dozen steps when her flip-flop caught on something. She staggered, tried to regain her footing, tried to hold on to the grocery bags, and failed. Her feet flew out from under her. The bags flew out of her grasp as she flung out her arms, searched for something to grab on to. She only came up with air.
With a thud she hit the floor.
Dazed, she lay there, unable to move. It only took seconds for the back of her head to begin to throb. She blinked once . . . twice . . . tried to clear the pain away. But she could already feel the start of a killer headache. Her back began to sting, and her bottom felt like she’d just gotten a beating. She had. By a hardwood floor.
When the kitchen stopped spinning, she went to push herself up, only to have her hands slip out from under her. She fell back, crying out as she smacked against the floor once more.
She seriously considered just giving up and lying there until someone found her. The thought of doing another kerplunk onto the hardwood wasn’t all that appealing. Then she realized she’d either be found by her nephew—not so bad—or Jared—very bad.
Carefully—so carefully—she sat up and looked at her hands, wondering what had caused her second fall. A white gelatinous mess covered her palms. Wiping them off on her shorts as best she could, she used her forearms and pushed her hair off her face. Except for her aching head and throbbing tailbone, she was fine. The groceries, on the other hand, were a different story.
The milk had landed on its side, lid off. White froth gurgled across the floor. A carton of eggs had landed face-down. Broken yolks leaked out and mixed with the milk. So much for the mystery of the white goo on her hands. Fruit had toppled from a bag, and apples and oranges had scattered across the kitchen like balls on a pool table. The bananas hadn’t gone far. A box of Cheerios lay half-in, half-out of the milk. Using her foot, she nudged the Cheerios, boxes of mac and cheese, and a few Tupperware containers out of harm’s way.
Still disorientated, she looked around the kitchen. What had she tripped over?
And then she saw it: Cody’s backpack, abandoned right in the middle of the pathway.
She stood and sucked in a breath as a sharp pain shot up her spine. Grabbing a kitchen towel from the counter, she wiped off her hands and looked to the family room. Cody was still on the couch, still glued to the TV. She eyed him suspiciously. He couldn’t have picked a better spot to leave his backpack if he’d tried.
She opened her mouth, ready to give him what for—then stopped. What was wrong with her? Cody would no more try to trip her than she would try to trip him. She blamed her preposterous thoughts on the heat . . . her sister’s unexpected visit . . . and on the man who’d moved into her house and into her thoughts.
With more force than necessary, she jerked the backpack off the floor (paid the price as a fresh surge of pain pounded behind her eyes and her lower back) and set it on one of the high-backed counter stools before making her way back in to the kitchen and the paper towel holder.
“Cooking?”
She nearly dropped the wad of paper towels in her hand.
Jared stood near the end of the counter, a lazy half smile tilting the corner of his mouth.
He’s wearing his shirt was her first thought. Her second, “Stop sneaking up on me.”
“Sorry,” he said, but they both knew he was anything but. He eyed the mess of milk and eggs, then turned his gaze back on her. “Scrambled eggs?” His smile turned full-blown, and her heart slammed hard against her chest. “My favorite.”
“Very funny,” she snapped, unnerved by her unacceptable reaction to him. It was something that was happening with more and more frequency. Ignoring him—or at least pretending to—because quite honestly, she found that was the only way she could be around him and keep her sanity, she tenderly bent down and began mopping up the mess. “What do you want?”
He reached over her and picked up the jug of milk. “Why do you assume I want anything?”
Want. How long had it been since she’d thought about wanting. Needing? Merely existing had become enough. When she only had to worry about making it through