Page 20 of Into These Eyes

Jamie

L ight bleeds through my eyelids, but I don’t move. I get the feeling that’ll cause a great deal of pain. I can’t remember why, but I trust my instincts. Instead, I crack open my crusty eyes.

And immediately close them again. Clearly, I’m not awake at all because I’m having a vivid dream about Gavin Lake. I suppose it makes sense after the emotional visit with him yesterday, but why I’m dreaming about him asleep in my grandfather’s wing-back chair, I can’t comprehend.

Well, maybe a part of me does. The man I met yesterday wasn’t the ugly, violent monster I’ve always believed him to be. He was … what? Gentle and considerate, and definitely not ugly.

Ugh. That’s not what I should be thinking about. Frowning, I realise I must be awake to be thinking at all. Especially since my head’s throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

Prying my eyes open to mere slits, my pulse quickens, doubling the thumping pain in my head. He’s still there, his back propped into one corner of the chair, the side of his face resting against the wing. Opening my eyes a little wider, I stare at him. What’s he doing here? In my bedroom?

I remain motionless as my brain ticks over, slowly accepting the reality that he’s obviously been here all night.

The first thing I notice is that I’m not afraid of his presence, just curious as to why he’s here at all.

The second thing is how peaceful he looks with his facial muscles relaxed, one leg hanging over the chair’s arm, the other sticking straight out, a hand resting on his stomach.

Glancing down at myself, I discover I’m on top of my comforter, a throw rug draped over me, and best of all, I’m still in my dress.

Dress? Why am I wearing a—

Oh, shit . I close my eyes and let out a soft groan as I remember heading out to the club. Though I can’t remember what any of that has to do with Gavin Lake’s presence in my home.

When I shift my gaze to him again, he’s watching me with hooded eyes as tired as mine feel. I try to sit up, and instantly crash back to my pillow, my head about to explode. Closing my eyes, I take long, deep breaths while I wait for the pain to subside.

After a moment, something cool and damp touches my forehead. My eyes fly open and meet his. He’s standing over me, his face full of concern as he presses a washcloth to my brow.

“I hope I didn’t scare you,” he says, his voice gravelly with sleep, yet so gentle.

Swallowing, trying to get my thick, dry tongue to work, I croak out, “What … why are you here?”

He gives me a lopsided grin as he turns the washcloth over, letting the cooler side rest on my skin. “You called me last night. Well, you got the bartender to.”

“Oh, God. I did?” I whimper.

“Yeah. Good decision by the way.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

“I think that was your plan.”

I swallow again and close my eyes, trying to block out reality. The reality of what I did last night and the reality of why I did it.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, still using that gentle tone. For which my pounding head is eternally grateful.

“Like someone filled my mouth with kitty litter, waited until it absorbed every molecule of moisture, then bludgeoned me over the head.”

He chuckles lightly. “That’s one way to put it.”

My eyes snap open. I want to see that smile. Jesus. How can he look so good after sleeping in a chair all night?

“I have your Panadol, but ibuprofen might be better for your headache if you have any.”

“Kitchen cupboard above the microwave,” I mumble.

When he leaves the room, I try to sit up, but my head protests so much, I ease back onto the pillow again. Thank God I don’t need to pee, because I have no idea how I’d make it to the bathroom.

Before I know it, he’s back with a bottle of pills and a glass of water. I groan, place the back of my hand on the washcloth and try not to think about how I’ll get those pills down my throat.

“You’ll have to sit up, Jamie.”

“Don't … think I can,” I whimper, disgusted with myself.

The mattress dips at my waist as he sits beside me, and when he leans in closer and closer, my heart stutters. Yet I don’t feel afraid or anxious. I’m … curious.

But my curiosity quickly gives way to realisation when he reaches under my armpit and splays his warm hand between my shoulder blades. With such care and tenderness it brings tears to my eyes, he eases me upright.

The new position has my head pounding in protest. Then I feel his thumb at the nape of my neck, making slow, calming circles on my bare skin, just the way he’d done when he held me in his caravan.

And it’s working. Again. How I’d longed for someone to take care of me like this on the rare occasions I’d been sick.

But after my mother died, I became the caregiver, never the recipient.

He holds up the bottle of ibuprofen and I turn my palm up, waiting while he tips out three pills.

