Page 5

Chapter 4

Mila

I did not leave the house. Instead, I spent the day sleeping on Jude’s couch, petting his dog, and flipping through his books. The shelves in the spare room were meticulously organized, and I found all sorts of gems, including an entire shelf of poetry. That one had been a pleasant surprise.

I’d raided the kitchen as well. Like the rest of the house, it was well-organized. But sadly, the only foods I found worth consuming were dried mango and lentil chips. Ripley followed me around, probably confused by my presence.

All day, try as I might, I couldn’t stop memories of the last time I was in this house from bubbling up. Filled with grief and scrambling to make sense of what had happened to Hugo, I’d lost all sense of self-control.

I’d never been good at denying myself the things I wanted, and when I’d looked at Jude standing on that stage with his guitar, there was no doubt in my mind that, in that moment, what I wanted was him.

He was at once both powerful and gentle. Feral and tame.

We’d gone back to his house, this little place up on the side of the mountain, hidden by a dense canopy of trees, and we’d spent a magical night together.

There had been plenty of fucking, yes.

But that was only one facet of what made the encounter so incredible. We’d lain in his bed, naked, gazing out the picture window at the sea of stars above. Downeast, the stars didn’t shine this bright. The city lights drowned them all out.

Eventually, we’d bundled up and taken his dog for a late-night walk, listening to the hoots of the barn owls and the songs of the insects.

He’d made chocolate chip pancakes for me, then he’d eaten me for dessert.

When I snuck out, just as the sun was rising, it took all the strength I had not to lean down and kiss him again or wrap my arms around him and thank him for giving me such a precious memory. For providing such pure fun, a connection unlike anything I’d ever experienced, a desire I’d never known was possible.

But I couldn’t.

So I tiptoed out, hopped into my rental car, and took off.

I didn’t have time to get swept up by the sensitive lumberjack. Not then. And not now.

I’d thought of him so many times over the past year. Every time, I’d smile, wondering if he enjoyed the sexy memories as much as I did.

But then I had to go and show up here like a wounded animal and ruin it all. Now I was lingering. A helpless, unwanted guest.

Great job, Mila .

Every muscle ached, and my skin itched. What was worse, though, was the boredom. I was restless, desperate to search for my phone. To listen to recordings, do research, and feel useful. I’d been going so fast for so long, and now, the compulsion to be productive was overwhelming.

My all-day nap had shown me that I was in worse shape than I’d realized. If I left the house and was discovered, I had no hope of getting away. The exhaustion, and then the wild hunger, had kept me here. Warm and safe. I hated being weak like this, but even I knew my limits.

I was seconds away from entertaining myself by counting the fibers in the carpet when the low rumble of an engine caught my attention.

Ripley happily trotted over to the door, instantly assuaging the panic that had flared at the sound. If she was at ease, then it had to be Jude. As the sound grew louder, I considered lying down and pretending to be asleep to avoid him but dismissed the idea quickly. That would be weird.

I was in his house, alone, looking at his stuff and eating his food. I felt guilty and awkward for being here, for allowing him to take care of me.

What was wrong with me? I’d never experienced this kind of self-loathing.

I was Mila Barrett. I’d hidden in a foxhole while bombs went off. I’d trekked across deserts and negotiated border crossings with no passport.

And I was panicking because a nice guy was walking into his own house?

Ridiculous.

I pushed the instinct to hide from him down and sat on the couch, pretending to serenely read a book of Emily Dickinson poems. Balancing a hardcover book in my lap and turning the pages with one hand was a bit awkward, but at least I had something to look at. Otherwise, I’d probably appear as expectant as his dog, who was panting at the door.

When Jude stepped inside, he was loaded down with several large shopping bags. With a silent nod to me, he hung his coat and keys on the rack by the door, then toed off his work boots.

When his hands were free, he sank to his knees and scratched Ripley’s ears. She returned the affection by licking his face.

“Hey, girl,” he said in that deep, husky voice. “Did you do a good job today? Did you protect the house?”

Ripley’s large tail thumped against the floor loudly. She was totally in love with him.

I tried my best to stare blankly at the poetry in front of me rather than at the hot guy showing affection to an animal.

The effort was in vain.

He stood, pushing his glasses up his nose, and focused on me. “Hi. How are you feeling?”

I gave him a tense smile. “Okay. I slept a lot. Helped myself to some food. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Sorry I was gone for so long. After the meetings, I picked a few things up for you. But if I shopped in town, people would talk, so I went to Bangor.”

He held up the white plastic bags with the red Target logo.

“You went all the way to Bangor?”

“It’s only forty minutes.” He lifted a shoulder. “And I figured you could use some clothes and toiletries and stuff.”

