That was all Jack’s imagination, of course it was. Quickly, to distract himself, Jack asked, “Did you take your pills?”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “I’m doing pretty good with them. Though I’d probably be doing better if I actually did the PT exercises they printed out for me.”
“Exercises?” Jack asked, mumbling around his final and biggest bite of cobbler. Ice cream dribbled from his bottom lip, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “What exercises?”
“The ones I’m not doing.”
“Jeez,” Jack said, but only that.
It wasn’t his place to lecture Morgan about how he should be taking care of himself. Not that Jack had taken care of himself all too well that day, either, marching over to Mabel’s house in the cold.
It honestly hadn’t looked that cold! But his hands had grown numb and then his cheeks as well, no matter how much he’d nuzzled into the thick lining of his hood or pulled the fake fur closer to his face. That had just made his hands even colder. Even his ass was cold by the time he arrived at Mabel’s, and his hands had felt too fragile to knock.
She’d pulled him inside, huffing as she helped him off with his coat and gave him hot tea to drink. She’d scolded him for being so foolish but blamed Morgan the whole while for letting him go out.
Morgan wasn’t the boss of him. Mabel wasn’t either, though it had certainly been nice to have her hovering over him, all grandmotherly and kind, having him put his cup on the table so he could hold Mister Rocket in his lap.
“He’ll warm you right up,” she’d said, reaching out to pet Mister Rocket slowly. “In summer, he’s like a little oven.”
“Thought dogs weren’t supposed to be at the table,” he said, smiling to show he was teasing.
“Never you mind, young man,” she chided, though there was laughter in her eyes. “You’re lucky he likes you, on account of it means you’ll warm up all the faster. Now, let me call Young Tommy to give you a ride home, and I’ll wrap up this pan to take with you.” She stroked Jack’s hair and carded it away from his face. “You finish that tea first. No sense wasting good tea.”
Obediently Jack drank his tea and held Mister Rocket, ignoring the bite of small, well-manicured claws in his thighs, then announced he was okay to walk home.
Though Mabel looked like she wanted to forbid him leaving, he put Mister Rocket on the floor, slipped on Morgan’s thick coat, and stepped back out into the cold, which smacked him in the face before he got off Mabel’s porch. Stoutly, he made it all of a block before his hands were frozen to the metal pan.
“Get in, buddy,” Young Tommy had called through the passenger-side window when the sheriff’s SUV pulled up beside him a few minutes later. “Miss Mabel is none too pleased that you’re out here like this.”
Along the street, at least two front doors opened, heads popping out. There might have been more people than that looking at who Young Tommy was picking up, but Jack didn’t have it in him to check or to refuse Young Tommy’s offer.
It wasn’t an offer, anyway. It was a command, directed by Mabel herself. Besides, Jack was freezing. He was the only one out walking, like some kind of ninny, as the afternoon grew late and the blue-white air turned even colder.
“Yes, sir,” he’d said, and Young Tommy drove him—not home; it wasn’t his home. But it was where Morgan was.
When they’d arrived, Morgan had been angry, his eyes sparking with it. But as Young Tommy had ushered Jack into the store, something changed in Morgan’s expression.
Morgan’s mouth had opened, words ready to pin Jack to the wall. For a silent, still second, it looked like Morgan was about to do just that. Then he’d looked Jack up and down and loaded all the blame onto himself.
I should have planned better,Morgan had said, followed by some excuse about wanting Mabel’s peach cobbler so much that he’d gone on and on about it. Which was why Jack had set out on his foolish errand.
That made three times, now, that Morgan had protected Jack from the sheriff. Which was nice, but Jack still didn’t know what to make of it. Except maybe that Morgan cared for him. Caredabouthim.
Which meant that, as they sat there, finishing their peach cobblers, scraping ice cream from their bowls, Jack getting up to pour them both a little more coffee, the typical domestic way they shared their meals had changed into something very sweet.
“Could you check the pot pies, Jack?” Morgan asked. “Or, no, I can.”
As if to prove he was, in fact, capable, he got up without his cane and headed for the stove. Halfway there, he stumbled, or his knee might have protested the quick movement, and he began to fall forward.
Shoving his bowl to the side, his spoon clattering, Jack was up in an instant. Moving between Morgan and the stove, he caught him and held him upright.
Morgan was bigger than him, and off-balance. His arms came around Jack, and Jack stood fast to steady him. Their bodies’ combined warmth felt good. The contact shot through Jack, satisfying and bright.
Jack took a step back into the oven door, which was warm but wouldn’t burn him. With Morgan in his arms, even for a short moment, he wouldn’t have cared how hot it was.
“Damn it,” Morgan said, closing his eyes tightly, as though to ward off a mortal wound. Then those eyes opened, bright blue and so close. All of him was close. Jack soaked it in.
“You’re all right,” Jack said gently. He shifted, waiting until Morgan was steady on his feet, and then he made himself let go.
