up the stairs. “I made breakfast, and there’s coffee in the pot. Help yourself, and I’ll be back in a second.”
I cross my arms over my chest and walk toward the kitchen but make a beeline for the living room when I see the coffee table that is sitting in front of the couch. The wood looks similar to his table in the city, but in the open grooves and naturally pitted pieces, there is emerald-colored glass overlaid with lacquer, making the surface of the table look like glass. It’s beautiful, and if he made something like this for his mom, I can see why she would hang it on her wall.
I turn when I hear him come down the stairs and notice he has a towel in hand along with another shirt, this one gray. “This is beautiful.” I motion to the table, and he smiles softly. “If you ever want to quit your job, you could go into woodworking.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He comes toward me then before I have time to prepare, he drops the towel to the couch and his hands are on my hips. “Arms up,” he orders, and I lift my hands up over my head as he drags the wet shirt up my body then drops it to the couch. Without a bit of shyness, I keep my hands up as he places the dry one over my head.
“Thanks,” I whisper, dropping my hands to my sides to rest over his on my hips.
“I wouldn’t want you to get sick because of me.”
“I don’t think that’s a thing,” I whisper, my heart beating hard as I try to understand how this guy can be so completely complicated. Hard and soft, sweet and hot, demanding and giving, everything I appreciate and despise in one gorgeous package.
“I think my mom would beg to differ.” He lets his hands fall from my waist then picks up the towel. “Hold up your hair.” I do, and he wraps the towel around my shoulders. Once it’s in place, I let my hair fall and then rest my hands against his warm chest. “Are you hungry or just hung-over?”
“A little of both.”
“Let’s put something in your stomach then get you some Tylenol.” He leans in to kiss my forehead then takes my hand from his chest and walks me to one of the barstools that form a half circle around the kitchen. I take a seat and then watch him as he makes me a plate piled high with eggs and pancakes he pulls out of the oven. He places my plate before me along with a set of silverware then sets out syrup and butter. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea if you have it.” I stand to wrap the towel around my hair as he turns on an electric kettle on the counter before getting a packet of my favorite tea and a cup. “I feel like you’re always taking care of me.”
“You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
Am I? Maybe. “I’m just not used to anyone but Jamie looking out for me.”
“It’s okay to trust someone besides your brother,” he says, filling the cup with steaming water and placing the teabag inside. “You can trust me.”
“I want to.” I hold his gaze so he knows I really do want that, maybe even more than he does.
He studies me, his eyes searching mine, then clears his throat. “We need to talk.”
My stomach drops, but I straighten in my chair, willing myself to stay strong and to be honest. “Okay.”
“When it comes to you, I don’t know what I’m doing.” The statement is one I’ve heard from him before, and I wonder where he’s going with this. “For a man like me, who’s in control of every aspect of his life, you have sent my life into a tailspin. I don’t know up from down. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’m always worried about you, thinking about you, hoping you’re sleeping and eating, that you’re safe and happy.”
I want to smile, because I can see he’s annoyed with his own feelings and really doesn’t know how to deal with them. “So… you’re mad at me?”
His brows drag together and his lips turn down at that question. “Mad at you? No. I’m pissed at myself, because I keep doing things that I know will piss you off, but I can’t help it, because at the end of the day, I want to reassure myself that you’re okay.”
“And what is