Just the Thought of You Ch. 03

"Yeah. I wanted to make you scrambled eggs."

Scrambled eggs. I thought he had left me to rot, alone, abandoned in bed. Maybe changed his mind about wanting me here. And he wanted to make scrambled eggs?

I fell back against the pillows, crossing my arms firmly over my breasts on top of the sheets.

"You don't like scrambled eggs?"

I was still angry. He wasn't cold or aloof or sipping coffee while reading a damned newspaper like it was the most interesting thing in the world and I was nothing. He was here, wrapping his limbs around me, relaxed and talking about breakfast. Fucking breakfast. So why was I still so incredibly angry?

It finally hit me. Like a wave coming up from my feet and breaking over my head. Plunging me down into that awful feeling. It wasn't his coldness that bothered me so much. It was these breakneck changes in temperature. Cold to hot was just as uncomfortable. Him being wonderful was just as unsettling. I just didn't trust it. Didn't trust him.

I pushed at him again. Shoved him rather hard, actually. He released me, surprised, I think.

Let him be. Let him know how it feels to be on a bloody roller coaster every other second.

I was about to sweep out of the bed in a furious rage, then realised I'd have to do it naked. Once again, I was in a bed with sheets tucked in so tight the army would've given the housekeeper a medal. I barely made it to the edge of the bed, sitting up, the top sheet clutched to my chest.

His hand grazed my shoulder.

"Steph?"

"What?"

He didn't answer right away. I turned towards his silence. He was just lying there, staring at me. He looked for all the world as if he were just a little afraid. Not afraid of me. Just...afraid.

"Don't do this-" he said. Tense and tight.

"Do what?" I looked down at my feet, rubbed my toe against the nubbly carpet.

I felt him take a breath, it was that deep. He let it out slowly. I waited, concentrating on my toes.

"Don't run away. From me."

Something gripped my chest so tight. Like a hand reaching in a squeezing at my heart and lungs.

Was that what I was doing? Running again? After all this. Coming all this way. Going through all the anxiety of it. After what we'd done together last night. After what we'd been together last night? Was I still trying to find a reason to run away?

I felt myself caving in. Like a slow imploding. With tears included. I pulled at the sheets, burying my face in them, rocking forward. I was such an idiot. How could I be so close to ruining all this again?

His knuckles rubbed a warm line along my upper arm. That only made me cry harder, and then his hands were pulling me back and rolling me towards him, in against his chest. Just tucked my wet face under his chin and curled me up around his big warm body. And he honest-to-goodness stroked my hair.

* * * * *

JAROD

The damp seeped in through his t-shirt. Her tears. All bound up in his arms, crying. Because of him.

He knew it had nothing to do with scrambled eggs, but he didn't have much of a clue past that. Just that she'd done her shutters-down thing, and nearly launched herself out of bed, clearly angry. Angry at him? Angry at something.

He just wished she would tell him. What did he keep doing wrong?

Was it the going cold thing? Is that what bothered her? He didn't think he'd done that this morning, so why was she upset?

Smoothing a hand over the soft heaviness of her hair, he just held her tight. Even if he didn't understand he could at least hold her, and she didn't seem to be fighting that.

He could feel it, if he let it. The realisation, buzzing on the outer edges of his conscious mind. Something so close, but just out of reach. The reality of what it could be. What it could be to really be with her. Waking up next to her every day, going to sleep with her in his arms every night.

Something about that had driven him out of bed in some mad desire to make her breakfast, as if this whole being together thing was perfectly and utterly normal. But the paradox of it just couldn't quite unwind itself from his thoughts. How something so foreign and strange and unknown and entirely unexpected could be...the truth. That he could feel this with anyone. How long ago had he really given up on it happening to him? He didn't have an answer to any of it.

She was quieter now. Dragging her hand free from where it was trapped between them, she wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Pushed her mussed hair back, eyes still lowered. He didn't quite dare say anything unless it was entirely wrong thing to say. Just waited.

The hand drifted from her face and came to rest on his chest. He tried not to breathe too deeply.

"Sorry," she murmured, brushing at the fabric of his t-shirt. "I've made a mess of you."

He pressed his lips to her forehead, chest tight all of a sudden. "Never."

