She glared up at him. She pinched her cheeks, then smiled thinly. “There. Color in my cheeks.”
He laughed. “Don’t make me pick you up, Jo.”
She slipped from the car, grasping the roof for support.
They stood th
ere, regarding each other in the warm rays of the setting sun. No one came out to greet them. Other than the faint coo of a dove, the moo of a distant cow and the slightly rhythmic whump of the windmill’s blades, it was quiet.
“Drink?” he asked. He held out his hand awkwardly.
She stared at it and pushed off her car, not taking it. “I think I can manage to walk to the door, Hunter. I’ll have my drink and hit the road and you can have a peaceful evening with the family.”
“Eli’s out.” He sounded amused. “Fish, Archer and Ryder all have places of their own. But Renata still lives with Dad so she can take care of him. She always was a daddy’s girl.”
Josie felt bile in her throat. He wanted her to sit through dinner with him and Amy? She felt angry suddenly.
“Don’t you think it might be a little awkward?” She turned toward him. “Okay, a lot awkward.”
“Why?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Why would being alone with me be awkward?”
Josie was distracted by the shift of emotions on his face. The tone of his voice was soft but coaxing. He seemed to take a step toward her, rattling her from her silence.
“Alone?” A full-fledged pounding began at the base of her skull. Shooting pain focused right behind her left eye.
He nodded. “Let’s get you inside. You can lie down, have your drink, and once you’re better, you can leave, if that’s what you want to do.”
“I should go now,” she argued. “Pretty sure it’s a migraine and once it gets started—”
“You’ll be down for the count.” He nodded, slipping his arm around her for support. “You’re not driving, Jo. It wouldn’t be right or gentlemanly.”
“You could be a gentleman and drive me home now.” She didn’t have the energy to argue, but she refused to lean into him.
“In a bit.” He swung her up into his arms.
“Hunter—” His name escaped on a startled breath, right before she was bombarded with his scent. Everything about him was familiar. The earthy spice of him, the strength of his arms, the warmth he exuded, the feel of his breath against her forehead. It was sweet torture. “I can walk,” she bit out, sitting rigidly in his arms. She would not relax. She would not melt in his arms and press herself to him. She would not kiss his neck or run her hands through his thick, dark blond hair. She would not think of doing those things, either.
He carried her into the house, ratcheting up her nerves. This was how she was going to see Amy? In his arms? Her whisper was urgent. “Please put me down.”
And he did. On the couch. “Sit,” he murmured before leaving the room.
“Bark bark,” she muttered childishly. Her gaze bounced around the room, searching, waiting.
He laughed. “You still do that?”
“You still order people around?” she snapped.
He left and then walked back with a glass of water and a bottle of pain pills. He sat on the coffee table opposite the couch, offering them to her.
She stared at him, deciding whether to take the offered answer to her pain or suffer through out of sheer stubbornness. She took the bottle and the water.
“Still get migraines?” he asked.
She shrugged, pouring a couple of pain relievers into her hand before putting the lid back on the bottle. “Sometimes.” She glanced at him. “Still have sneezing fits?”
“Sometimes.” He smiled. “Still painting? I mean, other than your illustrations.”
“Yes.” It was ironic that, even though she’d been desperate to leave the state of Texas and everything about it, Texas landscapes were one of her favorite things to paint. “Still write poetry?”