In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of Jameson and two glasses from the cupboard. When I return, I find him sitting on the couch on top of the towel.
“So,” he says as I pour each of us at least three fingers. “You’re afraid of storms, huh?”
I hand him a glass and sit at the opposite end of the couch, tucking a leg underneath me. “No. Just thunder.” I take a sip, welcoming the burn. “Thanks for coming to check on me.”
“No problem.”
We sit in silence for a moment, sipping our drinks as the storm rages outside. Another flash of lightning illuminates the room, and I twitch, bracing myself for the thunder that follows.
“So what made you decide to move to Lakeside?” he asks, breaking the silence. “Besides Noia and setting up another Summit Studio, I mean.”
Swirling the amber liquid in my glass, I contemplate my answer. “Honestly? I just needed a change. Portland was starting to feel... suffocating. Too many memories, you know? And, I’ve always loved small towns. There’s something about knowing your neighbors and being part of a community that appeals to me.”
“Even if one of those neighbors happens to be me?” he teases, a half-smile playing at his lips.
I snort out a laugh. “We’ll see.”
Jax shifts in his seat with a wince and reaches down to rub his knee.
“What’s wrong?” Before I can stop myself, I’m sitting next to him on the couch.
He shrugs. “Just an old injury that acts up anytime a storm rolls in.”
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine,” he growls.
Setting my glass down on the coffee table, I move to kneel in front of him. “I studied sports medicine in college,” I say, gently pushing his hand away. “May I?”
He hesitates, then nods. Stretching out his leg, he rests his bare foot on the coffee table with a huff.
Heat radiates from his skin as I rest my hand on his knee. “Tell me if this hurts.” I begin gently manipulating the joint, pressing my thumbs into specific pressure points.
“Fuck,” he hisses when I hit a particularly tight spot.
“Sorry,” I murmur, easing up slightly. “ACL?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“The scar is pretty distinctive.” I reign in my focus, trying to ignore how intimate this feels. “What happened?”
He stays quiet, and when I look up, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“Baseball, senior year of college,” he finally says. “I was headed for the draft when I blew it out during the championship game.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with a frown. “That must have been devastating.”
“It is what it is.” His voice is tight and I can hear the pain just below the surface. “But I managed to find a new path. Turns out, tattooing was my true calling.”
Feeling him start to relax under my touch, I continue to massage his knee, doing my best to work out the knots.
“That feels amazing,” he murmurs, his head falling back against the couch.
Pleased I can help, I smile. “You still rehabbing it?”
“Not like I should. It mostly acts up when the barometric pressure changes.”
“Hmmm.” I want to scold him for ignoring the aftercare onhis knee, but I let it go. Seems like a sore subject. “So how did you get into tattooing?”
