It was all so weird. Could she get used to something like this? Making dinner for a husband and kids while they took care of evening chores? She didn’t know. It was all her parents had ever wanted her to do. She’d said “fuck that” pretty much from the start, but now…yeah, she didn’t know. It would be kind of nice if she could find someone like Jared, who probably wouldn’t be a psycho asshole.
Then again, Ghost had tried to warn her about Max. She hadn’t listened. Now he was trying to warn her about Jared, and yet again she was ignoring his advice, making excuses for why he would feel that way. She was here, in Jared’s house, hell, falling in love with his house.
Had she really needed warning about Max, though? Common sense had dictated not to mess around with him. She hadn’t cared. It was her own advice she hadn’t heeded, really, not anyone else’s. With Jared, there simply weren’t any warning flags yet that she could see. It was nice here. He was nice. The pictures of extended family all around his living room looked nice.
If anyone was throwing up warning flags in this house, it was her.
The thought was sobering. It put her in her place. She tossed the potatoes in a big bowl she’d found and set about peeling them with the peeler she’d located in the first drawer she checked. Everything so well organized. Probably his ex-wife’s doing, and he’d kept up her routine.
And what had the ex-wife been like? She already knew what Macy was like. A freaking rodeo queen. She and Jared had been raised together, childhood sweethearts. Everyone had expected them to get married and have their happy ending, but then Macy had gotten badly injured in a horse riding accident and pushed him away. At least that was what Ghost told Starla once. She couldn’t remember many of the details, because at the time, she hadn’t much cared.
Now she wished she’d paid attention. What a small world.
As Starla picked up a knife to start chopping, the back door opened to the trill of indistinctly complaining little-girl voices and Jared’s exasperated reply. Their voices came nearer, and finally she could make out what the girls were upset about.
“…so pretty, though. I want pink.”
“I want purple.”
Oh no. Her hair. Chuckling, Starla continued her task, straining her ears for their dad’s reply.
“Go wash your hands.” His tone brooked no argument. The girls marched through the living room and down the hallway, ponytails swishing with their angry steps.
“Sorry,” she mouthed at Jared as he came into the kitchen. He grinned at her, shaking his head.
“Don’t worry about it. They get a thought in their head, and there’s no stopping them.”
“It’s just a suggestion, but I have some hair chalk. Not with me, but it’s pretty good, and it washes right out. They might think it’s fun, anyway, if you wanted to let them try it.”
“That might be all right, I guess.”
“Really? I can bring it…” She trailed off, aghast. She’d almost said next time. As if there would be one. They didn’t even know how well this time was going to go. “I can bring it by to them sometime, and they can have a ball coloring each other’s hair.”
“I’m sure they’d love that. Dinner smells great, by the way.”
“Thanks.” She glanced around at the stainless-steel appliances, dark cherry cabinets, and granite countertops. Acres and acres of countertops. “I’m in love with your kitchen. So much better than the little cubby we have at my house.”
“Well, you know…” His mouth lifted in a sheepish grin, and some cold corner of her heart began a slow thaw. “Feel free to come by and put it to use anytime.”
As she held that endlessly blue gaze, a slice of pain ripped up her finger, and the knife clattered to the counter. “Shit!” Immediately, she brought her uninjured hand to her mouth as the word practically echoed through the house and several more crowded for release behind her lips.
Jared was around the counter and leading her to the sink almost before she knew it. Warm water rushed over the cut on her left index finger, and she jumped at the renewed jolt of pain.
“Sorry,” he said, wincing down at her.
“I’m so sorry I cussed.”
He laughed. “What? Don’t worry about it.”
“But the girls—”
“Have heard plenty worse from me at times. It’s okay. They know what they’re not supposed to say.”
Breathing hard, she watched her blood swirl down the drain of the sink as he held her hand under the flow. The heat of embarrassment roared high in her cheeks. “Are you okay?” he asked, his touch achingly gentle.
