Free Home To You by Robin Kaye Page A

there you are’?”
    He tugged off his hat and rubbed his throbbing temples. “Buddha, right? So you realized that you can’t outrun, or, in this case, outhike your problems. Yeah, I’m intimately familiar with the concept. Why do you think I’m here?”
    One of her dark, highly arched brows rose, and his fingers itched to trace the curve. “Are you trying to outrun your problems?”
    He scrubbed the back of his neck to keep from reaching for her and didn’t meet her eyes. The woman didn’t beat around the bush. “Maybe I was at first, but we both know how well that works. Now I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . dealing with it in my own time, in my own way. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.”
    A smile played around her full, reddened lips. “And do you believe it?”
    He didn’t know what the hell to say to that. Since he saw no reason to stand outside in the cold when they could do this inside by the fire, he headed for the door.
    Kendall followed him inside and just watched and waited, like the therapist she was. Damn it. Being under the constant scrutiny of a trained therapist was getting to be a drag.
    Jax pulled off his coat, tossed it on the hook in the mudroom, and ran his hands through his hair, hoping to erase the hat head he was sure he sported. He’d love to lie to Kendall, but he couldn’t—not to her, not about who he was now. “For the most part, I do believe it.” He went to the kitchen and leaned into the refrigerator, reaching into the back for the stash of beer Jaime had brought over one night. He held a bottle out to her. “Want one?”
    She shook her head and wrinkled her nose.
    “Wine?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just grabbed a glass and wondered if she was really interested in his answer or merely in the habit of asking probing questions. Either way, he felt no irritation. It didn’t matter why Kendall asked. Not really. She might be terribly hurt and upset about losing David and her job, but that didn’t stop her from being who she was: an incredibly compassionate person.
    When she’d told him she’d become a therapist because she wanted to help people, he knew it to be a calling, not an occupation. Kendall might ask questions out of habit, but she cared about the answers and was an active listener. He reminded himself that she was like this with everyone—he wasn’t special.
    Jax passed her the wine, carried his beer into the main room, and took a seat on the old leather club chair—giving himself the space and distance to study her.
    She watched him, obviously waiting for him to explain himself further. Dammit. “A lot of what I’m dealing withis a waiting game, and I’m not the most patient of men. I hate not being in control of my recovery. And, yes, that’s just another one of my faults that has come back to bite me in the ass.”
    She hadn’t followed him out of the kitchen, not that he’d expected her to. The place was so small, they could carry on a conversation from different rooms. It didn’t much matter. Kendall turned to the refrigerator without saying anything. But, really, what was there to say?
    He set his beer down and threw a fresh log into the stove, kicking up a bunch of sparks. It caught almost instantly.
    Kendall pulled her head out of the refrigerator, holding an armful of food against her chest. “I understand your frustration over the lack of control.” She bumped the refrigerator door closed with her hip before dumping her load on the counter. “I get it. You can’t control the healing process, and I can’t seem to control much of anything either.” She blew out a frustrated breath and began chopping vegetables with gusto. She slid the knife through a green pepper from base to cap without cutting through, wrenched the two sides apart, and then, making quick work of it, sliced them into thin strips.
    Something in her tone had him taking a healthy swig of beer and crossing the room to the kitchen area.
    “You know, while I