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I get up, walk over to the fridge, and retrieve a cherry-apple juice box. I also grab a tea for myself, something to wet my throat. The kitchen is extra dry this time of year, or maybe I’m just used to the high humidity mom always insists on at home for her skin.
I reach for my phone and tap the button, illuminating its screen. Almost six o’clock.
Marshal is late. He’s usually inside fixing dinner by now, giving me a chance to make a run to my parents’ house and check up on them.
“Hey, honeybee, want to help clean up? I need to bring your daddy in before he freezes.” She nods enthusiastically and I smile again, watching as her tiny hands reach for the trivia cards, piling them back into the empty game box.
It’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow. Another turn of the calendar. Possibly the year Marshal decides to treat me like a human being again.
He’s kept his distance since the morning I thought he’d turn me out. Still can’t figure out what changed his mind. Haven’t mustered up the courage to ask either.
I’m here, I’m being paid, and for the first time since college, I’m doing something on my own. That means a lot. So much, maybe, it’s hard to ask the burning questions.
I shouldn’t rock the boat. Just be happy.
If only every contact with him didn’t feel like Russian roulette. I’m flying blind. There’s no telling what sets him off, might make him think I’m not good enough after all, and turn me back out to nowhere.
It’s ridiculous how nervous I am closing in, bundled to the brim. Winter resumed its assault after Christmas. The winds are extra frigid, especially after sunset, blowing wispy snow across the short path connecting the back door to his workshop.
My knock sounds muffled through mittens. But it gets his attention.
Marshal jerks the door open a second later and pulls me inside, an anxious flame in his blue eyes. “What?”
“Thought I’d see if you’re coming in to fix dinner soon. Or should I take Mia into town and grab something?”
Marshal shakes his head, turning away. It’s much warmer in here and it shows.
He’s been at it for most of the day, so long and hard he’s stripped down to jeans and a tight grey muscle shirt. He’s wearing a few dark blotches, the same oily smudges on his tree trunk arms, imperfections merging seamlessly with the dense, dark inks stenciled on his skin.
Sweet Jesus. I didn’t realize how tattooed he was. This is the barest I’ve seen him without those flannel shirts and thermal suits he wears.
Danger echoes in my head. Every second I keep my eyes on him, there’s a siren blaring louder. A warning and a slow moving heat pooling between my legs, thieving my breath away. I think it’s the cost of admiring this feral, ripped, blue eyed beast.
“You seem busy. You’re sure you don’t want me to just get pizza or Chinese tonight?”
“She’s met her junk food quota with Christmas. Can’t you cook?”
My blood warms, and it has nothing to do with standing close to his wood burning stove. “Didn’t realize that was in the job description.”
“Shit changes, Red. Welcome to life,” he growls, ignoring me as he stomps toward his workbench, wiping his hands on a rag. “I know there’s plenty of food in the freezer. Make us something tonight?”
I don’t move. I’m not saying anything until he turns around and finally looks me in the eye. “Try again. You’re missing a very important word.”
There’s a long pause. For a second, I’m worried I’ll have to walk out to salvage my wounded pride, and order a pizza after all. I’m not slaving over dinner for this ungrateful beast who thinks he can bark and bring the world to his knees.
“Please.” He sighs, bright blue eyes shifting in his face, just short of a full sarcastic roll. “Please, Red. I’m sorry this is coming out wrong. I’ve got the holiday weekend to wrap up this job. People get pissed if I don’t get their crap back to them on time.”
Better. But I’m still not buying his excuses.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say quietly, mulling how far I want to test the waters. “Should I plan on food for tomorrow, too? New Year’s Eve?”
He blinks. Almost winces. I don’t know why it sends a shot of guilt through my heart.
“No. Leave that to me. I’ll be done in another hour or two, and I’ll put her to bed tonight. Just worry about dinner.”
Of course. He never misses his nightly ritual. The few times I’ve been over late, trying to tuck the little girl in, he intervenes, telling me their story time is sacred. It would be adorable, if only his eyes weren’t so scary.
Just like now. Watching while I linger in his personal space, staring at the picture hanging on the wall. Weird because the only decorations in his house are a couple pictures of a newborn Mia sitting on his mantle.
