Essie pushed up to a sitting position, teeth gritted against the pain along the site of her stitches. “Thanks again for your help. I should probably get going once the alcohol wears off.”
For a second or two, Jackson stared at her as though she’d sprouted a horn from the center of her forehead. “Are you crazy? It’s late, and it’s going to be at least another hour before you can even think about driving.”
She glanced out the window and frowned at the sight of pitch darkness. When the hell had that happened? She’d totally lost track of time, a rarity for her. Then again, in all fairness, it wasn’t every day a person she’d considered a close friend and ally tried to murder her. That had a way of throwing a woman off her game.
“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” Jackson asked.
“I can’t,” she said automatically, and then scrambled for a plausible reason. “It’s just that—well, I…”
Jackson raised one eyebrow. “What, are you afraid I’ll molest you?”
She chuffed out a breath. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then what’s the problem? You came here because you knew you’d be safe. And you will be.”
“I know.” Their marriage might not have lasted, but she inherently knew that Jackson would do everything in his power to protect her. She’d do the same for him. Deeper feelings crept into her thoughts—she was blaming those on the vodka as well—and it took a great deal of effort to cram them back into that part of her brain where she kept the things that had a bad habit of getting her into trouble.
“Good. Then it’s settled.”
Before she could object, Jackson scooped her off the couch and into his arms, careful not to disturb her stitches.
The sudden movement made her dizzy. She batted his arm in protest. “I can walk on my own.”
“I’m sure you can. Humor me, will you?”
She wanted to argue, but the booze and her injuries were sapping the last of her resistance. Besides, even though she was reluctant to admit it, it kind of felt nice to be nestled against his broad, muscular chest. She’d almost forgotten how good it felt, or perhaps she’d suppressed the memory. Giving in to the urge, she rested her head on his solid pec, the cotton of his shirt soft against her cheek and the steady thud of his heartbeat in her ear.
“You changed aftershave,” she murmured, her eyelids growing heavy.
“You like it?”
“It’s fine.” That was another lie. The man smelled incredible. The brand he’d used while they were together had a rich, musky scent. This was more on the woodsy side, with a dash of dark spice and the barest note of bergamot. She found herself inhaling deeply, drawing the scent deep into her lungs and savoring it like an addict.
Jackson pushed the bedroom door open with his foot and headed straight for the bed, where he gently placed her on the mattress. He crossed to the dresser, rummaged through one of the drawers, and returned with a plain black T-shirt. “I figured you’d want something clean to sleep in. It’s not your size, but it’ll work for tonight.”
“Thank you.” Her go-bag was packed with essential items: cash, IDs, spare keys, waterproof lighter, knife, medicine, toiletries, flashlight, charger, etc. It even had socks and underwear. But there was only so much room in the bag, and a complete change of clothes was a luxury.
Jackson turned his back as she toed off her shoes. Not that it mattered; he’d seen her naked countless times before, but she appreciated the consideration.
Thanks to her injury, it took longer than usual to strip off her ruined shirt and bra and slip on Jackson’s T-shirt. No surprise, it hung halfway down to her knees, but the fabric felt soft against her skin and smelled faintly of Jackson, another item on the growing list of things she simply refused to acknowledge.
She removed her gun and ankle holster and stashed them under the pillow. “Okay, you can turn around now.”
He did, and then smiled. “Feel better?”
“Yes.” Not really. Aside from the pain, she was utterly exhausted, mentally and physically. She felt like she could sleep for a week. “Thanks again. For everything.”
His smile slipped a few notches as he helped her ease under the covers. “I’m glad you came here for help.”
“The number of people I know who can tend to a knife wound is pretty small.”
“I don’t care why. I just care that you did.” He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, and the feel of his warm, soft lips sent ripples through her. “Get some sleep. I’ll have questions in the morning.”
As he turned to leave, she asked, “Where are you going?”
He stopped, one hand on the light switch, and twisted his torso to face her. “I need to talk to Navarre, and then I’m going to make sure the property is secure. I know you said you weren’t followed,” he added when she opened her mouth to speak. “But it never hurts to be prepared just in case your boy figures out where you went and wants to finish what he started. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Without another word, he turned off the light and closed the door behind him.
