Chapter 12
Jasper
I woke up with the earliest light of dawn and spent a full minute blinking at the ceiling because I didn't know where I was.
There was a moment where I gazed at the hand-carved beams running along the midline of the ceiling and I believed I was in Texas.
There was a hotel in Houston we favored for campaign stops that had beams just like that one.
It took that full minute to realize I wasn't in Texas. I wasn't on a campaign stop, and I wasn't married anymore. Not legally, at least. I hadn't been emotionally married since before Preston left for Northern Ireland. Since…ever, really.
I was single in all the ways that counted and I felt nothing. Nothing new, nothing different. Maybe this was numbness. I didn't feel anything because I couldn't feel anything, not because I'd already felt everything associated with this part of my life ending.
My gaze shifted away from the ceiling beam and settled on the rich blue wall. I had no memory of falling asleep on Linden's big sectional sofa but the pillow under my head and the heavy blanket tucked into the cushions around me said otherwise.
The morning after my divorce was finalized and the only thing I felt was disappointment Linden hadn't carried me into his bedroom instead of letting me sleep here.
I'd always wanted to be scooped up and carried to bed, even if it was very unrealistic.
There was no way I'd sleep through that sort of thing and even the most petite women turned into solid blocks of dead weight while they slept. Still, it would've been nice.
But this was better. Linden would've put me to bed only to post himself on the sofa and that would've erased all the carry-to-bed fun.
This was better. Even if he'd snuggled in beside me and we'd rubbed up on each other in our sleep, this was better.
No awkward tango getting out of bed come morning, no awkward conversation of defining this and what it meant. Nothing awkward at all.
This was better. The sofa was better.
Somewhere between convincing myself that sleeping alone on the sofa was preferrable to late-night spooning and debating whether it was time to sneak out and go home, I fell back to sleep.
It turned out to be the kind of dark, dreamless sleep that left your mouth feeling gummy, your eyes sandy, and your mind unfocused, almost as if you needed the day to recover from sleeping.
"What time is it?" I murmured to myself as I sat up. My body was not convinced that being upright was worth it.
"Ten forty-five." I swiveled in the direction of that deep voice, finding Linden seated at the kitchen table with papers spread out in front of him. "Figured you'd wake up when I started the bacon but that was eight thirty and you didn't stir."
"Oh. Wow. Sorry about that."
"You needed the rest. Don't be sorry."
I stood, folded the blanket, set it on top of the pillow. "Well. Thank you for letting me crash here."
"No worries." He flipped over a paper, tapped the end of his pen to his temple as he studied it. "You should do it more often."
I stared at him. "I should—what?"
He dropped the paper and pen. "Look, I'm not equipped for morning conversations. I can't talk at this time of day and—"
"That explains so much," I murmured. "If only you'd said something sooner."
"—you talk all the time, which is obviously a problem, but you should stay here more often.
You can use the Wi-Fi and, you know, your crockpot won't short out my electrical system.
It's better than spending the nights at Midge's place, especially after you've been painting.
Can't be good to breathe all that in. You have to air those rooms out.
And the hot water, for fuck's sake, Jas.
I'm not gonna insist you do anything because god knows that will bite me in the balls but I think you should stay here. Every night. If you want. That's all."
"Not equipped to talk in the morning," I repeated. "Mmhmm."
"What was that?"
I shook my head as I retied my ponytail. "Have you eaten breakfast?"
He felt it necessary to look worried. "Please, Jasper. Don't bake anything. Please."
"No baking involved." I breezed past him to grab the shoes I'd left beside the door. "Just toasting. I'm gonna run next door and grab a few ingredients—"
"I have everything you'd need."
"Probably not." I stepped into one shoe, then the other. "I like a certain bread. Oh, and my avocados should be perfectly ripe."
He shouted something as I closed the door but I didn't worry over it. We couldn't have him overdoing it on the words. Not this early in the morning.
I filled a reusable shopping bag with everything I required for fancy toast and then stopped into my room for a change of clothes. My tote bag was ready to go with my regular showering-at-Linden's gear, which made it easy.
I gave the room another glance, saying out loud, "This is enough. This is fine."
