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Jameson goes to the sink and runs some water dish while the bird gossips at him.
“Snowball, I swear to God,” he says. “It’s wind. You should be one with the wind. You’re small, but you’re not pathetic, you know? And we’re inside the house.”
A gust of wind rattles against the big pane behind me, and Jameson turns.
When he first sees me, his eyes get huge, and his mouth quirks like he’s about to smile. To grin. Maybe even to laugh.
Then he pulls away.
Not with his body. The smile stops, fades, and his eyes dim. He’s guarded again.
What happened to you?I want to ask, and I want him to tell me.
Neither of those things is going to happen.
He tilts his head toward the bathroom. “All yours.”
Jameson doesn’t protest when I take the blankets with me. I wait until I’m behind the closed door to hang them from one of the towel hooks. There’s a toothbrush still in the package by the sink, and a little tube of toothpaste, unopened.
Getting ready doesn’t take long when you don’t have any clothes.
I go out again wrapped in the sheet. Jameson’s in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop with a mug in his hands. It’s plain white with nothing on it, as far as you can get from the teacup over the sink.
“Good morning.” I bow my head a little, reason unknown. I think of his hand in my hair, and his fingertips on my spine, and Icannotstart wishing for that stuff from a kidnapper. Not now, not ever.
“Breakfast,” he answers, and waves in my direction.
Oh. The table is behind me. Jameson steps over, mug balanced in one hand, and pulls out a chair. The table’s already set for one, with food.
I sit, feeling ridiculous in these blankets, and he pushes the chair in at the perfect moment.
The food could be from a rustic living magazine. He hasn’t givenmeplain white anything. The bowl at my place is robin’s egg blue, and the oatmeal inside looks…professional. An artistic swirl of brown sugar. Three berries, nestled against one another.
“Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee.” He’s set out a spoon and a glass of orange juice. A real place setting.Wow.“No, wait. Tea.”
“Are you a Starbucks loyalist?”
“It gives me a headache. I only drink it when I have to…” Study. When I have to study. I only drink coffee when I have an intense studying schedule. I don’t have that schedule here. God, when was the last time I had tea? Two years ago, maybe? My grandfather has Tylenol auto-delivered to the house.
Why did hedothis?
“When you have to what?”
I blink up from the oatmeal and find him on the other side of the sink. There’s a latte machine there, compact but fancy. I’ve known a couple people with those. Jameson has a mug the same color as the bowl in his hand already. Even the strange, gray light filtered through the window over the sink looks good on him.
He’s…beautiful. The way the shadows fall on his face reminds me of a black-and-white photo. Jameson has incredible depth like this. A flicker of green from his eyes reminds me I haven’t answered.
“Study. When I have to study.”
One corner of his mouth turns down. He puts the mug onto the tray of the latte machine and pushes buttons, then takes something silver from the top. Is that a tea infuser? Oh my God, itis. He has a metal container of loose-leaf tea. “You haven’t started law school yet.”
“No, but that doesn’t mean I can slack off.”
“You already got into Columbia. Isn’t that enough to call it good?”
“It would be, except I’m not a natural at school.”
