Page 109 of Sweet Like Whiskey

I pop a grape into my mouth and nod.

Jackson assesses me for a moment before nodding back. “All right, then. See you soon.”

With that, Jackson stands, kissing the top of my head before walking out of the room. I pull the plate of food closer, eating my lunch as Remi paints a field of dandelions beneath a light blue sky.

When Remi heads back to work, I go for another walk around the ranch. I amble up and down the bank of the slow river, which is so shallow in places I’d almost call it a creek. Then I walk the fence line, looking at the cattle and the occasional rancher who passes by.

By the time I get back to Jackson’s house, I’m sorer than I want to admit. I wince as I bend to get my boots off, abandoning that plan and kicking them off instead. After getting a drink of water, I decide to take a soak in Jackson’s tub, hoping it will help relax my muscles.

And that’s exactly how Jackson finds me a good half hour later, the water I’m lying in having cooled to warm instead ofpiping hot. He squats down beside me, arms on the side of the porcelain tub, his eyes roaming over my naked body for only a moment.

“Need help?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, pushing upright. I brace my hands on the edges of the tub, and Jackson reaches for me. “I’mfine.”

“Ash—”

“I got it,” I snipe.

Jackson doesn’t back off. His hand wraps around my bicep to help me stand, and I snap, just a little.

“Goddamn it, Jackson, I said I’mfine.”

He lets go, but he doesn’t back up. He stands there, watching as I clumsily get myself to my feet, and then he continues to stand there as I step out of the tub and grab my towel. I wrap it around my waist, pulse racing.

Jackson trails after me like a quiet sentinel as I head to the bedroom, grabbing the same pajama pants I took off this morning. Trying not to show my discomfort, I get them on, followed by a t-shirt. I maneuver the damn sling into place and head toward the kitchen.

Jackson follows.

I open the fridge, looking inside. “I can cook us something. What sounds good?”

“Ash,” he says softly.

“I’m not useless, Jackson.”

“Ash,” he says again, his hand curling over my own on the handle of the fridge.

I close my eyes, unable to stop my breath from puffing out of me as Jackson’s body heat lines my back. He feels good.Toogood. All I want is to lean into him.

Jackson closes the fridge door, and I let him, the both of us standing still inside his kitchen as the quiet wraps around us. Hesets his chin on my shoulder, his arm around my stomach. He doesn’t say anything, just holds me, and it’s too much.

It’s too damn much.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

His lips brush my cheek. “I know.”

“I didn’t mean to yell.”

He nuzzles into my neck, his beard bristling. “I know, sunshine.”

“It’s just fucking hard sometimes. To think,” I tell him, leaning my weight back against his chest. My limbs feel heavy.Everythingfeels heavy. “When all I can feel is how sore I am, there’s no place in my head for anything else. And I pushed myself too hard today because I didn’t want to admit I’m not okay. I didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that it’s going to take months to feel better again. I’ve been here before, Jackson, and I hate it. I hate how I feel.”

His arms never leave me. Neither does he. “What do you need?” he asks, his voice a quiet whisper.

I pull in a breath. Let it out. “I need to rest.”

He kisses my cheek again and spins me slowly. “C’mon,” he says, his arm around my back.

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