Through the window, he watched Jayne move around the kitchen. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, the mass of curly hair hanging down her back. Scott’s sweats hung low on her hips. She handled the kitchen equipment deftly, with an efficiency that suggested she was no stranger to household chores. Jayne was definitely not a hothouse orchid. If she were a flower, she’d be a tiger lily, tall, resilient, and bright. The fact that he’d almost said those words made his palms clammy under his insulated work gloves. She’d been abducted and held prisoner, and still had the ability to smile, to give. She’d been about to comfort him for Christ’s sake. Had he ever met anyone so strong? So kind? So generous? No. No. And no. But along with jolting his sleeping soul back to life, Jayne had stirred up his carefully orchestrated life, a life in which he didn’t dare allow anyone to get close. Men with secrets couldn’t afford scrutiny or complete honesty. Tough to have a relationship without those and the trust that went along with them.
