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A cautious smile presses her lips together. She blinks down, taking the mug and pouring a dollop of cream in it before taking a sip of the warm liquid.
“It’s good,” she nods, lowering the mug.
I return to the basket, retrieving a couple of muffins. “They're day-old, but they should reheat okay.”
“I liked the walnut ones.”
I dig a little deeper and pull out a few of those, putting them all on a plate and nuking them for fifteen seconds. When the bell dings, I take them out, putting the dish between us and sitting beside her to eat.
Her eyes are fixed on the muffin as she struggles to break it apart with one hand.
“Here.” I reach over and cut it into bite-sized pieces with my fork.
She waits, watching me with her hands in her lap. “Thank you.”
A pit is in my stomach, and I stand, going around the bar for more coffee, using the wooden barrier as a form of defense against the pull between us.
Holding the cup, I look out the kitchen window. Several limbs are down in the yard from the storm that passed last night, and the air is clean and chilly. I have several hours to kill before Scar needs me, and I can’t spend them in this house fighting these feelings.
When I turn to face her again, her eyes are on her fingers turning a piece of muffin on the plate, but she’s not eating. She’s blinking in a way that seems like she’s fighting some internal battle, and my stomach twists. I tell myself I don’t want to know, but she’s so small sitting at the table in my shirt and sweatpants. For the first time, she seems ten years younger than me. She seems vulnerable—a view I know is dangerous.
“Everything okay?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
Her lips press together before she lifts her blue eyes to mine. “I’m really sorry about last night. That hasn’t happened in a while.”
I nod, not sure what to say. She told me she had nightmares, but she didn’t tell me how severe they were. She also hadn’t told me they’d stopped. I guess that part wasn’t a lie.
Setting my mug down, I straighten. “I’m going to clean up some of the mess outside. Would you like to sit out there or… in here?”
“I’d like to sit outside if that’s okay.”
Wiping my hands, I take a Carhart jacket hanging on the rack and toss it over my arm. She stands, one hand still attached to the barstool, and I slide the right coat sleeve up her arm. Taking out the key, I unhook the cuff from the chair, and she slides her arm in the other sleeve.
Pulling the lapels, I straighten the jacket over her shoulders then fasten the button at her neck. Her eyes lift to mine again, and we’re so close. The heat of her body warms mine, and I could dip my face down and kiss her the way I used to do.
Taking a step back, I clear my throat. “Come on.” I guide her by the handcuff, not touching her skin, to the porch. “Would you prefer the bench or the swing?”
“Swing, please.”
My jaw clenches at her small voice, but I lead her to the wooden swing hanging from the porch ceiling. Locking the cuff around the chain going through the armrest, I turn and walk out to the covered patio. Scar has several small hand tools, a rake, and a large pile of limbs and leaves in a clear spot for burning. I pick up a hatchet and a pair of tree loppers and get started. Nothing’s better than manual labor to burn off bullshit feelings.
Hours later, I’m sweaty and energized, and Scar’s yard is completely clear. Throughout the morning, every time I glanced over, she was quietly gliding back and forth on the swing, her blue eyes fixed on me and my progress.
Returning to where she sits, I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my glove. “I’m heading in to take a shower. Do you need the restroom or anything?”
“Yes, please.”
I’m not sure why her soft, simple answers piss me off. It’s like she’s taunting me with compliance, submission, penance. I roughly unhook her and lift her a little too hard out of the swing. This time I grip her wrist, dragging her across the porch and into the house behind me.
I don’t stop until we’re at the bathroom, where I open the door and shove her inside. “Don’t take too long.”
I pull the door closed then go to the kitchen where I take a long drink of ice-cold water, but it only cools my anger slightly. I need a shower. The sound of the toilet flush makes me turn, and I go to the bathroom, banging on the door with my fist. “Let’s go.”
The door opens, and her eyes are round when she looks up at me as if she’s afraid. I don’t react. I take her wrist again, leading her to the bedroom and telling her to sit, hooking her to the nightstand before going to the bathroom and closing the door.
Stripping off my sweaty clothes, I switch on the shower and stand beneath the warm spray for several long minutes with my eyes closed. Scar and Hutch’s meeting today has to bring some sort of resolution to all this. I can’t keep going this way.
Slamming off the water, I turn, grab a towel, and quickly dry myself, tying the cloth around my waist. When I return to the bedroom, she’s holding my book again, reading with my picture in her fingers.
