Chapter Five
Zee was pondering breakfast when a tap on the inner door made her pull her head out of the fridge and close the door. She hoped it was her brother. But even if it wasn’t, she was going to stay on this even keel. No matter what.
“Come on in,” she called out, glad she’d gotten dressed after her shower instead of lolling around in her bathrobe.
The door was pulled open.
Jamie.
Barefoot, hair tousled from sleep—True had practically dumped him on the guest bed when they’d gotten here, and from what he’d said this morning he hadn’t stirred once—jaw stubbled, and wearing only jeans and a white T-shirt, she was sure the readers of that damned magazine would faint away at the sight of him. With his hair streaked even blonder from the California sun, the visible strip of taut, flat belly above the low-slung jeans, and those green eyes that looked not quite so bad this morning, it was easy to see why he was the guy who’d won that award.
Not that she hadn’t already known. Intimately.
But somehow she took no satisfaction in being the one who’d known exactly how sexy he was first.
She shook off the images that thought sent through her mind. Schooled her voice to pleasantness.
“Feeling better?”
He jammed a hand through his hair, shoving the tangle back off his face. Funny, his hair was actually longer than hers now, the sandy blond strands brushing his collar while her dark wisps bared her neck.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Sleep is a wondrous thing.”
“I’d almost forgotten.”
Like you’ve forgotten—Stop it!
“You needed it. You were looking a bit too zombielike. Breakfast?”
“If it’s not brains.”
“In that case I’ll put them back in the fridge,” she said without missing a beat. And he smiled. Not quite a grin, but nearly as devastating.
“You’re as quick as ever,” he said.
She smiled back, proud that she was able to. But his expression faded, as if it had been a fragile, fleeting thing he couldn’t maintain. And once more that feeling came flooding back, that there was more wrong than she—than maybe anyone knew.
She poured him coffee, noted he still drank it black. She fixed eggs without asking how he liked them, because she knew. He smiled again when she set them before him on the bar where he’d sat down to watch her. But again it was fleeting, almost as if it were autonomic, something his muscles did without thought, and once thought intervened it faded.
“Thanks.”
“I assumed they didn’t fix them some exotic way in L.A. that you like better than scrambled with cheese.” His gaze flicked to her face. She made sure she was smiling; it truly had been teasing, not a jab.
“No,” he said, but the single syllable sounded as if he weren’t convinced. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. She’d been sniping at him for a long time. He took a couple of bites. “They’re as good as I remember.”
“Been eating about as well as you’ve been sleeping?” she asked after he’d quickly worked his way through the plate of eggs and two slices of bacon she’d added.
“No appetite,” he admitted.
“For how long?”
His glance was sharper this time, as if she’d surprised him. After a moment he said, sounding reluctant, “A while.”
So she’d been right. There was more going on here.
“Sorry about your friend, but I’m really glad the initial media reports were wrong.”
He blinked. “What?”
“About it being you.”
“Oh.”
She watched him, her brow still furrowed, because something had come into his expression then that she didn’t like much. As if he’d suddenly understood something, and the knowledge stung. “What’s wrong? Besides the obvious, I mean.”
He put down his fork. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
“I offered. And someone clearly needs to. You’re too thin.”
He shrugged. Got up, carried his plate, fork and mug into the kitchen and put them into the dishwasher. He hadn’t gotten completely used to people picking up after him, apparently.
Then he turned to look at her. “I only came over to…say thank you.”
“Thank you for what?” She didn’t like the suddenly formal edge that had come into his voice.
“For…letting me come home.”
“Not like I’m in charge.”
All the old feelings had bubbled up in her at his use of the word home. All the “If you really meant its” that had peopled her mind since the moment she’d realized he had no intention of ever coming back. That she could even think that now, when he was so clearly hurting, told her rather painfully she’d let those feelings get way out of control. She was afraid they would break loose now, when she didn’t want them to, and so she rather abruptly changed the subject.
“I assume my brother’s off to Declan’s place?”
After a moment he nodded. “Final touches, he said. And Hope is at the rescue.” He paused, an odd expression coming over his face. “They seem…genuinely, truly happy together.”
“Bone-deep,” she said, meaning it. “She’s the best thing that could have happened to him.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I know you and Amanda were close.”
“I love my brother. Hope is good for him.”
“So you don’t feel like she’s come between you?”
She frowned.
“I only meant that…it always seemed you were determined to be an unbreakable unit. Like you were determined to take care of him the way he came home and took care of you.”
“I was. But she’s made him happier than I ever thought I’d see him again. I would never begrudge him that.”
“She’s a gutsy woman. She was amazing at that trial.”
“Yes. I admire her for that.”
And how much of that admiration was for doing something Zee herself couldn’t seem to do—put the past behind her—she didn’t really want to admit. So her tone was rather brisk as she cleared the last of the cooking debris.
“What’s your plan?”
“I…hadn’t thought much beyond just getting here.”
She stared at him. Jamie always had a plan. From his tree house to his career path, he always had a plan.
There was definitely more wrong here. But whatever it was, he was obviously still reeling too much to deal with it right now.
“Maybe you should go back to bed for a while.”
Something flickered in his eyes, something not quite hot behind the green, but it was only a flicker and quickly faded. She knew what it once would have meant, how he once would have interpreted that as an invitation to her bed, and been right. That old longing stirred, tried to rise, and she quashed it firmly. He’d come home, yes, but for all the wrong reasons, and she’d do well to remember that.