean catalogue. His beard and off-season flannel shirt remind me of the lumberjack maple men I grew familiar with during my time in Vermont.
“This is Griffin Lovett.”
The warm grin Griffin produces as he reaches out to shake my hand has me feeling immediately welcomed. Like we’ve known one another for years.
“Good to meet ya, Dinah. Welcome to Good Start. This is my wife, Caroline.” He puts his arm around his wife, pulling her into his side.
Caroline nods, tucking hair behind her ear and offering me a sweet, unassuming smile before looking back to her husband, who continues introductions.
“And these are our boys, Theo”—Griffin ruffles the wavey, honey-colored hair of the boy now hiding a cookie behind his back and then gazes at the baby sleeping against his mother—“and Ollie.”
“What’s your name?” Theo asks Molly, one eyebrow raised in question.
“Molly.” She reaches for my hand, unusually shy.
“You're real pretty, Molly. I like your red hair.” Whipping the cookie from behind his back, Theo offers it confidently like it’s a bouquet of flowers. He quickly glances at his parents, who shake their heads, obviously holding back laughter. When Griffin gives him a sly wink, Theo winks back and returns his attention to boldly wooing my niece.
Molly reaches out, only to have Theo—whose middle name MUST be Trouble —grasp her hand in his.
“Thank you. Mama says my hair is strawberry.”
“It’s princess hair,” he says smoothly, and I know he’s won her over, quickly leading Molly away to a private table in the corner.
Mrs. Woodhouse looks positively delighted at the change of events, swatting her husband in the chest with rings lining every one of her fingers.
“What just happened?” I stare at the two kids who are most definitely on their first date. What am I gonna tell Emory? I gave her a kid-free morning, and I’ll be bringing home a dating woman. They both lean over the table and giggle about something, and Molly’s blush matches her hair.
“Oh, I’m afraid your little girl just fell for the famous Lovett charm.” Caroline shakes her hand and rolls her eyes. “It’s hard to resist, and good gracious, does it start early.”
Griffin’s lip lifts in a smirk. “I think you mean impossible to resist. Right, Honey?”
“Apparently.” I blow out a raspberry. “Molly's actually my niece. It’s great to meet y’all, but I am sorry to interrupt your morning. I just thought I’d come by and see Chloe.”
“Oh, you aren’t interruptin’ a thing.” Chloe slides back onto the counter. “Caroline’s parents own the shop. They like to come by on Sunday afternoons. Like a little family tradition. And most of the town businesses are gearin’ up for the Sugartree Spring Fling.”
“I’m sure one of my sisters will be around here with their crew at some point, too. We all live in the area. Aside from my brother, Dakota, and his wife, Sadie. He’s stationed in Utah.”
“Must be great to live close to so much family. That’s why I moved to Honey Hill. To be closer to my sister, Emory, and that chick.” All our gazes fall back to the young couple coloring on napkins at their table.
“Dinah just opened a pretzel shop next to that cute flower shop, Petals, in downtown Honey Hill.” Chloe hops from her perch and skips behind the counter. “You want somethin’, Dinah? On the house?”
I skim the menu and land on an item with peanut butter, peaches, yogurt, and cinnamon. “ Screamin’ Peaches smoothie?”
“Named in honor of my older sister’s crazy pregnancy cravings. Peanut butter and peaches. But it tastes like a PB&J sandwich,” Caroline explains.
“Okay. Sounds good to me. And since Molly already got one of your famous cookies, I think she’ll just have a strawberry smoothie.”
“Good deal. The cookies are Maple Bacon today. My fave. I’ll make sure ya get one too.”
“So,” Griffin says as Chloe gets going on our drinks, “next to Petals, huh? I’m guessing you’ve met a couple of my cousins then?”
“Maybe. I still feel kind of like a fish out of water there. But I’m slowly getting to know people and the lay of the land.”
“Oh”—Caroline smiles and bobs up and down, patting the baby as he stirs—”you’d know if you met the Joneses. Winnie’s a firecracker and her brothers are…”
Griffin raises his eyebrow, a grownup version of the kid presently romancin’ my niece.
“Cute,” his wife chirps.
Griffin clears his throat.
“They’re just so dang cute.” She wiggles her eyebrows and bites her lip. “Like teddy bears or…”
“I think they get it. Anyways, our mamas are sisters.” He chuckles and wraps her in the crook of his arm, kissing her forehead. “Have you gotten to know them?”
Chloe purses her lips with inside knowledge of my particular interactions with the Joneses, and I run my fingers against my wrist. Even a town over and almost a week later, the phantom feel of Jack’s hand against my skin follows me everywhere.
“Yeah. I… uh—”
Chloe holds out both smoothies. “Dinah’s datin’ them. Jack and Jackson, that is. Whole thing is a bit strange to me.”
“We aren’t really dating. We had one date. Jackson and I.” I feel defensive and a little weird sharing my dating history with strangers. Especially knowing how fast conversations run wild in these small towns, and with how Mrs. Woodhouse has gone eerily silent as she sips what must now be cold tea.
Chloe nods and waves me off. “Yeah, yeah. You’re clearly googly-eyed for them both. You should have seen those two the first time they met.” She lets her jaw drop dramatically and fans her face. I make a mental note to remember this moment for when Chloe embarrasses herself in front of an overtly attractive man one day. “But the teddy bear thing, I definitely get. Though Dinah and I think they’re more akin to Ken dolls.”
“Oh,” Caroline sighs. “Yes! I totally see it. Cute Ken .”
“ Kissable Ken ,” Chloe adds wistfully.
“How about Kooky Ken? ” Griffin grins, earning an elbow to the gut from his wife. “Ow, Honey! I was just teasin’. You know I love Jackson. He’s had a rough go of things the past couple of years. With the accident and Stacy and… Well, if ya know him, I’m guessin’ you know…”
“Them?” I finish his sentence, though I don’t know who Stacy is, and I have to stop myself from sounding too eager by asking for further information. “Yeah, I’m starting to.”
He shrugs and stuffs one of his hands in his pocket. “Well, those boys… both of ‘em and Winnie, they’re good people. I hope ya get to know ‘em better. And maybe we’ll be seein’ more of you.”
Molly and Theo rush up to us, blissed out on young insta- love and Chloe’s Maple Bacon cookies.
“Theo’s takin’ me on a date to a cake walk, Aunt Dinah!” Molly announces, hand still clasped with his. Man, kids move fast these days.
“Is that right?” Caroline tilts her head, amusement written across her face. “Ya better check with her aunt. And her mama, for that matter.”
“Aw, Honey,” Theo whines, “I’m just wooin’, is all. Right, Daddy?”
When we all turn to look at Griffin, who seems a mix of proud and bashful, he merely shrugs and ruffles his son’s hair again. “Right, buddy. But we’ve still got work to do on how to approach it all.”
“Like I said,” Caroline sighs, “they’re irresistible. And it most definitely is a familial trait.” She winks at me, and before placing a kiss on her husband’s cheek says, “Good luck resisting Jackson.”