Page 26 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“Well, go,” I say, not wanting to keep him. “Enjoy your day with your daughter.”

He gives me a grateful smile before disappearing from sight.

These damn Darling brothers. Could they be any sweeter?

Getting back on track, I set the microwave for two minutes. I’m just pulling the heating pad out when I hear a grunt.

My pulse jumps, and I reflexively place a hand on my chest as I look over my shoulder. “What is it with people popping up in this doorway?”

Jackson frowns at me. “Something wrong?”

“Yes. You scaring the crap out of me.”

“No,” he says, waving a hand at the heating pad. “That.”

“Oh.” I huff a laugh as I shut the microwave door. “No, I’m fine.”

His frown deepens. “Clearly, something is the matter if you’re using a heat pad. What is it?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m fine, honestly. Just sore.”

“From working too hard?” he asks.

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. “Not exactly. I just have…issues. With my back. It’s not new.”

“You should get that checked,” Jackson says, following me out of the kitchen.

“I have,” I say, working to keep my voice even. “Many times.”

“And?”

“And. It hasn’t helped.”

He tsks. “Well, there must be something the doctors—”

“Jackson,” I say, stopping and whirling around on the stairs. He halts abruptly, looking up at me in surprise. “I’m going to stop you right there before you start mansplaining my own healthcare to me. I’ve seen many doctors. Over a dozen, okay? I’ve been poked and prodded and run through MRIs. I’ve done multiple rounds of physical therapy, osteopathic manipulation, and tried all sorts of alternative therapies. It’s better than it used to be. It is. But the pain doesn’t go away, and it might not ever. I’ve gotten used to it.”

He doesn’t say a word, staring at me with a look of intense concentration on his face.

“Okay?” I check.

He nods.

I turn and finish walking up the stairs. He follows.

Jackson stands in the doorway to my bedroom—theguestbedroom—as I plop the heating pad on the bed.

“Are you just going to stare?” I ask.

“How long?”

“How long what?” I say around a sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t be so short with my employer, but he’s the one barging uninvited into my room, so he can deal. I climb onto the mattress and lie down with my shoulders on the heating pad, letting out a groan. It’s almost too hot, but I relish the temporary burn.

Jackson clears his throat. “How long have you had back pain?”

I think that through. “Five years, give or take?”

He’s quiet, so I turn my head to look at him.

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