15. Jake
FIFTEEN
JAKE
“You want in?” Caleb asks, extending a game controller my way.
I wave him off. “Nah, I’ll make another pot of coffee.”
I’d poured the last cup for Darcy to help her warm up. Once she hit the cabin’s air conditioning with her wet clothes, she was shivering. Now she’s in my room getting changed after a hot shower. Her spirits seem to have lifted because she’s humming to herself and singing under her breath in there, and I keep hearing my drawers opening and closing. She’s probably snooping, but if she’s snooping that means she likes me enough to want to know what’s in my drawers. That idea sends a shot of warmth through me.
She pops out of my room and slides into the hallway in a pair of my socks, a mug of coffee in one hand and firing a finger gun with her other. She’s got on a tank top that’s a little too loose everywhere except for on her fucking amazing boobs, one of my long-sleeve pearl snaps hanging open over it, and she has a black felt Stetson on her head. She let her hair down to dry, the curls bunching up tight and swung over one shoulder, just like the night I first saw her.
I’m struck speechless. She’s hot. She’s gorgeous. She’s wearing my clothes and while they’re huge on her, it somehow is just so . . . perfectly her. Because when she wears things that are mine, it looks like she’s mine.
Yes, I’ve been flirting with her here and there since I showed up on this farm. Yes, I put a note inside her vibrator package because of course I’d love to see her use it. If she wanted me to.
She hasn’t made a peep about the note, so I have no clue what that means.
But I’m starting to think there might be more to this than just sexual tension. I respect Darcy. I like her—and not just her beautiful body. When she’s playful, she’s the best fun. When she’s funny, she’s hilarious. When she worried about my bruise, I felt . . . loved almost. I know she doesn’t love me, but I don’t know. It feels like we’re a team. We are a team with Becca and Caleb, but it feels like she’s got me and I’ve got her. I haven’t felt a connection like this maybe ever.
“Do I look like a horse whisperer?” She checks herself out in the mirror at the end of the hallway, adjusting the hat on top of her head. “I know the felt hats are too hot for summer, but it’s raining, and look how good I look in it.”
She struts down the hall toward me and Caleb, like it’s her runway and we’re at her fashion show. I’m speechless, but Caleb chuckles. “You look better than he does wearing it.”
I glare at Caleb. “Hey!”
Darcy drops her jaw in mock shock. “What, I don’t look good?”
She looks better than good. She looks like I’d like to see her with her sleepy eyes kissed by morning light. She looks like I’d love to see that mischievous grin under me. I want her wrapped up in just that pearl snap shirt and nothing else, sitting on the kitchen counter with messy hair.
She looks like how when she cries, I want to fix it. Like how when she laughs, I want to know what joke put that cackle in the air. Like when she stops herself from saying something, I want to know what the secret is.
Darcy looks like maybe I want her to be mine .
And yet, I can’t say something like that because it’s a tad aggressive, and there’s a little tinge of something sad in what she’s wearing.
She takes a slug on her coffee, raising her eyebrows at me over the brim.
“You do look good,” I say. “A lot of what you’re wearing is my dad’s.”
Darcy gets a wicked grin and shimmies her shoulders. “Is your dad hot? I do love an older man. Little daddy to take care of me.”
My stomach twists for a few reasons. I’m not older than her, so I guess I’m not her type based on age alone.
But I could be a daddy type. Whatever she wants looking the way she does right now, I’m willing to give it to her.
Because for whatever reason, my brain saw her a few weeks ago in a sports bar and said, “Yep, I want that. Stop looking. You found it.”
Stupid brain.
And my brain’s especially stupid right now because instead of telling her how fucking cute she looks, I blurt out the least comfortable response.
“He’s dead.”
“Fuck, dude,” Caleb breathes.
Darcy puts a hand to her chest. “Jesus, Jake. I’m sorry. I would have never?—”
“He didn’t exactly deliver it softly.” Caleb grimaces and turns to me. “But I’m sorry about your dad.”
I run a hand down my face, then try to smile genuinely, but I realize it’s all going to look shitty right now. “It’s alright. Glad to know your type, though, boss.”
She takes the hat off her head, combing her hair behind her ear. “I don’t have to wear a hat. Especially with my wet hair. This is special.”
I stand and walk past her, heading back into my bedroom and motioning for her to follow. “Come on. Let’s pick you one. I got plenty more.”
Darcy stands in my doorway twisting her hands while I examine the hats on my dresser: my beat-up straw hat, my newer one, Dad’s Stetson, an Akubra, and an assortment of ball caps.
After a ragged breath, she says, “Dads aren’t my only type.”
I chuckle, and warmth balloons in my chest again. She’s trying to make me feel better. “I bet they are. That’s why you were looking at me at the bar. You thought I was a dad.”
“No,” she says. “I thought you had nice eyes. And I felt you looking at me. ”
“And yet, you still didn’t talk to me.”
She snorts. “I’m not exactly looking for romance at the moment.”
“Just hot dads?” I ask, and laugh as she shakes her head at me.
“You’re a pest.”
I turn her shoulders toward me, examining her. She’s somewhat pale and washed out from getting wet, but her cheeks are flushed. I can basically see down her boobs in my undershirt, and the open denim shirt on top gives her a casual look. Her lips look full and pouty, her eyes as big and round as ever.
“How long ago did you lose him?” she asks softly.
“Almost ten years ago. I was seventeen.”
Darcy nods. “Was he sick?”
“No,” I sigh, looking over the hats. “Car accident. Drunk driver got him on the way home from his buddy’s place.”
A cool, soft hand meets mine and squeezes. “I’m sorry, Jake. That must have been awful. Hard, still.”
I can’t bear to look at her for long because I hate seeing sympathy from people. “I do alright,” I say.
I drop her hand, take my hat off my head, and plop it onto hers, picking up a ball cap for myself. “Just wear mine.”
She studies me for a second longer, I think getting the hint that I don’t feel like talking about my dad. Her smile is understanding as she taps the brim of my cowboy hat. “Are you trying to get out of stall duty? Because wear the hat?—”
“Muck the stalls, yep. I know. I’ll still do it.”
“Good, since it’s your job to do what I say,” she says, adjusts the hat, slightly too big on her head, and waltzes out into the hallway.