It was something. Or at least, Jake wanted to hope it was something—that small attempt at a smile. If that was what it had indeed been.
Another rush of emotion shuddered through him, and he sucked in a breath as quietly as he could. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to see the man smile. Somehow, he just knew it would be brilliant.
He took another breath to steady himself and then cleared his throat softly. The man’s eyes darted back up to Jake’s for just a second. Deep blue-and-grayirises framed by long, dark lashes. Stormy and intense. Like the tempest that had brought the man to Jake’s beach.
He wished he could be more reassuring or helpful or... something. He wished he could take away whatever it was that was hiding there in the man’s eyes. But he didn’t know what he could do any differently. He didn’t know what the man needed.
God, he still didn’t even know the man’s name.
“Do you want some more?” Jake asked gently, because that was one thing hecoulddo. He could feed the man, give him a warm place to stay. Make sure he was safe.
It seemed to take a moment for Jake’s words to register, but then, the man’s expression shifted from unease to something else entirely. He bit at his lower lip and held Jake’s gaze for another second or two. His hands shifted up to the edge of the table, and he gripped it for just a moment as he glanced back down at his plate.
Jake thought maybe the man was about to say yes. He looked right on the verge of it. But instead, he frowned and closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.
And the dull tug at Jake’s heart—all that pent-up emotion he’d been feeling so strongly—turned a little sharper.
“That’s okay,” he said, and he carefully pushed his chair back, set his hands on the table to help himself, and stood. The move shifted his attention away from whatever he’d been feeling, and for several seconds, all he could do was stand there, leaning heavily on the table, with his eyes screwed shut and his jaw clenched tightly.
God, he hurt. He still hurt. So much.
When the immediate pain from standing up faded just enough, he let out the breath he’d been holding and opened his eyes. His hand was shaking—even just gripping the table, he could feel it. Ten feet. It was less than ten feet from the table to the counter. In fact, maybe it was just five feet. He could do that. He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth.
“I, uh, I’ve got plenty of food, you know.” With his shaking hand, he set his now-empty mug on top of his plate and then lifted the dishes. He kept talking, just as a distraction for himself. And maybe it worked. “Some of it’s in the deep freezer in the garage, and so if we’re stuck here for another few days, I might have to go thaw something. I’ve got a few casseroles from Kris. And more cookies. We could always use more cookies, right? I’ve got a lot of those, too.”
He managed to cross slowly to the other side of the table, stack his plate on top of the man’s empty plate, and then hobble the few steps over to the counter as he spoke. And he tried to keep his voice even and level.
Maybe he’d sort of succeeded, because the man didn’t really seem to shrink away from him this time, although he could have just missed it. The pain was distracting. More distracting than his talking. By the time he reached the counter, he was huffing.
“My sister sends them—the cookies. But I told you that already, didn’t I?” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a groan instead. Quickly, before heactuallydropped something again, he set the plates and his mug in the sink. They clattered down into place, but nothing broke, and he moved both hands to grip the counter, supporting himself.
Dammit.
The urge to growl in frustration was strong, but when he looked up at the man, a pang of worry drowned out all that frustration, and he forced another small smile.
“I’m sorry. My damn leg is acting up, and—”
The man flinched. Hard. His chair scraped the ground as he pushed away from the table and then seemed to scramble backwards, not really seeing where he was going. He reached the couch, crawl-stumbled around to the other side, and then sort of... hid. Shaking. His eyes wide and fearful.
Dammit again.
Jake didn’t move for a count of five. Then another count of five. And when he finally did move, it was slow and careful, and he had to mentally school his expression and control his breathing.
Had it been the curse? It had to have been.
The man had closed his eyes, and there were more tears on his cheeks. And he was breathing hard, and when Jake got closer—still with the table and couch between them, though—the man let out some sort of strangled whimper that tore right through Jake’s chest.
“God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m not going to hurt you...”
What the hell else could he say? This man had no reason to trust him. Jake was a stranger, and something was obviously very, very wrong. Or... somethinghadbeen very, very wrong.
He limped slowly around the table, holding onto the backs of the chairs as he went. Then, very much against his better judgment—and the voice of his sister echoing in his head—he shuffled the one step from the table to the couch, grabbed onto the armrest for support, and lowered himself down to the ground so he was on the man’s level.
He held back a grunt as he settled next to the couch, his bad leg stretched out in front of him and the other leg bent up slightly.
Fuck, it hurt. But he didn’t see any other way.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated quietly. The man shook his head and curled up a bit more, shrinking away. Trembling. Jake’s heart hurt for him.