He set the bags down on the coffee table, the plastic rustling, and I peeked inside.

There were a couple of pairs of what looked like black leggings and several T-shirts. An oversized fleece jacket and thick socks and—

Snapping back, I cringed. “You bought underwear for me?”

His cheeks turned the most adorable shade of pink.

Dammit. Why did he have to be so endearing?

“I called Willa. She gave me a list and guessed your sizes. If any of it doesn’t fit, I’ll take it back.” He held his hands up in surrender.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You did good,” I said as I pulled out a set of PJs and a package of tank tops with built-in bras. Under it was a soft cotton bra, as well.

“She said to buy those because they would be easier to put on than a regular bra for now,” he explained.

“Thank you.”

The next bag was filled to the brim with toiletries. Moisturizer, a hairbrush, and a box of tampons.

“Willa gave me a list,” he said. Again. He was careful to avoid eye contact as he explained this time.

I was impressed. I didn’t know many men who willingly bought tampons, especially for a woman he barely knew.

As that thought hit me, so did another. One that knocked the wind out of me.

I was alone.

And I was helpless. Forced to rely on the kindness of strangers. Unable to care for myself and failing at my one mission.

I couldn’t hold back the tears. Head bowed, clinging to the package of underwear, I gave into them.

One after another, they dripped onto the plastic still in my lap, plopping audibly. I was trying to sniff them back, determined to wipe them away, when Jude appeared at my side.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “If I fucked up, I’m so sorry. I’ll go back tomorrow.”

“No.” I shook my head and instantly regretted it when a sharp pain shot through my shoulder and down my arm. “No,” I whispered. “I’m grateful, I promise. This is too kind. It’s too much.”

“Mila, no.” He tentatively rested a hand on my back. “It’s only a couple of things from Target. That’s all.”

“But I’m such a failure,” I cried, cupping my face with my good hand. “Look at me. I can’t even shake my head. I’m literally hiding out in your house, and I’ve got dried blood and rotting leaves in my hair. I’ve fucked up so badly.”

“You haven’t fucked up,” he urged, scooting a fraction closer. “You’re hurt. And while I don’t know what you’ve been up to for the past year, I have a feeling that if you filled me in, I’d be impressed by your bravery and annoyed by your recklessness.”

Sniffling, I staunchly avoided his eye. I didn’t usually subscribe to defeatist tendencies. In fact, I’d been accused of being overconfident on many occasions. But at this moment, every aspect of my life was crumbling. I’d backed myself into a corner, and the hot guy giving me pitying looks was not helping me regain my composure.

“How can I help right now?” He sat back, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his forearm muscles bulging and a deep kindness in his eyes. There was no use fighting it. I needed his help.

Closing my eyes, I sighed. “For now, I just want a shower. I feel so gross.”

He nodded. “I’ll get towels. Redid the shower last year, installed a rainhead and the works. The water pressure is excellent.”

I gave him a faint smile, my vision still blurred with tears. “Good water pressure is underrated.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” He stood and offered his hand.

Too tired to fight the urge to handle everything myself, I took it and let him help me up.

“Thank you,” I whispered as I found my balance.

He swiped the rough pad of his thumb across my cheek, wiping away a tear. “Anytime, Trouble.”

I’d visited the bathroom a couple of times today. Like the rest of the house, it was clean. The walls of the shower were white subway tile, and the space was separated from the rest of the room by one of those fancy glass doors instead of a shower curtain.

He hung giant white towels on the rack and set my new clothes on the vanity, then turned, hands in his pockets. “Anything else you need?”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Can you help me get the sling off?”

Slowly, he removed it, the screech of the Velcro deafening in the small room.

While he worked, I assessed the shower. It was beautiful. Had he tiled it himself? He mentioned a few times that he’d done a lot of the work on this house.

He eased the sling down carefully, being sure not to jostle my arm. It had been hours since I’d taken the painkillers, but I wasn’t feeling all that much pain yet.

Once he’d set the sling on the counter, he turned back to me. “I’ll pull the T-shirt over your head and right arm first, and then we’ll ease it down the left, okay?”

I nodded as my face flamed with embarrassment. As badly as I wanted to shoo him out, I’d been lying to myself when I thought I could do this on my own.

At least it was only a shirt.

It wasn’t until he’d gotten it off and had dropped it to the floor that I recognized the flaw in my plan.

Eyes squeezed shut, I whispered, “Can you unhook my bra?” Without waiting for him to answer, I turned and faced the wall. Cradling my left arm over my bra-clad breasts, I fought back tears again.

This overwhelming need for modesty was unwelcome. He had, after all, already seen me naked.

“I can do the rest,” I said when he’d undone the clasp, keeping my back to him.