When he pulled back, her eyes finally flicked up to his, slightly red from crying, uncertain, if anything.

"Come on, let's go out and find some breakfast," he suggested, rubbing his thumb against the softness of her bare arm.

She nodded, gathering in a deep breath.

He planted another kiss on her forehead before rolling up to a sitting position. When he left her to get dressed, when her hand trailed in his at the edge of the bed, he thought he felt her fingers tremble. Just a little.

* * * * *

STEPHANIE

The chink of cutlery on plates and murmur of voices drifted up into the mahogany rafters of the cafe. It was nice. Full of antiques. Promised a cooked breakfast. I moved my fork onto my napkin, then back onto the tablecloth again. Stop fidgeting, dammit.

I had to stop my thumbs drumming on the table too. I just felt wired and edgy. I knew I should be relaxing in this little country idyll where the biggest crowd was right here in the cafe, the handful of elderly couples and some holidaying families with little kids spread out at the other tables. It was the only thing open on a Saturday morning. In the whole town, the only thing open.

My eyes were scanning the other diners, but caught and fixed on the far side of the long room. They had a welsh-dresser set up with granola and yogurt and drinks. Jarod was standing there, head bowed as he carefully poured glasses of orange juice.

It was a tiny bit of luxury, albeit an unsettling one, for reasons I couldn't quite sort out. To be able to just sit there and watch him. Observe him without being worried about getting caught looking. Or fretting about whether he'd see me watching him.

He did look over to me, just then. A slight head tilt and his eyes flicking over to where I sat, fiddling with the tableware.

He turned, carefully gripping the brimming glasses, concentrating on his progress through the maze of tables and chairs. But for a second there, he looked up. Looked straight at me. A look full of..what? I didn't know, just that my heart was hammering in my chest and I couldn't quite breathe until his gaze was pulled away by something else.

He set the glass of orange juice down in front of me, and I just blanked my mind. Packed the feeling of that look right away and tight inside where I couldn't look at it. Smiled at him in a way that felt a little thinner than it should.

He frowned a little as he folded himself into the wicker-backed chair, still giving me that look he'd been giving me since the bedroom. Concern mixed with worry mixed with a bit of who-knew-what. Trying to keep it light, but not succeeding. But could I really blame him, when I'd burst into tears over scrambled eggs? He was probably trying to decide whether or not I needed professional help.

"You sure you're happy with just eggs on toast?" He moved the salt and pepper shakers into the middle of the table. Turned the ketchup. Arranged the HP sauce. God, he was fidgeting too!

"Yup." I smiled another thinner-than-it-should be smile.

"You can have the full cooked breakfast, you know," he offered, eyebrows querying.

It was just so weird being out somewhere with him. Somewhere normal. It was disconcerting. As if some part of my mind had always felt that whatever this was between us just wasn't entirely real. But here we were, sitting down for fried eggs and hash-browns. And tea. Cups of tea. The type with the bag left to steep under the spoon and the milk already sloshed in. With sugar in a jar with a spout.

"Steph?"

I looked up him. I'd been sitting there, staring at the sugar.

"Is everything okay? I mean, this morning..."

I nodded, smoothing the tablecloth next to my orange juice. "Yeah, I'm fine." Smiled my barely-real smile.

He dropped his elbows onto the table, head lowered, and ran his hands up into his hair.

"Look, I know you're upset. At me. About something, I don't know."

I let my deep breath out slowly, tracing the pattern on the tablecloth as if it was incredibly fascinating and required all of my attention. Okay, Steph, try to grow up. Have this conversation like an adult already.

"I don't like it when you- when you switch gears so quickly," I managed to sputter out. Just...great.

He frowned, leaning back in his chair, shifting in his seat.

"What do you mean?"

What did I mean? I sighed. Tentatively raised my eyes from the tableware to his. Guarded eyes, with that ever-present penetrating gaze.

"Jarod, you just switch moods so quickly sometimes. I can't keep up."

He seemed to consider this, leaning forward to press his teabag against the cup.

"I could probably say the same about you." His eyes on me. Gauging my reaction to his words.

Was that true? Maybe this morning it had been.

"That's different."

"How?"

