28. Jaxon
Jaxon
The fact that Summer isn’t complaining right now is an alarming sign.
I carry her through the dark, into the back of the house, and she doesn’t say a word the entire way. I ease her onto the cushions, one arm behind her shoulders. Her hair fans out against the pillow, and she looks up at me with lids only half open.
Still so beautiful.
“Did I just faint?” she asks weakly.
“You did.” I crouch next to her, checking her face. Color is coming back, which is a good sign.
She rubs a hand over her eyes. “That wasn’t supposed to happen—fainting, like some kind of Victorian woman who needs smelling salts.”
“There are worse things.” I brush a strand of hair off her forehead, like Mom used to do when we were sick. “What if I hadn’t been there to catch you?”
“It would’ve been less embarrassing.”
“Until I found you with a goose egg on your head.”
She starts to push herself up onto her elbows. “I think I need to eat.”
“Stay there.” I lay a hand on her shoulder gently. “I’ll bring you something.”
I head to the kitchen and pour iced tea from the fridge, then heat the leftover meatloaf. When I come back, she’s looking at a family album from the coffee table, mostly photos of Mom and Dad with four boys who couldn’t sit still long enough for a decent picture.
“Is this you?” She holds up a picture of a little kid riding a pony for the first time, wearing nothing but a diaper and a smile.
I take a closer look. “I’m sure that’s Wyatt. He loves to walk around in his underwear.”
“No way. That’s very clearly you.” She studies it again. “You look so proud of yourself.”
“I was only two. Probably thought that was how a boy should dress for horseback riding.”
She grins, enjoying my toddler pictures way too much. “You were stinking adorable.”
“I want that back.” I reach for the album, but she pulls it out of reach.
“Absolutely not,” she says with a laugh. “This is staying right here.” She balances it on her lap, protecting it. “For future reference.”
“Future reference for what?”
“I don’t know yet, but I feel like it’ll come up.”
I give her a look. “You’re not posting that picture on social media.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.” Her grin turns mischievous. “Even if it did cross my mind.”
“Eat your dinner.” I hand her the plate to distract her before she finds the ones from middle school.
She takes a bite, still grinning at the album. “I’m keeping this page marked.”
“After you finish, you should rest.”
“I don’t have time to rest,” she protests.
“While you’re on my watch, you do.” I sit on the edge of the coffee table across from her, close enough to reach her if she faints again. “You scared me out there.”
She pauses mid-bite. “You were scared?”
“I almost panicked.” I watch her take another bite. “One second you were talking, and the next you were collapsing. I didn’t even have time to think.”
“But you caught me.”
“Hockey’s good for one thing, I guess.” I reach over and adjust a throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, pulling it across her lap. “How was your mom today?”
“Better. She remembers you.” Her lips curve. “She calls you the handsome hockey player.”
“I’ll be sure to mention it to Rhett,” I say with a laugh. “His ego needs to be taken down a few notches.”
She turns her fork over in her hand. “She smiled today when I brought her a bouquet.”
I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees. “I’d like to go with you sometime. If you’d let me.”
“Jaxon.” She rests her fork on the edge of her plate. “She’s not the same woman anymore. Sometimes she gets upset. It’s hard to watch.”
“I’m okay with hard,” I murmur.
She stares down at her plate without replying.
“It’s okay if you’d rather I didn’t,” I say. “I thought maybe you could use the company—”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s that…” She swallows. “Nobody’s ever asked to come with me before.”
I reach over and take the plate from her, setting it on the coffee table, then shift closer so our knees brush.
“She’s your mom, Summer,” I say, taking her hand. “Of course I want to come.”
She blinks fast, looking away for a second like she’s pushing down an emotion.
“And anyone who calls me handsome,” I add, trying to lighten the mood, “deserves a personal visit.”
A muffled laugh escapes her before she meets my gaze again. “This was really nice of you tonight. Helping me rescue the colt and sacrificing Ada Mae’s meatloaf.”
“You owe me for that one,” I say with a grin. “That woman makes a mean meatloaf.”
“I know. It was a real act of heroism.” She rises, then sways for a second, and my hand immediately goes to her elbow.
“You’re not going anywhere until you’re steadier on your feet.” I help her back onto the couch.
“I can’t stay here, Jaxon.”
“And you can’t go home and be alone either,” I insist.
“But everyone will talk.”
“Then let them,” I say. “The town can gossip about why your truck was here all night. I’ll take the heat for it.”
