“All done?”
He nodded and they walked out together into the sunshine. She’d already hooked the trailer back up, and the rig—as he had now learned to call it—was waiting for them just around the corner, parked across four spots. He leaned on the side of the truck, closing his eyes for a moment. He was tired; this was a lot to take in.
“Coffee?” Liz asked as she jingled her keys, and he opened his eyes, turning his head to her.
“God, yes,” he muttered.
She smiled, and again he wondered what she would feel like slid up against him, because it softened her, and it put ideas into his head of what she’d look like when he was taking off the sundress after dinner.
Chapter Ten
“This is the best coffee I have had since I got here.”
Liz put her mug down and shook her head. “It’s just diner coffee. But, yeah, this is the best in town. We don’t have a Tim Hortons in Brightside yet. One’s comin’, apparently, out on the highway.”
“Am I able to buy beans at the local grocery store?” he asked, and drained his mug, a sigh escaping him as he did.
“What for?” she asked, curious.
“In that mess of boxes is my Breville coffee maker. My friend sent me everything, even the furniture I put into storage when I sold my condo. I think he misunderstood what I meant,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. “I just spent six hundred dollars to bring my entire life here, by express courier.”
Liz blinked. That was a generous friend, because six hundred dollars was more than her grocery bill for a month.
“That is . . . wow,” she said, deciding to ignore the price tag for a moment. “We can set yours up, I suppose. We have a great one in the kitchen at the big house. Mom loves it, and there’s a grinder at the store.”
“Mine grinds the beans fresh, does espresso, has a milk steamer and all that,” he replied sheepishly. “A little fancier than your mom’s carafe brewer. It’s called the Oracle.”
“The Oracle,” Liz repeated. That sounded exactly like something a top chef would own. But if it did espresso, her mother was going to be over the moon. That old Cuisinart would be as good as gone when she found out. Her mom loved fancy coffees.
She remembered when they had done a day trip into the city and had stopped for a coffee at the café in the mall. Liz had hated hers—it tasted burnt—but her mother had been in ecstasy, her frouffy, whipped cream–covered drink wafting caramel and calories as she sipped.
“My mom will love that. Once you set it up and teach her how to use it, it won’t be yours anymore,” she said, chuckling.
“I like your mom. She has fire in her.” Jake laughed as well. “When did she find out about her arthritis?”
Liz frowned. That word. For a long time it had dampened her mom’s spirit. Thank god for Brett and his health plan, but now . . .
“About five years ago. She was in pain, had swollen joints, it would come and go. There were days she couldn’t eat and the dizziness would incapacitate her. We took her into the doctor and after a whole set of tests, they told her it was rheumatoid arthritis. Nothing really you can do. She has these strong prescription painkillers, but she says they hurt her stomach, so often she just sleeps through a flare-up.”
“Did you look into her diet?” Jake asked, picking up the saltshaker on the table and turning it absently.
“Not really. I mean, food is food, right?” she replied.
She watched his hands. They were strong but had none of the weathered creases and callouses most men she knew had by the time they were in their thirties. Despite the conversation topic, her mind wandered to what they would feel like running over skin, the palms smooth instead of rough. She took a sip of coffee to ward off that particular line of thought. Where had that come from?
“Well, let me dig up some info online about inflammation and trigger foods. I think if your mom adjusts her diet, she might have flare-ups less frequently. One of my patrons in my last restaurant, he had lupus, and he and I used to have long conversations about his diet and how he effectively shut the disease down by avoiding certain food. I’d make up special dishes for him to try based on that. He said it helped.”
He was being way too nice. Liz narrowed her eyes. “Why?” she asked, suddenly annoyed both at herself for doubting him and because he seemed to be too good to be true. “Why are you so nice to us and helping us when—”
Jake straightened, looking her in the eye. It was one thing to be ungrateful, she realized, but another to voice it.
“Liz, I know you should resent me,” he said quietly, and folded his hands in front of his mug. “You don’t know me. I’m a stranger. I don’t belong here, and I’ll be gone when you get this all sorted out.”
Liz kept her eyes on his hands, not his face, because she didn’t want to see how her very personal question had affected him. “In your shoes, I would be so pissed off at everyone. I’m betting your temper can match Tanner’s, and you’ve been so tolerant, and helpful, and really great.”
She dared look up as hehmmed under his breath, and set her coffee cup aside. Their eyes met again. She could see sadness in them. He had a life story she didn’t know, apart from the snippets he had given out over the past couple of days. She wondered how hard it had been for him. How differently from his brothers he had grown up. She understood growing up without a dad, but he never even got a chance, leaving here when he was so young. She had a father she’d known, even if he was terrible.
“I can’t be mad at anyone, really. It isn’t Tanner’s fault or Brady’s. I can’t blame your mom, or you, even. My . . . Brett’s decision to mess around with the lives of his children wasn’t your doing.”
