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The typical stuff fills the top four drawers, but I’m shocked when I see the bottom two filled with medals, awards, and pictures. I don’t touch anything, but I can tell just from the surface that Nathan is a decorated hero.
There are a couple of framed photos of a group of soldiers who hardly look indistinguishable from one another with their shaved heads and uniforms on, but another photo that stands out is a much younger version of Nathan with two guys his age. They have on regular clothes, and they’re standing by a pool table.
I wonder why these are stored in his dresser and not on display somewhere in his living room. I hear the door to his bedroom creek open, and not wanting to be caught snooping I silently close the drawer and stand up as fast as I can.
“I’m gonna make some food. Come to the kitchen whenever you’re ready,” he says from the entrance to his room. I let out the breath I was holding, glad he didn’t come over to the closet to check on me. He’d see the guilty look on my face, and then kick me out of his house for invading his privacy.
I need to stay in my lane, but I’m dying to ask him all about his life. It’s not my business though, and we’re not friends, I mean not really. Even thinking that in my head causes a pang in my chest. Has it really only been one day of knowing each other? Am I able to call someone who is practically a stranger my friend? Not likely. I’m getting way too emotionally invested in someone who probably can’t wait to get rid of me.
At that thought, I hurriedly browse through his clothes, finding a crew neck sweatshirt that will be big on me, but perfectly oversized once I have it on with the leggings. It’s dark green with a logo in the middle, signifying a wounded warrior 5k. Of course, he does charity runs, he’s the perfect man. I roll my eyes to myself. It doesn’t matter how perfect he is, it does not concern me.
But, even I can’t quite convince myself of that lie…
Chapter Sixteen
Nathan
Callie walks into the kitchen and sits down on one of the bar stools. She’s wearing another shirt of mine and I can’t help the satisfaction it brings me. I’m sure she didn’t have any other options, but that doesn’t stop me from being pleased about it. I finish plating toast and eggs and hand one over to her. She digs in immediately, dismissing any worries that she might not like my food. I’m getting low on options and need to pick up some things when we go into town today.
“The Sheriff isn’t available to meet until 3 o’clock.” She pauses mid-bite after she processes what I said, setting her fork down.
“Am I crazy, or wouldn’t you think he’d be more eager to meet with me? I was almost raped and killed right outside of town!” She looks at me incredulously. I swear I feel my eyes twitch at the raped and killed part, but I swallow back my anger. I hate even hearing those words associated with her.
“You’re not crazy. I was pretty hot-headed with the secretary I talked to. I asked to speak to the Sheriff directly, but after waiting on hold for five minutes all she could tell me was to come in this afternoon. I ended the call more abruptly than I should have.” I shrug, not mentioning the string of expletives I used before hanging up.
“So, now what?” She asks me.
“Finish your food. Then we will go get your car,” I point to her plate, indicating we aren’t leaving until she eats.
“Yes, sir.” She mocks, her nose crinkling with a smile.
I know she’s joking, but those two words stir something in me… Something that crosses the line from platonic to much more, but the thought of her using that phrase in a different context… My mind is deep in the gutter.
Shit. I need a cold shower, and all she did was innocently utter two words. Two words that have a deeper meaning to perverts like me apparently. Luckily she doesn’t notice my inner turmoil. She finishes her food and I realize I haven’t touched mine so I scarf it down quickly, barely tasting it.
“Where did you put my shoes last night? Do you think they’re dry?” She asks, looking around.
“By the fireplace, the heat should have gotten them dry by now.” As she gets up to retrieve them, I’m glad for the distance she puts between us. It still isn’t nearly enough, my brain is reeling with need. She bends down to put on her shoes and I have to pry my eyes away from her ass. Her nice ass. Fuck, I’m screwed.
Needing a distraction, I grab the plates and wash them in the sink, completely ignoring that I could put them in the dishwasher. I have to keep myself busy.
A couple minutes later we are in my truck and headed down my driveway. Part of me doesn’t want to leave, knowing that once she gets her car back she’ll be one step closer to leaving. I shouldn’t be worried about that. Of course, she’s leaving, but I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that I want to spend more time with her.
I drive towards I-83, planning to drive until it looks familiar to her, hoping we can pinpoint where her car is. It takes about twenty minutes to reach the interstate and another twenty minutes of driving before she perks up in her seat.
“I think we’re close,” she whispers, fiddling with the sleeves of my sweatshirt, a nervous tick I noticed she did last night too. She seems stressed and it’s hard to say if we’ll even stumble upon her car or not.
Sensing she could use a distraction in the meantime, I ask, “How are your wrists?”
“Uhm, better this morning. I took the bandages off, the skin’s just a little tender.” She pulls her sleeves up to show me. I take her hand, examining her abrasions, but really taking advantage of the opportunity to touch her. Damn. Am I a pervert? I’ve never felt so creepy around someone. Like I need to touch her.
I sit her hand back down, reluctantly, and give it a squeeze as I let go. A gesture intended to calm her nerves, or maybe mine, I don’t know. I shift my focus, trying to pay attention to the road, I see a small sedan up ahead parked on the right side of the highway.
“Is that it?” I ask, realizing she’s looking at me and not toward the road. Her head starts nodding immediately though once she looks out the window.
I can feel the uneasiness pouring off of her as I pull up behind it and park, leaving the ignition running. The wood line is far away, but it’s close enough that if dumb and dumber were staking out the vehicle waiting for us to return to it, this would be their opportunity to strike.
“I’m going to go check it out, make sure it hasn’t been messed with. And then I’ll change the tire if that’s all it needs. You stay in here and lock the doors when I get out. Got it?” I ask her. She doesn’t respond, but she’s biting her lip nervously.