She knows I’ll do it. I’d defend her reputation at the cost of mine, even if the two of us here alone makes it hard to avoid situations like the kiss we had the other night.
“Listen, I promise to give you space here,” I say. “But I’m not leaving you alone, not after that. You can be mad about it tomorrow.”
She hesitates, gaze dropping, like she’s trying to figure out if this is a bad idea.
It probably isn’t the smartest move given where things stand right now. But letting her go home in the state she’s in isn’t an option.
“You can even have the master suite.” I stand, offering her my arm for support. “You want to shower first?”
She looks down at her clothes, still dirty from the ride and colt rescue. “That would be really nice, actually.”
I help her up the stairs, slower than usual, her hand looped through my arm, then point her toward the master bathroom.
“Dad had a big tub put in a few years back after Mom’s joints started bothering her.” I hand her a towel. “You’re welcome to use it.”
“You don’t have to wait up.” She clutches the towel to her chest. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’m used to long days.” Truth is, I won’t sleep until I know she’s tucked into bed and sleeping like a baby. “Besides, my mom would be upset if I didn’t show you some Southern hospitality.”
Her gaze drops to the floor. “I miss her so much.”
A lump rises in my throat. Sometimes I push the grief so far down, I forget it’s still there until somebody reminds me. “I miss her too. Every single day.” I take a hesitant step backward. “Well, I should probably let you go.”
I close the door behind me as I step out into the hall.
The water turns on in the bathroom as I drop my head against the wall. Offering Summer a bath and a bed for the night is the right thing to do. It’s just that the right thing to do has never made me want a cold shower so badly.
What is it about this woman?
I head downstairs and start on the dishes, mostly to give myself something to do that doesn’t involve thinking about Summer.
I’m putting the last plate away when I hear it—a small, muffled sound from somewhere above me.
I freeze, and there it is again.
I rush upstairs, hovering outside the bathroom door. There’s a sniffle, followed by a small, hiccupping sob.
Did I upset her? Say something that hurt her?
I rap the door lightly with the back of my hand. “Summer? You okay in there?”
She goes quiet. “I thought you went to bed.”
“Are you…” I suck in a breath. “Are you crying?”
She pauses so long, I start to wonder what’s wrong.
“Yes,” she murmurs.
“What’s the matter?” I lean against the door because there’s no way I’m leaving her crying in my bathtub in the middle of the night. “Did I do something that hurt you?”
“No, you didn’t hurt me, Jaxon.” She breathes out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I can’t believe you’d think that.”
“What am I supposed to think? You’re crying, and I don’t know why, and all I want to do is help you.”
I hear another soft sob, and my heart twists in my chest. I wish I could see her face right now, brush her tears away. Hold her until whatever this is passes, do anything other than stand out here, helpless to fix it.
But I can’t go in there for obvious reasons. If I see her in a towel right now, I’ll forget every single thing I want to say. All I can do is press my palm flat against the door and imagine that’s closer to her than just standing here.
“Summer,” I murmur. “I can’t wipe your tears away from out here. But I don’t want you crying alone, either. Can you come to the door? Just for a second?”
After a few seconds, the sound of water sloshes around the tub, then her footsteps pad across the floor.
“I’m here.”
“Put your hand against the door. Right where mine is.” I tap the door, so she knows where to place her palm. “Can you do that?”
Something slides against the door. “Okay, it’s there.”
“That’s where I am too.” I keep my palm flat against the wood, imagining her hand on the other side, touching mine. “I know it’s not much, but you’re not alone here. Not tonight. I want to fix whatever’s wrong.”
There’s a pause. “You already have,” she murmurs, her words barely a whisper, “just by being you. By treating me like I’m not broken.”
My forehead rests against the door. “You were never broken, Summer.”
“I do feel broken though,” she says, her voice wavering. “There’s this version of me that everyone sees on the outside—the capable and hard-working one. And another part underneath that’s drowning in the deep end, and just wants someone to notice.”
I close my eyes. “I noticed.”
She doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if she’s crying again.
“Nobody’s ever said that to me before,” she whispers.
“You’re not just an employee who works here, Summer.” I rest my forehead against the door. “You haven’t been for a long time. You’re important to me.”
She huffs out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Here I am, a grown woman, blushing like I’m twelve.”
“Then I’m glad I’m here with you,” I murmur. “Even through a door.”
She takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Jaxon.”
“For what? You did nothing wrong.”