“Drop it, Mike,” he warned. “On the phone.”
There was no arguing with him when he was like this. Better to just give him a moment to cool off. With a huff, I pulled away from the door and headed back to the kitchen. This, I figured, was as good enough a time as any to break into that new bottle of whiskey I’d gotten.
I poured myself three fingers of whiskey and knocked it back in one gulp, enjoying the burn as it hit my throat. I wasn’t muchof a drinker. It wasn’t exactly a fitting habit for a pastor. But tonight called for something stronger than prayer.
The second glass required ice. And by the time I’d finished that, I’d pretty much given up on trying to win Cash over. He still hadn’t come out and even though I’d walked by his room a couple of times, it was pretty clear he wasn’t talking to anyone on that phone of his.
Instead of trying to push him again, I dropped my glass in the sink and headed for the shower, hoping it would help me clear my head. The water was hot against my skin, running in rivulets down my body as I tried to wash away not just Cash’s touch but my confusion. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror and clouding my thoughts. I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pound against my shoulders.
What was I doing here? Playing house with a man who could barely look me in the eye after fucking me senseless? A man who clearly had walls built so high I’d need a ladder truck from the fire department just to peek over them?
I sighed, turning my face into the spray. The water mixed with the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. This wasn’t me. I didn’t cry over men who couldn’t communicate, who used me for release then shut me out. Not anymore.
Yet here I was.
When the water began to run cold, I finally stepped out, wrapping a towel around my waist. I wiped a circle in the foggy mirror and stared at my reflection. My eyes were slightly red, my lips still swollen from Cash’s rough kisses. I looked...wrecked. And not just physically.
“Get it together,” I muttered to myself. “You’re a leader of this community now, for Christ’s sake.”
I slipped into my bedroom and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. The house was quiet,Cash’s door still firmly shut. With a resigned sigh, I climbed into bed, turned out the light, and tried to sleep.
But sleep didn’t come. I tossed and turned, replaying the afternoon in my head, wondering what Cash had been about to say. Every creak of the house had me straining to hear if it was him finally emerging from his room. But he didn’t.
I must have eventually dozed off because I startled awake to the feeling of the mattress dipping beside me. The digital clock on my nightstand read a quarter past two in the morning.
“Cash?” I whispered into the darkness.
“Yeah,” his voice was rough, like he’d been drinking or maybe crying. I wasn’t sure which. “It’s me.”
I sat up, reaching for the lamp.
“Don’t,” he said, his hand catching my wrist. “Leave it off.”
In the moonlight filtering through the curtains, I could just make out his silhouette. He was shirtless and probably naked. I couldn’t tell. His hair was mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my heart hammering in my chest.
He was silent for a long moment, and I could hear his breathing, slightly uneven. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you decided to wake me up instead?” I tried for humor, but it fell flat in the tension between us.
Cash shifted on the bed, and I felt rather than saw him looking at me. “I’m sorry about earlier. Walking away like that.”
The apology caught me off guard. “Oh.”
“Yeah, I know you weren’t expecting that,” he scoffed, but without malice. “I’m not good at this.”
“At what? Sex? Because I’d have to strongly disagree there.”
He let out a soft huff that might have been a laugh. “No. At... talking. Apologizing. Being…open. All that shit.”
I reached out cautiously, finding his hand in the darkness. He didn’t pull away. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to try.”
His fingers tightened around mine. “Those cookies you brought,” he said, changing the subject abruptly. “Did you make them?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I’m not much of a cook, but I try. Why?”
“They were good,” he said softly. “Real good. Some of the best I’ve had.”
