I roll my eyes and take a step forward. “Was work that important?”
“Yes,” Jake sighs, holding up a hand when I move even closer. “I don’t want you to play nurse, and I don’t want you to help me out of my clothes again.”
He’s wearing nice pants, loose enough to be mildly kind to the worst of his wounds, and a button-up too warm for the day, but convenient for covering scrapes that might capture someone’s attention. I have no idea whether he usually wears a tie, but he didn’t bother with one today, maybe worn out by the time he buckled his belt or pulled on his socks, and his shoes slip right off, kicked toward me like a gauntlet thrown.
I lick my lips and stare him down—this battered and beautiful version of a man I've supplied with more pints than I could count.
“Youneverwant me to help you out of your clothes again? Or just not while you’re too pissed off and stubborn to thank me properly?”
“Have you always been this cocky?”
“Of course,” I smirk. “I’m a spoiled rotten only child.”
Jake raises an eyebrow, and the tension he brought home relaxes just a touch. “You were raised by a hardworking single mom, and Beau swears she’s a saint.”
“Amen.”
“Makes it harder to believe that she spoiled you rotten.”
“Ah, in that case, maybe I’m not so cocky either,” I say, taking another step so I can get a better look at the clothes within my reach. They're not the leather and denim I know well, and I'm spellbound. “Maybe I’m just confident. Like you.”
“Mmmm. And is this part of becoming better friends?” Jake asks. “Realizing how alike we are?”
“The very beginning, I think.”
“And what happens next?”
Undoing my minor efforts to get closer to him, I move back and grin. “You’re gonna go upstairs and get changed into something better suited for your couch. And I still haven’t had coffee, so I’m gonna help myself to whatever sinfully good shit you brew here.”
“It’s just from the farmers market,” Jake says, slowly pushing off the wall.
I chuckle and watch him walk away, his limp likely frustrating us both. “Is now a bad time to point out how alike you andAdrianare?”
He does his best to throw a glare over his shoulder, but there’s no chance it’ll bother me, and my only concern is whether he’ll get up and down the stairs without his stubbornness giving him too much trouble. I don’t check on him, though. I don’t follow. I’m nobody’s father, and I’m definitely not Jake’s.
The aroma of the coffee beans has a hold on me within seconds, and when Jake still hasn’t returned by the time I’ve got a full mug in my hand, I decide to busy myself with the dishes he left soaking in the sink. My own chores tend to be an all-or-nothing thing, but I don’t mind setting the coffee aside to take care ofone of his. It’s easy work, and I’m a few minutes into it when I hear him half-growl behind me.
“Didn’t know I needed to add housekeeping to the list of things I don’t want from you.”
I don’t turn right away, at least a little surprised when he steps around the island to come closer instead. My hands are still covered in soapy water, so I continue scrubbing the pot I’ve already started, and finish rinsing it just in time for Jake to reach over my shoulder for a dish towel hanging on the wall.
“Does it make it okay as long as we do it together?” I ask.
“We’re not doing it together,” Jake says. “I’m taking over because you’re stepping aside.”
After he pulls the pot from my hands, I finally turn off the water and face him again, curious and pushy about it. “Is this an I-don’t-care-that-I’m-hurt pride thing or an I’m-not-used-to-having-people-in-my-kitchen territorial thing?”
“Will one answer satisfy you more than the other?”
“Nope. I’ll leave either way, but Iamglad you want to know how to satisfy me.”
I’m going for sexy levity, but Jake studies me in response and lets the innuendo slide. “Would it really be that easy for you to give up on the idea of helping me?”
Something flares in my chest as he moves away, indignation burning as I consider a question that carries no self-deprecation. Jake’s tone suggests no resignation and no fear. He’s not accusing meof a damn thing.
And I’m going to defend myself anyway.
I wait while he puts the pot away, careful not to say a word when the motion is enough to make him wince. When he’s silently pulled himself together and meets my eyes again, I’m right there, and I let my hands fall to his waist, just to keep him still. The soft cotton of his t-shirt and sweatpants offers one hell of a contrast to the firm body just beneath it, but it’s not what I want to talk about.