Page 11 of The Fixer

With a quick nod, I reached out and gave my friend a hug. She gathered her purse from the counter near the box of food she’d brought up, then turned back to me.

“Get some rest. Eat some food. Call me tomorrow and let me know how you are, okay? I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. Tell Eric I said hey.”

“I will. Love you!”

“Love you, too,” I called after her as she stepped through into the hallway.

Mr. Jingles’ bell jingled again, and I found her darting under the loveseat as I shut the door. I went back to the chicken breast left on the counter and pulled it to pieces before plating it and putting it on the floor for my cat. My kitchen was a mess, the food Brooke had brought me sitting beside a week’s worth of trash. I put the food away, then pulled a pot from the cupboard and began reheating the French onion soup. As it warmed, I scrubbed at the kitchen counter until the grime that covered it was gone.

My mind wandered to earlier in the day, to the reading of the will. To Niles’s sad smile as I pulled him aside after it was over, and he confirmed for me that what I’d heard was true.

I was the owner of a company I could neither run nor manage on my own.

Throughout college, my father had encouraged me to take business classes along with the psychology course load I needed for my chosen field. I’d done so, not only to make my father happy, but to widen my horizons, to give myself a background that might be useful someday. But I hadn’t planned for this. Hadn’t planned on taking over my father’s baby. Running the company he’d started before he and Mom were married.

I’d never expected to one day be handed the reins.

Unable to find my ladle, I grabbed the pot off the stove and poured my soup into a ceramic ramekin. But with my mind a million miles away, running in a thousand directions, I was startled at the loud knock on the door. The pot slipped from my bare hands, landing on top of the ramekin, making the bowl flip off the stove and shatter on the floor. The hot soup splattered my bare legs and I jumped back, one hand letting go of the pot only to reach out and grab at the hot metal to keep it from falling.

“Dang it!” The pot fell anyway, the rest of the soup spilling all over the floor as I cried out and spun in my place, nearly slipping on the wetness before catching myself with my burned hand. I cried again, clutching my injured hand to my chest, sucking in a deep breath before letting it all out.

“It’s open!” I called out through clenched teeth as I turned on the faucet with my uninjured hand. The door clicked open as I stuck my hand under the cold running water. “I thought you and Eric had plans. Shouldn’t you be—Oh!”

It wasn’t who I thought it’d be. It wasn’t Brooke, like I expected, coming to bring me one last thing that she’d found downstairs, to check in on me one more time because she knew I wasn’t all right. It wasn’t Brooke, and the sight of someone other than her shocked me just as much as the knock at the door.

I jumped.

My feet slipped on the soup puddled on the floor.

I started to go down, my feet sliding out from under me, my arms flailing and grabbing for anything and finding nothing instead.

I was halfway to the ground, and suddenly I was floating, two strong arms wrapped around me, keeping me from harm.

It was him.

Again.

“Jet.” It came out a whisper. A gasp, as he lifted me, pulling me upright, picking me up and moving backward toward the door. Away from the mess I’d made in the kitchen, the soup, the broken dish, the only thing I’d looked forward to since my father’s death.

Jet dropped me lightly on the tabletop, his arms still wrapped around me, his body wedging itself between my knees as he held me close. His eyes, the strange silver-gray color I’d never seen before I met him, swept over my face before locking on my own.

“Are you okay?”

My limbs felt heavy. My head felt light. My brain stopped working only to jumpstart again, swirling into a mix of overheated emotions before blanking out once more.

When I didn’t answer, Jet pulled back, his silver gaze sweeping over me. I felt the tingle as it went, as if he was appraising me, judging me, determining my worth. Hands that had held me close lifted my right leg, silver caressing as he studied me, zeroing in on the burns across my skin and the tiny nick on my ankle that was seeping blood. He moved to my other leg, and Lord, I felt obscene sitting there with my legs spread as he stood between them. And the tingle in my skin fanned out to all the places he hadn’t seen.

He turned to my injured hand which I cradled to my chest. Took it in his and gently spread my fingers, looking at the burns. He nodded once before lifting his hand and gripping my chin. He turned my face, appraising again as he moved me side to side. When he let go, his fingers slid down my throat, pressure that felt both dangerous and enticing, making me squirm.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes locked on my lips. As if he might miss the words if they fell off my tongue. Before I could answer, he spoke again, “Anything hurt other than your hand?”

I shook my head and my throat clenched as he dropped his grip. “What are you doing here?”

That was the most I could manage, and I hated myself the minute the words came out. Jet took a step back, and the intensity that surrounded him hung over me like a cloud. His dark brows pulled down for a split second, then straightened all on their own. He smoothed a hand down his chest as his chin jerked toward the kitchen counter, to the cardboard box sitting in the empty space where Brooke’s box had been earlier.

His lips quirked up as his eyes fell, and something inside of me fluttered like butterfly wings as color rose to his cheeks. “I, um…” He lifted his chin, and silver sparkled in the overhead light. “I brought you your father’s ashes and belongings.”