“I’ll wait outside. yell if you need me.”

I grimaced. I’d be fine,and even if I wasn’t, the last thing I’d do was ask for his help. When the door clicked shut behind me, I let my bra straps slide down my shoulders. The fabric was gray with sweat and dirt. There was no saving it after what I’d been through. So I picked it up with my toes and deposited it in the trash.

I pushed the sweats down and shimmied out of them, then stepped into the shower.

He wasn’t wrong about the water pressure. The way the water pelted my back was incredible. I tilted my head up and let the water cascade down my face. Every inch of my being hurt, but the sensation of clean water running over me made going through the motions of bathing worth it.

With my bad arm clutched to my chest, I reached for the body wash, desperate to scrub away the grime and dirt. But as my fingers brushed the bottle, it slipped off the shelf and crashed to the floor. I bent over, grasping for it, but as I did, my injured arm bumped the wall. White-hot pain shot through me, and I was hit with a wave of dizziness. I threw my good hand out, steadying myself on the wall, and hung my head.

God, I couldn’t even wash myself. This was so pathetic.

I thought a nice hot shower and a good night’s sleep would be enough to allow me to keep going. But I was so far away from fixing this.

Without my permission, tears sprang to my eyes again. Because of pain, because of humiliation, and because of defeat.

Doing anything more than existing felt impossible.

The door creaked open, adding insult to injury. “Are you okay?”

I wanted to say yes. I wanted him to go. But I was mid-sob, so when I tried to speak, a hiccup escaped me, followed quickly by a wail.

The door shut, and when he spoke, his voice was closer. “Are you hurt?”

I forced my head up, noticing then that he was standing only a foot or two away from the steamed-up glass of the shower door.

“I’m fine,” I said, still crying.

“Can I help you?”

Unable to form a response, I leaned against the wall and gave in to the sobs racking through my body.

When the door swung open, I was too defeated to even try to shield my nakedness.

Jude was all business, methodically removing his glasses and placing them on the vanity, then pulling off his T-shirt and shucking his jeans. He tossed his clothes into the hamper, and then he was standing on the bathmat in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.

My heart lodged itself into my already clogged throat. “What are you doing?”

He stepped inside the shower, careful not to bump into me. “I’m helping. But if you want me to go, I will.”

I turned away, hiding myself from him. I wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing: my nudity or my pathetic sobs.

“Don’t go,” I said. “I can’t wash my hair, and I dropped the body wash. My stupid arm hurts too badly to even move.”

“I can help. I’m going to touch you, okay? I’ll start with shampooing your hair.”

Still facing away from him, I nodded.

With a touch gentler than a man his size should be capable of, he scraped my hair back, ensuring all the strands were wet. Then he squirted shampoo into his cupped palm. Its honey lemon scent hit me before his fingers were massaging my scalp. This was my shampoo. I couldn’t move to check the label, but I’d know that scent anywhere.

He moved in gentle circles, sending a cascade of bubbles down my neck. Eyes closed, I leaned into the sensation, hints of tension oozing from my body and swirling down the drain with the suds. I bit my lip to hold back a sigh. The last thing I needed was to add weird moans between my sobs.

He rinsed the shampoo out and picked up another bottle.

“Conditioner?”

“Yes.”

He worked that in next, taking his time, then carefully rinsing. I shouldn’t be surprised. From the moment I met him at the dojo, I’d seen the gentle-giant nature he possessed. I’d seen those fingers work the strings of his guitar. I’d felt them work me over as well. I knew what they were capable of.

“Can I bend down and get the body wash?” he asked gently.

“Yes, please.”

“Would you like me to help with the dirt and iodine on your skin?”

No. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want him scrubbing every inch of me. I didn’t want to turn around and give him a full-frontal view of my unkempt bikini line and sad, deflated breasts. I wanted a time machine to magically appear so I could jump into it and go back to a time before I stepped into this shower. Before I woke to the pounding on my door. Before the day my brother was assaulted.

But want had nothing to do with it. I needed his help. “Okay.”

He leaned over and picked the bottle up, his arm brushing the curve of my ass.

Once he’d dangled the body wash over my shoulder and I’d snatched it from him, he stepped back. The shower door opened, and I was hit with a wave of cool air. Then he was back with a washcloth.

He knelt next to me, gently washing my legs, which were no doubt caked with dirt and grime. He cleaned around my cuts and bandages and worked his way up to my back. The lemon scent that had faded after he’d rinsed the conditioner from my hair returned even stronger this time.

“Do you want to turn around?” His deep voice echoed off the tile walls.

I wanted to say no, but while I’d stood here, mortified, I’d discovered how badly my ribcage and arm were bruised. There was no way I could get rid of all the grime on my own, and the mottled bruising ensured there was nothing sexual about this.