We were interrupted by the waitress, bearing plates. I stared down at the eggs she set down in front of me, my hands resting over top of my knife and fork, not picking them up as I knew I should.

What was I really trying to say?

"Jarod, I feel like I can't trust you."

He set the salt down slowly.

"I mean, I want this," I gestured back and forth between us. "I just feel like I'm on a roller-coaster. I don't know what to feel sometimes."

When he didn't respond, the words just kept coming.

"The last time to took me somewhere to eat, you were planning to dump me. Then you weren't. Then- Oh, I don't know."

I dropped my eyes, studying my toast with deathly intensity, half wishing I could take it back, half glad I'd finally said it. My stomach churned with all the questions that needed to be asked and all the answers I didn't want to hear.

He nodded, folding and refolding his napkin.

The silence between us became huge. Filling up the room, huge. Like all the other people were muffled and on mute and we were sat in the middle of one massive cotton ball of soundlessness.

I finally dragged my eyes away from my toast long enough to look at him. He was sitting back, just staring at me. With that expression I could just never read.

The words burst out of me.

"See? You're doing it again. I haven't any clue what you're thinking right now and it drives me crazy just not knowing-"

He leaned forward with a jerk, and for all the world I thought he was about to tell me to keep my voice down. But he just opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. He shut his eyes, turning his head away. He really was starting to look like he was in some sort of pain.

Shit. What had I done? I reached a hand out across the table.

"I'm sorry- I didn't mean it like that..."

He shook his head, "No, no. It's not that." He made a sort of growling noise of frustration and pushed a hand up into his hair again. He stilled, but seemed to be humming all over with some strange energy.

"It's not easy for me to say...things," he muttered, barely.

I was this close to giving him my best 'No shit, Sherlock', look, but restrained myself. I edged a little closer.

"Things. Like what?"

"Things! Like-like..." he threw his hands up, talking in a rush. "I don't know. Like that you are...the most beautiful woman. That I have ever known."

Stunned doesn't quite cover it. Knocked the breath out of me comes close. Is that what he really thought? Is that what was pent up behind all those tortured looks? Him wanting to say things? Maybe him wanting to do things?

But he wasn't done. He'd taken my hand, and was rubbing it with his thumbs. Stroking with his thumbs. Starting a fire up inside me that shouldn't be burning anywhere near a breakfast cafe full of little kids and pensioners.

"Your skin is beautiful. So soft and smooth. I could just go on touching it forever."

I was staring at him as if he'd just grown an extra set of heads and some tentacles. The sheer intensity in his voice. He was utterly, completely sincere. Jarod. Sat there, across from me in the middle of baked beans and black pudding and toast that was steadily going cold. Telling me I was beautiful and how much he liked my skin. No, not just liked. More than liked.

I took an unsteady breath.

"Thank you," I managed.

The frown slowly melted. The corner of his mouth tilted just slightly

upwards. He took my hand, turning it over to expose my wrist, lifted it and pressed a kiss there.

My heart just pounded in my ears, all the air in the room gone. Completely gone. He'd just kissed my wrist in front of a room full of people. I blinked. Mentally pinched myself. Nope. Still here.

He put my hand back down on the tablecloth, where I stared at it like it wasn't part of me. But I wanted it to be. It still tingled from the soft, firm pressure of his lips. I looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Come on," he said, gesturing to my plate, his eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable once more. "You should probably eat that before it goes cold."

* * * * *

When we stepped out into the tiny, sloped parking lot of the cafe, the clouds were rolling by. Not quite raining, but threatening to. The wind luffed at the leaves on the massive oaks near the centre green, and I was startled by his large, warm hand closing around mine. I looked at the long, sure fingers he was steadily twining between mine. I still found myself struggling to adjust to such a seemingly normal, affectionate thing.

He looked back at me and tugged at my arm, nodding his head in the direction of the grassy area surrounding the church with its four-cornered spires rising up out of the very centre of the village. There wasn't far to go. It really was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it town. But the quiet and the deserted streets and the moody sky made the church glow out like a beacon behind the ridge of dark trees. I was drawn to it just as much as he was, eyes full of the light and shade and my heart full of the feeling of his hand wrapped around mine.

