Page 27 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“What is it?” I ask.

“Is it from something? An injury? Or the symptom of a bigger problem?”

My lips twitch despite myself, and I let my arms drop wide. “Damn it, Jack. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Can’t help what?” he asks briskly.

“Your mother hen thing,” I answer, smiling when Jackson scowls.

“I don’t do that.”

“Mhm. Whatever you say, darlin’.”

Jackson’s reaction is instantaneous. I don’t know if it was me throwing his words back at him or thedarlin’. But his chest rises and his eyes sharpen, andoh, do I want to push. I want so badly to make his control snap.

“You didn’t answer the question,” he says gruffly.

Sighing, I turn my head back toward the ceiling so I don’t get a crick in my neck. “I don’t know what it’s from,” I tell him truthfully. “And neither do the doctors. It started slow and got worse. For a while, it was pretty bad. I had a lot of accompanying neuropathy. Tingling in my hands, pins and needles in my feet when I walked, numbness, that sort of thing. But they ruled out just about every diagnosis under the sun. Physical therapy helped. Stretches and heat help. It’s gotten better, and now, I’m managing.”

“But it doesn’t go away,” he says, his tone rough enough to have me looking his way again. “In five years, it’s never gone away.”

“No,” I confirm.

He looks incredibly upset by that.

“It’s not so bad most of the time,” I say, wanting that damn look off his face. “On an average day, the pain is minimal enough that I can ignore it. I haven’t been doing my regular upkeep since I got here, so it’s my own fault I’m having a flare-up. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

He chews on nothing for a moment, reminding me of the cattle he tends to. I manage to keep the thought to myself.

Finally, he says, “Do you need anything? Water or…a snack?”

Oh Jesus.

“Jackson,” I say seriously, “if you want me to back off, you’re going to need to stop being so thoughtful.”

He looks almost alarmed, but I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what I’m talking about. I’m not surprised when he whirls away, his boots thudding down to the first floor. Iamsurprised when, less than a minute later, those boots stomp right back up the stairs.

My heart gives a great bigthumpas Jackson storms through the door. He sets a glass of water and a bottle of acetaminophendown on the nightstand and takes a step back. “Doesn’t mean anything,” he says.

A smile curls my lips. “Sure.”

“Doesn’t.”

“Okay,” I repeat, smiling wider. “Whatever you say.”

He grunts impatiently before turning, but he stops at the doorway. “Text me if you need something.”

And then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at a wide-open door, a stupidly big grin on my face.

You’ve done it now, Jackson Darling.

Get ready.

Sunday marks the beginning of Virginia’s weekend, the first of two days she has off from the bar. She picks me up late morning, a big pair of sunglasses perched on her dainty nose. Even with the shades on, I can tell she’s tired.

“Ginnie,” I say, stepping out onto the porch before closing the door behind me. “You look rested this morning.”

Anduh-oh.She bristles.

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