I pop them in my mouth, and he leans even closer as he reaches for the glass of water on my nightstand.

God, he smells so damn good … and familiar.

Before I can comprehend why, he encourages me to pop the pills in my mouth, then offers me the glass.

After swallowing them down, I relax my muscles, but he keeps me upright.

“More,” he says, indicating the water with a nod, his thumb still making those lovely circles.

I take careful sips, acknowledging how wonderful that cool liquid feels gliding down my dry throat.

When he tries to take the glass from me, I raise it to my lips again, unsure if I’m drinking because I need more, or because I don’t want him to move.

Either way, I don’t have a choice once the glass is empty.

He takes it and carefully guides me down to the pillow, our faces closer than ever.

That’s when I realise the state of my breath must be beyond vile.

Horrified, I slap a hand over my mouth and twist my head away.

He chuckles, extracts his arm from behind my back and stands.

“I’ll leave whenever you say the word, but I’d like to get you fed, if that’s okay.”

I groan. “I can’t even think about food.”

His faced drops with disappointment. “You want me to go?”

“No, I …” I cover my face with my hands. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can decide on anything right now.”

“Then don’t. Let me make the decisions.”

I peer at him through my fingers. Not having to decide on anything sounds like heaven right now. I’m so tired of being responsible for others, even myself. “That depends on what you have in mind.”

“You should rest until the ibuprofen takes effect. Then, when you’re ready, I’ll make breakfast. I know you don’t want anything right now, but you’ll feel a lot better once you eat. How does that sound?”

“That sounds … perfect,” I mumble as I let my eyes drift shut.

When I open them again, it’s only due to my bladder screaming for release. I glance at the clock. Almost midday. I’ve haven’t slept past 7am since my mother died. Since my father murdered her.

Pushing the thought away, I ease up until I’m sitting. This time, I only feel a slight ache in my head. Grateful, I slide my legs over the side of the bed and wait a few moments. As I do, the faint sound of the TV drifts in from the living room. He’s still here, then. Waiting for me.

The thought gives me a sense of comfort and warmth. He seems to have a natural, nurturing demeanour I apparently crave.

Brushing aside the thought, I rise and cross the room to my ensuite. Halfway there, I notice something doesn’t feel quite right. It’s not until I turn my back to the toilet, slide my hands beneath my dress, and try to pull down my undies, that I realise I’m not wearing any.

Mind reeling, I lower myself to the seat. As I pee, I soon discover they’re not missing at all. They’re on the floor, over by the shower screen. How the hell did they get there? Had I taken them off? Had Gavin? Oh, God. What the fuck had I done last night?

Some vague, wobbly memories of Gavin being in here with me break through, but none explain my discarded undies.

I guess he can explain what happened, but I’m not sure I want to know how badly I’ve humiliated myself in front of him.

I’ve gone from smug superiority and hatred of the man to feeling like I’m a mess he should be running from. Yet, he’s still here in my house, willing to take care of me.

As I clean my teeth and wash my face, I decide the real reason he hasn’t fled probably has more to do with avoiding that depressing caravan than me. Who can blame him? Why not soak up some ducted air-conditioning and the space a normal home provides?

When I look at myself in the mirror, I notice the messy plait draped over my shoulder.

The image of Gavin standing behind me slams into my brain.

His concentration and the deliriously amazing feel of his gentle tugs on my hair as he braided it.

How many more little kindnesses had he afforded me last night?

Back in my room, I clumsily slide on clean undies, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. After taking a deep breath, I head down the hallway toward the living area.

Gavin quickly rises from the couch when he hears me.

“Take a seat,” he says, indicating the breakfast bar while he makes his way into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Feeling any better?”

I nod as he slides a plate of orange wedges over to me. They’re not cut into quarters, but eighths. My mouth instantly waters.

He tells me to take it slow as I pick up a wedge and suck the sweet juice into my mouth.

I try to, but each slice seems to taste better than the one that came before.

After popping a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, he leans on the kitchen side of the breakfast bar and takes an orange slice for himself.

I watch as he licks the juice from his lips and smiles.

“Good?” he asks.

My eyes snap to his, jolting me out of thoughts of how delicious that mouth of his would taste. “Yeah, really good. Thank you.”