Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It turns out, things can actually get better. I didn’t wake up on a satin pillowcase or a mattress made of clouds, but there’s no arguing that what’s happening right now surpasses the most outrageous sleeping aids imaginable.
I don’t move a muscle, pretending to be asleep for as long as I can.
Screw needing to pee and the agony of no toilet plus the pain from a very rude introduction to a bullet.
This is the stuff women worldwide dream of—right up there with morally grey heroes and men who growl my wife and who hurt you.
I’m determined to memorize every detail for spinsters worldwide and victims of D-bag boyfriends.
They deserve to know that there are good ones out there and that moments like this actually happen.
And I’m currently the top slice in a Jack-and-Willow sleeping bag sandwich.
How I ended up using Jack’s shoulder as a pillow with his thumb hooked under the hem of my shirt is a mystery, seeing as I was knocked out on pain meds most of the night.
But can you blame me for snuggling up to the sexy, kind, and slightly grumpy source of heat beside me?
Even my subconscious knew this was a no-brainer.
In fact, I might have questioned my own sanity if I’d woken up any other way.
I know the instant Jack is awake, because the steady thumping of his heart picks up speed beneath my ear. Then he drags his thumb up and down on my back once, seemingly savoring the contact before he clears his throat and slips out from under me.
Well, it was nice while it lasted.
My new life goal is to make sure that wasn’t a one-time occurrence. Preferably without the bullet wound, next time.
My good arm stretches forward as I slump to a sitting position, faking a yawn. “Good morning,” I say.
“Good morning. I’m gonna take the perimeter rope down, then you can do what you need to do—”
“You mean toilet things, only without the toilet.”
“Yes, Lo, toilet things.” He gives me one of his rare smiles, the one that’s always reluctant to appear, and it feels like getting a glimpse of something precious and beautiful. “I’ll check your arm and get your meds once I’m back, then we can eat breakfast.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” I salute his retreating back. “Your butt looks good in those pants, by the way. Your backpack has been hiding some good buns, Jack Ripper.”
His short, snorted laugh echoes into the cave before he disappears.
He’s wasting energy, pulling away from me. Wasting all that snuggle time…and make-out time.
This thing between us is inevitable. I know it in my gut, but I’m also a very persistent person, and I’m not above annoying him into giving in.
Ten minutes later, I’ve cringed through the no-toilet business, brushed my teeth, and stuffed Jack’s hoodie into Marigold.
My arm hurts like Thor himself struck me with a bolt of lightning, but I can’t tell Jack that.
I already know he’ll put up a fight when I insist on carrying anything, but I’ll fight back.
Having an active part in the outcome of this mess feels vital to soothing the turmoil churning in my chest.
“Ow.” I wince at the pain as Jack wraps my arm, drinking in the gentle movement of his hands.
“Sorry.” His jaw clenches when he finishes.
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. But I’ll take a kiss. In fact, I think it’s a rule in situations like this.”
His lips threaten to turn up in a smirk. “What rule?”
“You clearly haven’t been rescuing enough damsels, Jack Kent.”
He raises his brows in amusement.
“I was trying a Superman thing.” I wave a hand at the humor in his gaze and take the pills he hands me and swallow them, praying they kick in soon.
“Although I’m kinda glad you’re unaware, ‘cause the thought of your lips on another damsel makes me a little stabby, even if she were in distress. Regardless, your ignorance of the rule doesn’t negate its existence. It’s as universal as cops and donuts. I have an injury, I get a kiss.”
This man, who never smiles the same way twice, lets his lips curl with sadness. The humming breeze prickles bits of dust against my skin as he leans a hand on the wall behind me, morning sunlight dancing in his eyes as he melts forward.
“I’ve never been more tempted to give in to a princess’s request, but I still don’t think that’s a good idea.
I’m no prince, Willow.” His eyes ping between mine, and he doesn’t move, like his heart is rejecting his own words.
Deep down, I think he wants to be that prince, like he remembers he once was.
“I don’t need a prince. I’m perfectly happy with a knight,” I tell him.
His only reply is to push off the wall and crouch down to busy himself with the packing. Resentment on his behalf rises within me, a volcano steaming. I glare down as I stand before him with the hand from my good side on my hip.
“I won’t force you to take a chance on what I know you feel between us, Jack, but are you really okay going the rest of your life shutting everyone out?”
“I’ve been surviving just fine.”
“Surviving isn’t living.”
His head snaps to me like I’ve just nicked his heart. But I’m glad. Maybe it’ll remind him that there’s a beating heart inside of him that deserves a chance at love and to be loved.
A heavy breath releases from his chest. His hands stop their jerky packing, and he looks up at me with pleading and agony in his gaze.
“I’m slow to process what’s going on inside me, Lo. Can we talk about this when we’re out of this place? I want to be the person you think is still buried inside me, but it might be too late to chase away the shadows keeping him chained.”
And I want so badly to tell him that I don’t need or want him fixed before he opens himself up.
I’m a walking tornado of chaos and unsolicited fashion advice.
We’d be the perfect pair, a safe space for the parts that might need healing.
Don’t ask me how I’m desperately convinced of this after only four days of knowing each other.
He feels like the puzzle piece my heart has been missing. We just fit.
“I just want what’s best for you. You’re a good man. And you deserve to be happy.”
“Before yesterday, I wasn’t sure I remembered what that could feel like.” He scoffs and resumes shoving clothes into his bag. My eyes flick to Marigold, who’s now empty, aside from my sleeping bag. He’s taken everything out and started repacking my things into his backpack.
“Jack, I’m carrying something.”
He’s silent, skillfully Tetris-ing things in with determination and a brooding scowl.
Then he stands and holds a limp Marigold out for me to slide my arms into.
My stomach does a swirl while my heart begs him to pull me closer.
He slides a strip of fabric that looks like it’s from one of his shirts from his pocket, tying a makeshift sling for my arm before stepping away and shattering a piece of me.
“If it starts to hurt too badly, let me know,” he says, his eyes coiled with restraint and regret as he maps my injuries.
“We have about two hours to walk to the dig site. I’d carry you out of here if I thought you’d let me.
But I also think you’re safer with me until we can put some pieces together. ”
“I’d only escape the second you put me down, so that’s very wise of you.
I may be injured, but I’m just as determined as you are to see this through.
This color looks good on you, by the way.
” My hand moves forward to stroke the deep emerald T-shirt he’s wearing, my fascination with the feel of fabric making me almost forget about Jack’s boundaries as I wonder what other colors he has in his closet.
I pull my hand away at the last second, reminding myself not to come on too strong.
I should also ignore the tempting thought of letting him carry me out of here.
As nice as that sounds, it would mean giving up. And I’m not ready to do that yet.