Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Left over stew, followed by tea and a pile of fruit scones slathered with butter and sweet strawberry jam, married with the warmth and crackle of the wood burner, it was enough to push Ru into sleep. The clatter of the curtain rings on the rail brought him back.
He stretched and yawned. At some point he’d slipped into lying down on the sofa, cushions under his head and the fleece blanket tucked around him.
The last vestiges of sleep slipped aside and he sat up.
Had Jake settled him down, and tucked him up?
The thought made him smile. Goldilocks, Jake had first called him, when he’d been caught sleeping, even if it hadn’t been in Jake’s bed.
He rubbed the thought away as hard as he rubbed his eyes.
“How are you feeling?” Jake came and stood in front of him, hands on hips as he peered down.
“Good, thanks. How long was I asleep for?”
“About four hours.”
Ru’s mouth fell open. For months, he’d barely slept four hours a night, let alone in the middle of the day.
Jake laughed. “Don’t look so horrified. You obviously needed it.
I kept an eye on you,” he added, his gaze slipping from Ru’s, “from time to time, that is, just to make sure everything was as it should be.” He clamped his palm to the back of his neck and squeezed before letting his arm fall to his side.
Ru folded the blanket and set the cushions straight. “Honestly, I feel better than I have in ages. Thanks for letting me sleep. In fact, I feel so good, I’m up for making the decorations.”
“They can wait.”
Ru huffed in frustration. “Then what was the point of going out? It won’t take long.”
It was a standoff, and one Ru was determined to win. He glared at Jake as hard as Jake glared at him.
“Okay, have it your way.” Jake raised his hands, palms out, conceding defeat.
Ru tamped down on his victory grin.
They carried their harvest to the kitchen table, where Jake produced twine, wire, and scissors without being asked. “For making arrangements,” he explained at Ru’s surprised look. “Unless you planned to just pile it in corners?”
“No, this is perfect. I was about to ask if you had anything we could use.”
Jake shrugged, the movement drawing Ru’s attention to the breadth of his shoulders, and the way his shirt stretched across them.
“I used to do this years ago, making wreaths and garlands I mean.”
Ru’s brows arched in surprise. Did Jake, the rough, tough, grumpy ex-soldier possess an artistic soul?
But then Ru recalled the photos mounted on the walls, each shot with thought for composition, balance, and artistry.
Whoever Jake Whitby was, it was so much more than the hardened survival expert and former fighter.
As they worked together on the decorations, Ru found his hands slowing, his attention drawn more to Jake than to the arrangement he was supposed to be making.
Jake’s hands moved quickly and with confidence as he crafted the wreath, completely at odds with the gruff, no-nonsense exterior he usually presented.
The artist in Ru couldn’t resist. He needed to capture this moment and record on paper this contradiction of the man.
“Don’t move.” Ru set down his holly arrangement and rushing to retrieve his sketchbook from his bag. He always carried it with him, a professional habit he couldn’t break even when fleeing London.
“You’re going to draw me?” Jake said when Ru returned, wariness replacing the relaxed concentration on his face.
Ru could see the discomfort in Jake’s posture, the slight stiffening of his shoulders. “Yep. You and your wreath. It won’t take long.”
“If you must, but I’m not posing.”
“Don’t need you to,” Ru assured him, already settling into a kitchen chair, pencil poised over paper. “Just keep working. Act natural.”
Even as he said it, Ru could see Jake becoming more self-conscious, his movements less fluid as he returned to the wreath. Ru began sketching quickly, wanting to capture the essence of what he’d seen before Jake’s awareness erased it completely.
The kitchen lights fell perfectly across Jake’s face, highlighting the strong angles of his cheekbones, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows.
Ru’s pencil moved swiftly, tracing the broad shoulders, the large hands that worked with such unexpected delicacy.
It was those contradictions that fascinated Ru, of strength and gentleness coexisting side by side.
He continued working, occasionally glancing up to refine details, noting the particular way Jake’s fingers held the twine, the tilt of his head as he examined his work, the hint of softness around his eyes that appeared when he was absorbed in his task.
Ru became lost in the familiar motion of sketching, the outside world falling away as it always did when he drew. This was his element, observing and translating what he saw onto paper. He could feel himself relaxing into the soothing, familiar process as his pencil moved over the page.