Because I couldn't move into another man's house the day after my divorce was finalized and years after it became fact. Regardless of his invite and the devastating sweetness of his gruff, grumbly way of asking. Really, I couldn't. Even if part of me wanted to.
The other part, as always, needed to shove him off.
Accepting that kind of help wasn't something I could do, even if it looked tempting on the surface.
Sure, it sounded great and chances were good I'd get some decent sleep if I didn't have to worry about whether the heating system would short out the electrical overnight and kill me in a ball of fire, but at what cost?
I'd exchange one problem for another, a fiery death for Linden's steadfast concern for me.
Because, of course, that was completely unnecessary of him.
Very nice and warm-fuzzy inducing, and fall-off-a-cliff foreign to me but completely unnecessary. So unnecessary.
I pushed open the door from Linden's deck and hefted the shopping bag over my head. "Time for toast."
Still stationed at the table, Linden pinned me with one arched eyebrow. He didn't respond, instead staring as I set down my tote and unpacked the grocery items, that eyebrow busy climbing into his forehead.
"What are you in the mood for this morning?" I asked.
A rough laugh rasped out of him. "Ask a different question, Peach."
I had to bite my lips together because he didn't need to know how much I enjoyed those words. "I have avocado, banana, eggs, a bit of brie, and a nice lemon curd. Just tell me if you hate any of those things."
"I'd hate those things all together so please tell me that's not the direction we're going."
I put my hands on my hips. "Seriously, Lin. Why would I do that?"
"I can't explain any of your baking choices."
I grinned. "Lucky for you, fancy toast is not baking."
While Linden shifted through his papers, I introduced myself to his kitchen appliances.
I needed a minute or two to contemplate his retro two-slice toaster versus the high-end range with gas burners.
I didn't need to broil the bread but it wasn't a matter of need nearly as much as want.
I wanted that bread broiled even if I knew the odds of charring it and setting off the smoke detectors were high.
I was willing to deal with some blackened crusts.
I didn't mind that, even if I rarely used the broiler back home in D.C.
because it was too much trouble to babysit the bread.
Who had the time to supervise bread? Not me. Definitely not me.
But now I could sit by the stove, watching and waiting. I could risk the crusts, the smoke alarms. I could do this. I could do things I'd assumed were off-limits to me. It would be amazing, it would be perfect. The best toast I'd ever made.
I dropped two thick slices of sourdough into the toaster instead.
I didn't know how Linden's oven worked. How hot it got, how fast it cooked.
And I didn't want to ruin everything while he watched.
I could scrape a little extra color from the toast but I couldn't serve him charcoal and pretend everything was cool.
I knew what to expect from the toaster and I knew it wouldn't give Linden another reason to doubt my skills.
I'd use the broiler another time. It wasn't going anywhere. I'd get to it.
Once I had the toast prepared, I swung a glance to Linden. He was focused on the same paper, leading me to believe it was an exceptionally difficult topic or he didn't trust me with his appliances. Possibly both.
"Do you have any big knives? Something long and sharp I can cut these—"
He pushed away from the table. "I'm not giving you a long, sharp knife, Jasper. I'll do a lot of things for you but that's not one of them. Sorry but no."
I had a huge argument ready to go. Massive. There was a slide deck hot in my head. I had so much to say about this but then it just—poof—evaporated. There was a spot behind the argument, beyond the self-preservation, where I wanted someone to insist.
It was a terrifying spot to revisit because my ex-husband had insisted we were perfect for each other, my mother had insisted she was doing her best, my father insisted he loved me more than anything in the world.
Even if they all believed what they'd said, they still let me down.
They were still wrong. Why was I to believe Linden's insistence would turn out any differently?
"Okay. What are we cutting?" He dropped his hands to my waist and leaned in to inspect my creations. "This looks surprisingly edible."
I wiggled my shoulders. "Fancy toast is my jam."
He laughed into my hair. "That's adorable."
"Now, if you'd point me in the direction of a knife…"
Yanking open a drawer to the left, he asked, "Tell me how you want it cut."
Admittedly, the knife he retrieved could double as a samurai sword and it was possible I would've taken my finger off with that thing. "Triangles. Please."
He cut the toast and shifted beside me to rinse the knife when he was finished. "All right, then. Tell me what we have here."