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“Jesus, Leland,” I breathed. He’d propped a heel up on the island, leaning back into his palms. I’d opened my mouth to chastise him about having his feet where we ate, but the gnarled skin reaching toward his shin from the back of his calf stopped me.
I moved in close, standing between his legs to trace my fingers over the old wound.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he whispered. “You don’t have to treat it like it does.”
“Of course it does,” I said. I wasn’t talking aboutthe physical pain in his leg. Neither of us were. Without having to say it, we were discussing the ache in his heart, and that wound would hurt forever.
“You don’t have to pretend to be unaffected by what she did to you. Not with me,” I said, my fingers idly exploring the webbed scar tissue. The way Leland spoke about his mother suggested the things she’d done were only her problem, not his.
I didn’t care what any therapist said. The sins of our parents became our problems too, because we were left to find a way to deal with them, to get past them. My children included.
“Maybe I just like when you don’t handle me with kid gloves,” he said.
That wasn’t it, or maybe that wasn’tonlyit, but I dug my fingers into him anyway. His cheeks reddened and his cock shifted in his underwear.
I spun away, busying myself with cleaning up, although I hadn’t even eaten yet.
“I, ah… I’m gonna go put some clothes on now that I don’t need to run for my life. No more cooking. Ever,” he called back unsteadily as he bolted from the kitchen.
He returned wearing sweats and a shirt, and we ate the salvageable parts of our breakfast.
“I could have the mural finished in a few weeks,” he said. I covered my disappointment by adding our plates to the load in the dishwasher.
“Take your time,” I said nonchalantly. “If you think you need to rush on my behalf, you don’t.”
“It’s not you. I’ve got plans I need to get back to,” he said. He’d moved to the edge of the living room, his eyes closed as he soaked up the sun shining in from the patio.
“Sorry,” I said, meaning it. “I didn’t stop to think about what I may be keeping you from.”
“You’re not keeping me from anything,” he said serenely, the sun transporting him to his happy place. “I just have something I need to do in a few weeks. I could always fit both into my schedule if I have to.” He moved farther onto the patio-turned-construction zone, and I joined him.
“How about we take the day off?” I asked, running my thumb over the keys in my pocket.
“To do what?” he asked in a sun-drunk state. I bit back a laugh, jangling the keys to get his attention. Leland cracked an eye open.
“I haven’t taken the boat for a spin yet. It’ll be even sunnier on the water.”
“Hell, yeah,” he said, letting out a whoop and reaching for the keys. “Who needs work anyway?”
“I’ll grab the beer and sandwiches I made us,” I said, and his mouth opened in alarm.
“Look, I may not be the best cook—”
“‘Not the best’ implies you can still cook, and well…you can’t,” he said, as if breaking the news to me gently.
“It’s just bread and turkey. You can’t mess up bread and turkey,” I said.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, missing out on my eye roll as he bounded for the stairs leading to the dock.
***
I hung back near the sun lounger on the stern, giving Leland time to soak in everything the mini yacht had to offer. Experiencing it through his eyes brought me a level of pleasure I hadn’t felt since I was a kid, way before I knew to expect this type of opulence from my life.
His hands scaled over the upholstery and siding of the boat as he moved beyond the wet-bar and deeper into the cockpit. More than once his gaze returned to the sunbed I stood beside.
“There’s a sunbathing area on the foredeck as well,” I told him, then chuckled when he dashed to the front of the boat. I unclipped my sunglasses from the collar of my shirt, slipping them on in preparation for the blast of sunlight awaiting me, then met him up front.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he said, already sprawled out on his back with his own shades on. “I was kind of hoping you’d one day invite me on board.”