“Almost done,” he murmured, working on the final details of the texture of the holly leaves, the shadow cast by Jake’s hands, and the particular way the light caught in his eyes.
Drawing Jake felt different from his usual work. More personal somehow, more revealing. Ru realised he was putting something of his own feelings into the sketch, not least his growing admiration for this complex man who seemed determined to present only his roughest edges to the world.
“There.” Ru sat back, examining his work critically. He’d captured, he thought, not just Jake’s physical appearance but something of his essence. The seriousness with which he approached his task, the gentleness that belied his strength.
“Can I see it?”
Ru felt a sudden flutter of nervousness. Would Jake recognise what Ru had seen in him? Would he be uncomfortable with that perception?
Ru turned the sketchbook around, watching for Jake’s reaction. Something flickered in Jake’s eyes; surprise, perhaps, or recognition.
“It’s just a quick study.”
“No,” Jake said, his voice different somehow. “It’s good.”
The simple acknowledgment sent a warm pulse through Ru’s chest. “You can have it, if you want.”
Jake hesitated, but then nodded. Ru carefully tore the page from his sketchbook and handed it over.
They returned to working on their arrangements, both of them silent. Ru glanced across from time to time, as the complex wreath took shape.
How could such big hands, hands that chopped wood and repaired machinery, perform such intricate work?
Yet they were also the same hands that had warmed Ru’s cold fingers with gentle friction.
Heat, sudden, hot, and impossible to ignore, unfurled in his belly.
How would those hands feel on his body? Would they be rough and hard—
“If you’re wondering, the answer’s no, I wasn’t a florist in a former life.”
“What?” Ru blinked, Jake’s words shoving him out of his very inappropriate but very delicious, daydream. “I can’t pretend I’m not surprised.”
“My parents taught me, just as their parents taught them. Goes back for generations. The tradition almost died out, but a small flame was kept alight in some of the remoter hamlets and farms. The older crafts are going through a revival now, though. Mainly due to incomers wanting to reconnect with the land and the ancient ways. They talk a lot of bollocks, half the time, but a revival’s a revival. ”
“So, is this where you come from? I didn’t realise. And is this place your family home?”
Jake smirked. “The accent throw you, did it?” Jake barely glanced at Ru as his fingers continued their flawless, complex dance.
“Err…”
“Yes, I’m from these parts. No, this wasn’t the family home because no way would my parents have been able to afford a place like this.
I left for the army when I was eighteen and had the piss taken out of me morning, noon, and night because my accent was thicker than clotted cream.
So I worked on eradicating it because it was easier. ”
“Easier than what?”
“Easier than landing my fist in the face of the next man who assumed I was as thick as pig shit because of the way I spoke.”
Ru picked up his bunched display to finish, the tips of his fingers sore from catching them on holly leaves. “Are your parents still living around here?” Next to him, Jake paused, just a beat, before refocusing on his work. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” Ru said quietly.
“That’s okay. Both my parents are gone. Dad worked as a farm labourer and there was an accident.
Mum had a heart attack a few years later, completely out of the blue.
I was on tour both times. I’ve got a sister who’s a fair bit older than me, and she lives in South Africa.
We’re not close. She left home when I was still a schoolboy, so I don’t really know her.
I’ve not seen her in god knows how long. ”
“So it’s just you?”
“How’s your arrangement coming?”
In other words, don’t ask anything more. “Nowhere near as well as your wreath.”
Jake leant in closer to examine Ru’s work. As their shoulders pressed together, Jake’s spicy, woodsmoke scent made it very difficult to focus.
“It’s good. Don’t do yourself down.” Jake smiled, the simple compliment warming Ru more than any fleece layer or crackling fire ever could.
They continued working, the kitchen table a production area for the Christmas greenery.
Ru created a few more small arrangements whilst Jake finished his wreath and started on a garland for the fireplace mantel.
Their hands occasionally brushed as they reached for the same materials, each contact sending warm ripples up Ru’s arm.
With a mumbled apology, Ru would send a glance Jake’s way, wondering if each seemingly accidental touch was affecting Jake as much as it was him, but the man was unreadable.
“I think we might need something else,” Ru said eventually, surveying their creations. “Lights, maybe? Candles? Something to add a bit of sparkle amongst all the green.”