“It’s okay. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” He let out a deep chuckle.

Unable to hold back a grin, I turned slowly. As much as I dreaded showing him how much I’d changed in the months since my brother had been hurt, I was more afraid of seeing him. All the muscles and chest hair with a few small tattoos. If memory served, Jude was a delicious specimen of a man who was very, very hard to resist.

I kept my chin tucked and focused on my breathing while he washed the iodine off the areas on my knees that Willa had treated.

Like a true gentleman, he remained focused on the task at hand, keeping his gaze where it should be, and treating my skin as if it were precious to him. When the washcloth swept over the purple bruise on my thigh, my knees buckled and the air whooshed out of my lungs.

He grasped my other thigh, looking up on instinct, and I put my good hand on his shoulder to steady myself.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he said, his eyes shifting back to the floor.

He made his way up over my hip to my stomach and moved very gently over my ribs.

As he worked there, I focused on the suds pooling at the bottom of the shower and keeping steady. It had been difficult to breathe before, but now, even the shallowest of breaths was excruciating. My heart pounded in my ears as he made his way up, avoiding my breasts and moving to my good arm.

He stood and carefully grasped my hand, scrubbing the dirt from my nails. My muscles locked up at his proximity. Suddenly, all I could sense was his body and the steam rising around us. The pain in my shoulder dulled, but the rest of me throbbed. Every nerve ending lit up, sensing each fiber of that washcloth.

I closed my eyes as he stepped closer and rinsed off my collarbone.

“You okay?”

The words rumbled through me. His chest was so damn close to mine.

My body desperately wanted to close the gap between us, to wrap my good arm around his waist. No one had ever cared for me like this. No man had ever touched me as if I was delicate, precious.

While this encounter had started as a nightmare, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to end.

Eventually, though, he reached around me, careful not to let his body touch mine, and turned off the water.

“Gimme one sec.”

He hopped out and closed the door behind him, trapping the steam inside with me. With one of the fluffy white towels he’d hung up, he dried himself off. The glass door was foggy, but before he secured the terry cloth around his waist, I was pretty sure I saw a large bulge in the front of those boxer briefs.

I was so entranced by the idea that when he pulled the door open, I startled.

Though he’d definitely noticed, he didn’t mention it as he wrapped the second towel around my shoulders and guided me out.

“Stand right there.” He slid his glasses on and raked a hand through his hair, then stepped in close again.

Just as he’d washed me, he carefully dried me off. Once again, when he brushed the towel over the stubble on my legs, mortification swamped me.

Unbothered by any of it, he stepped back and tore into the package of cotton bikini briefs, then held out a blue pair.

I steadied myself on his shoulder as I stepped into them, my whole body heating, and not in a good way.

The stretchy cotton bra clasped in the front. I was sure I had Willa to thank for that detail. He took it off its little plastic hanger, then threaded my bad arm through it. After he’d guided it back to my chest, his touch featherlight, he walked around me, trailing his fingers across my back. Once my good arm had also been guided through and he was working the clasp between my breasts, his focus intent on my chest, my feelings toward Willa and her thoughtfulness soured a little.

I let out a little squeak as the clasp snapped, more from embarrassment and his proximity than anything else.

His head snapped up. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to ignore the sensation of the pads of his fingers on my ribs.

“Do you want me to brush your hair?” Without waiting for a response, he guided me to sit on the toilet and draped a dry towel over my shoulders. Gingerly, he separated my hair into sections and worked a wide-tooth comb through it. He secured it with a hair tie, creating a stubby ponytail at my nape.

“Time to put the sling back on. You ready?”

With a nod, I stood. From this angle, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was in nothing but my underwear, and his chest was bare. Eyes closed, I forced the image from my mind.

After helping me into my pajamas, he slid the sling on, adjusting it like Willa had shown us and fastening the Velcro.

“That feel right?”

“Yes,” I said, sighing as I let my arm relax into its cradle.

The pain was returning quickly, making my legs weak and my head pound.

“Thank you,” I said as we exited the bathroom and my common sense started to return. “I owe you so much after all of this.”

He pulled up short and rounded on me, his eyes narrowing.

“You owe me nothing. You’re my guest and my friend. I’ll always help you.”

The sharpness of his tone was so uncharacteristic for the man I’d met a handful of times. It was enough to have me teasing, in hopes of lightening the mood.

“But you didn’t invite me,” I said. “I crashed your pizza party.”

“I have a feeling that’s what you do, Trouble.” He rested a hand at the small of my back and guided me toward the living room. “This isn’t the first time you’ve crashed into my life and shaken things up.”