“So much for wanting me back in your kitchen. Would you believe that’s never happened to me before?”
“Of course I believe it.” He inspected the cut on her finger while she tried to ignore how her hand trembled in his grasp. “I don’t think it’ll need stitches or anything.”
“Okay.” Thank God it wasn’t her right hand. She couldn’t afford to miss any work.
“I might be the wrong person to give medical advice. My mother always gripes at me because she says I would have to be bleeding from the eyeballs before I’d go see a doctor. I’ll take you, if you want to go.”
That was the last thing she needed on her strained bank account. “It doesn’t look too deep. I think it’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure? I absolutely don’t mind.”
“No, see, the bleeding’s already slowing down. Thank you, though.”
“Keep it there. I’ll wrap it up for you.” He left her side, and she missed his support immediately. Black sparkles edged into her vision. Air rushed in her ears. Her knees shook. Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, don’t…
Draping herself over the sink as best she could without actually hanging into it, she concentrated on breathing until he came back. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Pain was okay, pain wasn’t bad—she had the body art to prove it. But sudden, intense, unexpected pain coupled with ample blood flow was a different matter altogether. He was going to come back to find her collapsed on the floor.
“Hey, hey, hey.” As if from a great distance, his voice came to her. Strong hands grasped her. It felt as if it were happening to someone else. She felt herself lifted, carried, placed gently on a soft chair. “Starla.”
Coming back to herself, she gave her head a shake. Oh, her name sounded good on his tongue. “Yeah.”
“Still with me?”
Nodding, she inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled slowly through her mouth, the way they coached people at work. The way she’d heard Brian instruct his clients a million times. It worked now, bringing everything back into focus—but she only wished she could escape. Jared’s wary blue eyes were steady on her face. He was holding a pack of gauze over her sliced finger. Fire traced along her nerve endings. Carefully, he began taping it into place. “I’m so sorry.”
“You? I’m the klutz.”
“I shouldn’t have been distracting you while you had a knife in your hand.”
“I shouldn’t have let myself get distracted while I had a knife in my hand. Really, don’t apologize. I feel bad enough for being a problem.”
He’d carried her into his living room and sat her in a cushy chair, seating himself across from her on the ottoman. “You’re not a problem, Starla.”
“Tell me I didn’t bleed on your furniture or carpet, at least.” She looked around at the beiges and tans in alarm, but saw no sign of any bloodstains.
“Please, I have two kids—I hate to think what you might be sitting on at this very moment. You should be afraid.”
Starla found it within herself to laugh at that. “I’ll keep that in mind. Check for stains of mysterious origins before sitting.”
“Right. Does this feel okay? Too tight?”
The cut hurt like shit, but his hands holding hers, soothing her, taking care of her… That felt fantastic. When he released her and sat back, she missed his touch desperately. It was probably all in her head, but the pain in her finger seemed to ratchet up a notch without his skin on hers. She wanted to tell him to keep touching her. Keep the pain away. “It feels fine.”
“Is there anything in the kitchen I need to do while you rest?”
Dammit, she had a dozen things she needed to check on. “No, I’ve got it.” She moved to get up; he stood to help her. She also wanted to tell him to quit being so fucking nice to her. It threw her off-balance. She didn’t trust it.
Ashley and Mia came back in, immediately spied her thickly wrapped boo-boo, and asked no less than nine million questions. Did she bleed? Did it hurt? Where was all the blood? Would there be blood in the food? Did she think she was going to lose the finger? At least their presence prevented any more strangeness with their dad, and Starla was able to get through with making dinner and serve it at a decent hour. By the time she dropped into a chair at Jared’s dining room table, she was exhausted, and eating was nowhere near the top of her list of priorities. But she forced herself. It would look weird if she wouldn’t eat her own food. Plus, it was pretty damn good, if she did say so herself. It even seemed to please the two finicky seven-year-olds, and their dad went in for seconds before all four of them attacked the chocolate chip cookies.