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“It’s all a man needs.” My chest pulls tight, surprising me. I’ve never had conflicted feelings about the size of the cabin before.
It is all I need. And I’ve never wanted to share it before.
Sunshine scent on my pillow.It’ll be all I can smell tonight when I go to bed.
She watches me get the wood sorted for the pergola, and when I ask her to remember a few measurements, she whips out her phone to jot them down.
“I’m amazed that thing didn’t run out of battery juice,” I say.
She rolls her eyes at me. “They make portable energy banks.”
“I’m familiar. But I wasn’t sure you would be.”
“Well, I am.” She juts her chin in the air. “Look, I know the shoe thing was a dumb mistake, but I’m not stupid.”
I frown. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” But I feel a guarded wall come up between us, and I’m more careful about what I say after that.
Someone else tells her she’s stupid. That’s a thing she has to deal with regularly, I realize.
That makes me bring my hammer down a lot harder.
* * *
When I take a break to get dinner organized, she insists on helping.
I find myself watching her hands a lot, for reasons I cannot fathom. The efficient way she chops vegetables, like a professional chef. The very careful way she sets a table, as if she was trained by an old-school butler. And then there’s the urgent way she repacks her bag every time she needs to get something out of it, even after she’s agreed she isn’t going anywhere today.
She needs to give her feet a day or two of rest. That was the excuse I told myself. But after a half day of having her buzzing around me, my little helper bee, I just want her to stay because I’m curious.
Curious about her hands, her life, and who makes her feel less than the glorious ray of sunshine she seems to be.
And to my great surprise, I enjoy her resistance to my bossy ways. The push-pull is fun.
I can tell it doesn’t come from a negative place. It’s just that she’s wound tight, like a new recruit all amped up on adrenaline. More than once, I think she needs to work that energy off in a productive way so she can focus.
A good fuck—
No. I can’t do that.
Even though it’s all I think about as she tucks into the pasta dish we made with a groaning delight that makes me hard for the hundredth time that day.
My arousal is briefly dampened by the concern that this might be the best meal she’s had in a couple of days. “When did you say you started hiking?”
“I didn’t.” She stabs her fork into a piece of rotini. “This is delicious.”
“Goldilocks, we’re gonna have words.”
She smirks. “Okay, Daddy.”
I vaguely recognize her response as a sarcastic meme. But holy shit, does that resonate deep inside me in a way she doesn’t intend.
Maybe what this girl needs is a father figure. Instead, she’s got me. Not quite old enough to be her dad, but definitely old enough to know better than to keep threatening her with a spanking that won’t be any kind of punishment.
If she wants to tease me about being in charge, I will take that mantle and run with it. I might even enjoy it a little too much.