He had to duck out of the way of some of the low-hanging branches, leading me in through the path. A stone wall rose out of the shadows on both sides to waist-height, the glowing green of the church graveyard stretching out just beyond.

A spiked metal gate blocked the path, and until he bundled me into an alcove to the side of it I thought there was no way through. But he didn't let me keep going. He blocked the way with his body, pressing me back into the narrow curve of stone wall. In the shadow of the great oaks, his eyes were all darkness as he looked down at me.

"You know what they call these things, right?"

I shook my head, confused. Speechless with the feel of his body leaning into mine, dizzy from looking up at him.

He swung the gate a few inches back and forth, the rusting metal creaking with the movement.

"It's a 'kissing gate'. For keeping animals out."

I could only stare at him blankly, just the word bringing with it the flood of memory of his mouth on mine, searching, finding-

"Young ladies were known to keep their suitors trapped on the other side until they got a kiss."

I nodded, swallowing hard, my vision full of the breadth of his shoulders and his dark head, dipping lower until he was talking quietly into my left ear.

"Do you want to take a kiss, Steph? From me?"

Maybe this was why those girls from a century back were swooning all the time. They had kissing gates and suitors and stolen moments in archaic little stone nooks where the vicar could pop out from behind a tombstone and force them to marry at any moment. And all I could do was try to get air into my lungs with him so, so close. His breath drifting warm against my cold skin, the wall of his body blocking out my light. His hands finding their way under my jacket and around to my ass and smoothing in such lovely circles.

My hands went up of their own accord, framing that dark face, greedy for the sharp planes of his cheekbones and jaw. I rose up on my tiptoes and just did it. Pressed my lips to his. Crushed them, really. Feeling like such a novice all of a sudden. Forgetting everything I ever knew about how to kiss.

But my silly kiss. It made him groan. And dip at the knees. A low rumble of pleasure right against my mouth, and he gripped me tighter, angled his head, lips pressing into mine, opening me up to him, urgent.

His tongue found its way, flicked against the tip of mine, and it was me moaning this time. Fingers slicing into his hair, dragging him down and closer and tighter to me. He was crushing the air out of me and I didn't care.

* * * * *

JAROD

He hitched the backpack a little higher on his shoulder, turning back to the trail from the vista that was slowly opening up below them. Gold-tufted grass rolled away, undulated downward into valleys where the dark trees still held onto the mist. He pushed his shoulders back, breathing deep of wet, clear air. And took another look at what was causing a shiver of excitement to fizz somewhere just under his ribs.

She was climbing, just ahead of him. Taking the time to place her feet carefully between the rocks that pushed up through the grass. But not dragging behind or whining about the slog through muddy patches or sheep shit. If anything, she seemed to be enjoying this as much as he was. Just that tiny fact gave him an inexplicable thrill of something new, discovered.

She turned and looked back at him where he was, slightly lower down on the hillside. Her cheeks were flushed, and a few wisps of hair drifted around her face, caught by the breeze. And then she smiled.

Why did it have to grip him in the gut like that when she smiled? When she showed any pleasure at all while being in his company? How could it have ever crossed his mind to turn away from her. To end things between them. When all he wanted to do was trek over endless hills and valleys with the promise of her warm cheek pressed to his, the grip of her small hand in his.

She tilted her head. "You okay?"

He blinked. He'd been staring.

"You looked a bit weird there for a second."

He couldn't suppress the grin that fought its way out. "Oh, now I look weird to you?" He took a few quick, threatening steps up the rocks towards her, following her as she backed slowly away from him, poised to flee. But she was grinning too.

"You didn't seem to have a problem with how I looked back there in the churchyard." He shot out an arm and snagged her wrist, holding tight when she tried her best to shake him off.

He heard her half-laughing, half-squealing protest but her eyes were telling him the exact opposite. He got lost when his gaze dropped to her parted lips, completely disoriented when when she licked them. Whatever grip he had on her wrist failed and she smiled triumphantly, slipping out of his grasp. She was away up the hillside before he could recover.

Damn it, but the combination of her, all wind-swept and flushed, with the relentless view of her cute little ass disappearing up the hillside was enough to bring any man to his knees. Had she worn those skin-tight jeans on purpose, just to torture him? So much for the demure-skirt being the focus of his fantasies.