Page 16 of Fixing Up My Love Life

Hazel

“Are you okay?” Jack asks.

Pain shoots from my calf. “Ouch.” My leggings are torn and blood seeps through.

“Can you put weight on it?”

I take a tentative step forward. “Yeah.”

“Let’s head to the sunroom by the kitchen. I saw a loveseat back there,” Jack says.

We make our way slowly through the house, careful not to trip on loose floorboards and unpacked boxes. The sunroom is bathed in soft light, its windows fogged slightly with sea mist. Floor-to-ceiling panes frame the crashing waves outside, the horizon blurred into a hazy blue. The old loveseat is tucked against one wall, its fabric sun-faded and floral, but stillsturdy. Seashells line the windowsill, scattered like offerings from a forgotten summer.

Among them sits a small photo frame. Jack glances at it, his brow furrowing slightly. "Your daughter?"

"Madeline," I say. "That was last summer at the beach."

He picks the picture up just long enough to study it. "She looks like you."

I reach for the frame and return it to the sill. "Poor kid."

He doesn’t reply, but something flickers behind his eyes before he turns his attention back to me.

He helps me lower onto the cushions, and I wince as I shift. My leg throbs beneath my leggings, the scratch still bleeding more than I’d like, but I keep my jaw tight.

Jack draws his brows together in concern. “I still feel terrible,” he murmurs. “We should’ve fixed that floor before demo. I should’ve known something like this could happen. I’ll be right back.”

Before I can argue, he disappears into the kitchen. I sink into the cushions, heart thudding against my ribs. My leg stings, but it’s manageable. What’s harder to ignore is the fluttering feeling in my chest—the one that always seems to followJack around.

He returns with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel.

“Here,” he says, handing it to me. “Hold this against the cut. I’ve got a first aid kit in the truck—I’ll grab it.”

“It’s just a scratch,” I protest, but he’s already heading for the door.

And just like that, I’m alone with my heartbeat pounding and a full view of the wild, crashing ocean.

And the storm inside me that’s just as loud and turbulent.

I sigh and press the peas to my leg. The blood is seeping more than I expected. I hate how vulnerable I feel. This house is a disaster, I’m a mess, and now Jack’s being sweet. That’s the most dangerous part.

When he comes back, he kneels in front of me and opens the kit. His fingers work with practiced precision—cleaning, dabbing, wrapping. His touch is firm but gentle, his focus entirely on the task.

His fingers brush my skin, and a shiver flutters through me.

“You must be cold,” he says quietly, eyes still on the bandage. “The bag of peas?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s actually kind of hot in here.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile from him. A knowing one. He glances up at me.

The air thickens, becoming charged. Heavy. He doesn’t move, and neither do I.

That slow, invisible pull between us is growing stronger. My heart pounds harder. Our breathing fills the quiet room, shallow and quick. My lips part slightly. Just to say something. Anything. But the words won’t come.

Jack is still kneeling, his face only inches from mine. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

And I can’t look away.

---