“Dad was so happy when I took over the company. Said it was the first useful thing I’d done with my life. But I prefer to be outdoors, working with my hands, rather than stuck in an office all day. And I’d rather live in a place like this…lotsa space with a big backyard so I could get a dog like I had when I was a kid, but I had to get a condo in the city so I could be close to work.” He replaces the drawer and gives it a test.

Open. Close. Open. Close. No squeaks.

“All fixed.”

“Thanks.” I fiddle with my bracelet in the awkward silence that follows. Why is he sticking around? As if the depths of my despair aren’t deep enough without having to watch him strut his perfectly toned body around my house.

His gaze rakes over me in an entirely assessing and nonsexual way and then he frowns. “Makayla was right. You’ve lost weight. I’ll fix you something to eat before I go.”

Ummm…hello? But then, this is Jake, and once he makes up his mind about something, he doesn’t let trivial things like manners or what other people want or not knowing how to use a stove get in the way.

“You’re going to cook?”

“Yes.” He points to the stool at the kitchen counter. “Now sit while I whip up a gourmet feast.”

“You?” I don’t sit because first, I have no food; and second, I never once saw Jake in front of a stove the entire time we were going out. He lived on protein shakes, protein bars, and meat lover’s pizza, hold the crust.

Jake pulls open the fridge door and frowns over his shoulder. “There’s nothing in here. When did you last eat?”

“I can’t remember.”

“How can you not remember when you last ate?” His incredulous look is almost comical.

I give a theatrical valley girl sigh to hide the emotion welling up inside me. On top of everything else, seeing Jake making himself at home in my kitchen is just too much. I just want to retreat back to the warm, cozy darkness of my bedroom. “Eating isn’t important. Nothing is important. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m not really hungry so I’m going back to bed.”

Before I even make it halfway across the kitchen, Jake grabs my arm and pulls me back. “Makayla said you haven’t left the house since you got discharged from the hospital. She said if she hadn’t done your shopping, you would’ve starved to death. She thinks you’re depressed.”

“You know Makayla.” I sigh and wrench my arm out of his grip. “She’s prone to exaggeration.”

“I know you’ve been through a lot, but don’t you think two weeks is enough? Don’t you think it’s time to rejoin the world?”

My hands ball into fists and I press my lips together. Who is he to waltz in here and tell me how to run or not run my life?

“Jake?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Thank you for bringing the backpack and fixing the drawer and offering to make me dinner. It was lovely to see you, but I have sleeping to get back to. Good-bye.” I may be depressed, but at least I have manners.

With a firm click, I flick off the kitchen lights and stomp up the stairs to my bedroom. My home away from home when I was growing up. Grandma and I decorated it together over the years—first, the bed with its wrought iron frame, then the antique night table and a chest of drawers. Over the years we added a desk, repainted the walls a soft lilac, and sewed soft furnishings in country-chic pastel colors. It is the one place I feel I belong. Safe. Loved.

As I throw back the covers, a floorboard creaks behind me.

“Now what?” I spin around and glare.

Jake leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed, biceps bulging under his tight, white T-shirt.

Tease.

“I’m giving you a choice.” His voice drops from conciliatory to commanding. “Option one. You shower. Get dressed. Do girly things. We stay here and I cook up whatever is in that backpack. Option two. You shower. Get dressed. Do girly things. We grab some burgers. You come to Redemption. Say hi to the guys. Watch me fight. We go for more burgers. I take you home.”

My brow wrinkles with a frown. “How about option three? Amanda stays in her pajamas, climbs back into bed, and goes to sleep. I haven’t fully recovered. Maybe in a few more weeks.”

“Makayla says the doctor gave you the all clear.”

And that’s one less person on my Christmas list. The backpack was definitely a setup. “Makayla talks too much.”

“She loves you,” Jake says quietly. “She’s worried about you. She says she’s never seen you like this. She thinks you’ve given up.”

With a groan, I puff my pillows and slide under my fluffy down comforter. “I haven’t given up. I’m taking a break from life. I’m catching up on all the sleep I lost while I fruitlessly banged my head against the partnership wall at Farnsworth & Tillman. I’m healing my battered body and soul. Eventually, I’ll find a job at another big firm and redeem myself in my parents’ eyes. But not right now.”

Jake crosses the room in two long strides and whips the comforter off the bed. “Yes now. You need to face the world or life’s gonna get tired of waiting for you.”

In my fury, I think nothing about snatching the cover out of the hands of a glaring six-foot-two tattooed fighter with a bee in his bonnet. I rearrange the blankets over myself and sink into the pillows. “You can see yourself out. I’m taking option three. I’m exhausted from all this talking.”