“I almost burned the entire cabin down.” She lets out a sigh, but not in the way she always does, like she’s annoyed at my existence. This is more like she hates being vulnerable, even if for a second.
“Once. You almost burned the cabin down once. Has that ever happened before?”
She shakes her head, continuing eating, like the topic at hand is usual conversation for her.
“That doesn’t make you bad at something. Everyone makes mistakes.”
She blinks, staring down at her bowl before visibly shaking her shoulders and blooming like a flower in front of my eyes. Except, the smile she’s wearing is not sincere.
“I mean it, Riles.” The nickname eases off my tongue like it’s second nature, catching us both by surprise.
“Uh-huh,” she deflects, finishing her bowl and taking it to the kitchen sink before taking the chair in front of me again. “What are your plans for the rest of the night?”
“Shower, read, sleep.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Ooooh, any spicy books you’re reading tonight?”
“I’m in the middle of a historical fiction right now.”
“Go figure.”
“I do read romance too, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
She chokes on her spit. “You? Dominic Broody Diaz reads romance?”
I cough, hiding my laugh to no avail. “I do.” I love the reaction from people when I tell them I read romance, like it would make me less of a man or something, when in reality, it’s the opposite. I’ve learned more about interpersonal relationships and self-awareness through those pages than sitting on any overused couch of a therapist who doesn’t understand me. It has given me more empathy and understanding than people might think.
“What about you? Are you reading tonight?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m painting. I got an idea today while I was working on the shed, and I need to get it out of my brain, or there won’t be space for anything else.”
I nod, cleaning up after myself, avoiding looking at her while I wash my dish and hers. She must be moving things around behind me, judging by the noises and the mutteredshitafter she slams the fridge door.
“Reaching behind you,” she says before her hand rests on my shoulders, her other one reaching to grab a spray bottle from the cabinet above the sink. Cinnamon and sugar take over the citrus dish soap I’m using, and soft hair brushes against my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
She feels it too, because she tenses, fingers wrapping around the bottle. She turns to face me, a small breath catching when her sky blues collide with my darkness. I need to get out of here before I ask her if I can sit next to her and read while she paints. The urge, the pull, theneedto be near her is astronomical.
“Got it,” she whispers, standing flat on her feet and removing the hand that was on me, immediately leaving me raw without her touch.
“Have fun painting. Should I expect you up at the crack of dawn again?” I ask, diffusing the bomb threatening to explode inside me.
“That’s silly. I’ll be up before that.” She winks.
“Goodnight.” I grab my hat and walk out of her cabin before I can change my mind.
17SHE’S PROUD
Riley
Did I sleep last night?No. Do I care? Also no. I’m giddy. Bustling with excitement. Ready to see what Lilly thinks about this.
I march my happy butt up the stairs to her office. She’s talking with someone on the phone, her usual MO, since she hates texts, and she waves me in when she sees me.
She hangs up, sliding the phone away. “Good morning, Riley.”
“Lilly,” I reply, unable to control my smile.
“You’re unusually chirpy today.”
