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I’d been up for over an hour before I started banging around, trying to wake her up without having to go over and touch her.
After her mostly-naked appearance in my bedroom the night before – and the undeniable way my body had responded to it – I decided that space would be smart.
She was too tempting.
And too close.
And too damaged.
There were lines you crossed, ones you toed, and ones you stayed far the fuck away from.
Touching her was the latter.
She was beautiful, sure. Especially now that the bruises were lightening, the swelling all but gone, showing what was beneath. Milky skin with an unexpected, charming smattering of freckles. Not just over the bridge of her nose, but peppered across the tops of her cheekbones as well, lending her already delicate face more sweetness. And against all that, her green eyes seemed brighter. If you looked closely, there were little golden flecks within them too.
So I tried not to look.
I tried, also, not to think about the way the swells of her breasts – a healthy handful – had been visible above the line of the towel, the way her nipples had pebbled through the fabric from the chill in my room.
The thick material of my flannel shirt – and the way it swallowed up her much smaller frame completely – made it easier not to think of those things. That I very badly needed not to think of.
It had been too long, I told myself. That was the reason I reacted to her when I never reacted to any of the other women who had stayed in my place.
Hell, sometimes those women even tried to start things up. But there had never been any interest on my part. No matter how objectively gorgeous they were.
There was just nothing tempting there.
They were a nuisance.
Interlopers.
And outside of clients, I didn’t see women much.
Occasionally, when I had to make a trip into town – or even up into Navesink Bank – there would be a women. There would be an urge. I would give into it.
Always casual on both ends.
And always infrequent.
I dunno… it had to be a good year at this point. Maybe even longer.
That was all it was.
A need left unsatisfied.
“You made me shoes?” she asked a moment later, lips parted, gaze downward, and therefore, from my angle, unreadable.
“Finn’ll bring you real ones. I know they aren’t pretty but I…”
“They’re perfect,” she cut me off, head turning up, a clear warmth in those green eyes of hers, her lips tipped upward. “I can’t believe you made me shoes.”
“Can’t be walking around in the woods in socks. Your feet have been through enough. These might be a little awkward to get used to, but they will work for a while. Try ’em on.”
With that, she slid her feet in, flexing her toes, taking a couple fake steps.
“If you’d have told me a month ago that I would be living in the woods, taking eggs out from under chicken butts, and – sin of all sins – wearing socks with sandals, I would have laughed in your face.”
“Life in the sticks takes a little adjustment.”
“They’re more comfortable than any of the shoes I own,” she told me as she fell into step with me, gaze on her feet, shaking her head.
“Pretty hurts. Ugly does its job comfortably.”
“How far out is this place?” she asked a while later, swatting a branch out of her way.
“I set it up near the river, so watering doesn’t involve carrying buckets back and forth. Has a good break from the canopies too. He’s just going to play in the water,” I told her when she watched Captain bound off with the other guys who had followed us, her eyes a little worried. “He’ll come back when we go. Here,” I said, pulling open the door to the tall semi-translucent structure.
“Oh, wow. You have a lot in here.”
I did.
It took a while to get the greenhouse how I wanted it, having to haul in giant black drums filled with water to warm up in the sun then let off steam at night to help keep it warm in the winter without having to try to set up a solar heater to it.
Once I got the temperature right, things started to flourish. All the greens – lettuce, spinach, kale, chard. The berries – blue, raspberry, blackberry.
The other veggies thrived too – carrots, turnips, peppers, squash, cucumber, green beans, and about every kind of potato known to man since potatoes made just about every meal all the more filling.
“Show me what ones are ready to pick. I can do this. And water them if you show me the way to the river. Do you always keep this going? Even when you have the garden going?”
“Yeah, pretty much. You never know what kind of yield you are going to get, if the season will be too hot – burning everything up – or too heavy on the rain, giving everything wet feet. It’s good to have a backup. When both crops are good, I just dehydrate the extra, put them in mason jars as ‘just add water’ soups and stews.”
