Jonquils for Jax (Blueberry Lane 3 - The Rousseaus #1) - Katy Regnery Page 0,39
self-defense, and he himself knew how absurd it was for him to be wanting things from her that she should only give to a man who could protect her and keep her safe. That’s what she wanted, right? Right. And how could a blind man do any of that? He couldn’t.
“I didn’t know,” she said, sitting down beside him.
“I’ll go,” he said, putting his hands flat on the step to stand up, but she stopped him, covering his hand with hers and pressing down.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you going?”
He turned to face her, and because she was so close, he could see her clearly—her sweeping black lashes, gentle green eyes, and rosebud lips that he’d tasted over and over again in his daydreams since Monday. Her skin glistened with sweat and her cheeks were flushed from exercise.
“I just said I’m blind, Jax. Practically, anyway.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, slipping her fingers through his to anchor him beside her, “but I don’t understand what that has to do with you teaching me some self-defense moves today like you promised.”
He searched her eyes. “Why would you want a blind self-defense instructor?”
“First of all, you’re not totally blind. I don’t know how much of your eyesight is compromised, but it’s definitely not all, because you make your way around. I’ve seen it. Second of all, you were a cop, weren’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Which means you were trained to defend yourself.”
“Duchess—”
“And you promised to teach me.”
His face contorted with anger and frustration. “I couldn’t even figure out how to get to your fuckin’ basement! I’m as helpless as a goddamned kitten!”
She lifted her chin and took a deep breath, looking out at the hallway for several minutes before turning back to him and nailing him with a stern look, only tempered by a gentle tone.
“When you walk into this house through the middle set of doors, there is a another set to your left. Then a floor-to-ceiling window. Then a corner. A short bit of wall, then a door. That’s the study we came through last time. Another bit of wall, then another door. That’s a powder room, if you should ever need it. Another bit of wall, then a double opening. That leads to the formal living room, but skip it. It’s dull as beige with lots of stupid Parisian knickknacks my mother kept from her ballerina days. After the double opening, there’s a very small bit of wall and another door. Open it. Walk down the stairs. At the bottom, turn right. Walk down the hall. If you keep your hand on the wall to your right, you’ll pass a screening room, then a studio. The third door on your right is the gym.” She unlaced her fingers from his, though her smile was as sweet and warm as ever. “If you still want to train me today, I’ll see you down there in ten minutes. If not, leave the envelope on the stairs, and I promise not to bother you ever again.”
She stood up and stared down at him, and though he could make out her hands on her hips, from a distance of several feet above him, her features were a little hazier now.
“Someone recently told me,” she said, “that building a life is about taking the pieces that matter and figuring out how to fit them together.” She paused, her voice an emotional whisper when she added, “I hope I see you again.”
His eyes burned and he blinked them rapidly, lowering his head as he listened to her retreating steps on the marble floor.
That’s when he knew—as certainly as he’d ever known anything—that he was about to fall in love for the second time in his life. It didn’t matter if they were ill suited to one another, and it didn’t matter in what condition they’d found each other. It didn’t matter that he’d only known her for a handful of days or that she was rich and he was the neighbor’s part-time gardener. It didn’t matter that her French was Parisian and his was Cajun or that she was twenty-seven to his thirty-two. It didn’t even matter that he had no plans for this love that had already started to take root inside of him. All that mattered was that in a moment when she could have done or said a million different things, Jacqueline Rousseau had somehow managed to choose a response that allowed him to keep his pride, his dignity, and his hope.