Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Olivia
When Wylie’s lips meet mine, it’s magical.
He’s soft but firm, tasting me in long, slow, gentle sweeps. I’m acutely aware of his bare chest against my side as he braces me on his lap. His skin throws off so much heat that I feel it through my new, crisp white tee-shirt.
Wylie pulls back and meets my gaze as if checking on me to make sure this is what I want.
I angle my face to tell him I want him to do that again. Wylie’s mouth is everything. Tender and soft and as masterful as his strong hands gripping my waist.
His closeness pulls me back from the worry about whether I’m a terrible kisser. The moment is too perfect to not appreciate every little thing. His hard muscles under my thighs. The way he smells: soap, some kind of woodsy scented lotion he applied after shaving, and that undefinable scent of his bed that’s just…Wylie.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. It feels wrong to touch a man’s bare chest, especially right here in the kitchen when anyone could walk in at any moment. It’s not the same as a comforting hug. Do I circle his neck? Grab his butt? That’s hard to do when I’m in his lap. Touch his face? That seems too forward.
Wylie pulls away, and I want to whine for more. His face is so close I can feel his breath. His fingers brush some of my loose hair behind my ear.
He looks like he has something to say.
Maybe this is all part of it. It’s not just about kissing, but looking and touching and…oh gosh, the wanting.
“Good morning, love birds!”
I yip like an overexcited puppy and practically leap off Wylie’s lap.
In that brief glimpse as I pull away, Wylie looks so guilty at being caught it feels like a rejection.
I slink toward the fridge aimlessly and open the door, staring at nothing. The two brothers are up, taking over the kitchen and teasing Wylie. I hear him push away from the table, muttering some useless comeback.
I don’t register what anyone’s saying because shame is roaring in my ears. I shouldn’t have let Wylie kiss me.
“Wylie was just…checking my wounds.”
“Sure he was,” Ennis says, moving past me to pour himself a cup of coffee.
“Ooh, what’s this?” asks Jake.
Smoothing my hair, I turn around and see Jake hovering over the breakfast island. I explain, “It’s my cinnamon spice coffee cake. I wanted to do something special, to thank you all for your hospitality. And for giving me a job.”
Ennis laughs. “Looks like the boss has had his share of thanks already.”
Wylie stares at me unabashedly, his food not touched. He runs a hand over his bare chest, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
The man is pleased with himself.
Me? I want to crawl into one of the kitchen cabinets and wait for death.
I spend all day cooking, baking, prepping freezer meals for the next few days, reorganizing the cleaning supplies and pantry, and scrubbing the house top to bottom.
Around mid-morning, I receive a visit from the nurse-practitioner, who introduces herself as Ellie, and states that she’s here to look at my wounds and give me a tetanus shot.
I don’t have much experience with real medicine, but from what I’ve been told, doctors and nurses are supposed to ask many questions.
Reluctantly, I invite her in, and she sets up her equipment at the kitchen table, including a sterile tray with a syringe that makes my stomach do a somersault.
Ellie puts me at ease when she says, “Wylie told me about your situation. I’m only going to ask what I’m required by law to ask.” Name, age, address, medical history — that’s it. She takes a few notes, nodding along while I explain that I’ve never been seen by a professional before. And that’s it. No prodding inquiries about my family or the church. Nothing like that.
I like her.
She checks my eyes, my ears, my heart. She changes out the bandage over my ribs and says Wylie and I have done a good job keeping my wounds clean. “It’s scabbed over nicely.” She hands me a sample of antibiotic ointment. The tetanus shot doesn’t hurt as much as I anticipated it would.
Before she leaves, Ellie gives me a card and says, “If you or any of your friends ever need anything, this is a mobile, free clinic that provides services to people who don’t have insurance. You can call this number or check the website for our locations.”
And that’s it.
And I feel like I’ve taken the first step.
If I can get people out of the church, we have a resource for medical care. This feels huge.
I think about what else I need to do as I continue cleaning and scrubbing the house.
Not that this house needs a deep clean. Curly does a good job; I’ll give him that. The worst is that the spice jars are incredibly dusty. Clearly, these boys need someone to flavor their food.
Thoughts of recipes, thoughts of plans for a safe house — I will literally do anything to put the thought of that kiss out of my head.
I can’t kiss my boss.
It’s not all my fault. I know that. But I’m new to this. I’m new to literally everything. Wylie should know better.
I work my fingers to the bone until I’m so tired that I fall into bed well before the guys come home for dinner. I leave the piping hot pot roast resting on the stove in the cast iron skillet, a Caesar salad prepped in the fridge, and warm biscuits in the oven.
I shower and fall into bed. A fitful sleep takes over.
I dream of being chased by men without faces.
The night air freezes my limbs. I run, but I don’t seem to be gaining any ground. Meanwhile, the footsteps are getting closer.
Dogs’ teeth nip at my heel.
I’m so cold.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
My stomach churns as I’m lifted skyward by some unseen force, and I know—I just know—I’m about to be thrown to the ground to meet my death.
“Olivia.”
No, they can’t have found me. It’s too soon.
“Olivia, wake up!”
I sit up straight in bed, gasping for breath. Charlie, the ranch dog, is at the foot of the bed, his paws on the mattress, licking my feet that have slipped out from under the blankets.
“Wylie?”
The bed creaks as he sits beside me. His big hands cup my face. I’m hyperventilating and I can’t stop. “Olivia. You’re safe.”
I am safe. I’m in Curly’s room. Right across the hall from Wylie’s.
The elders don’t know I’m here. No one is chasing me.
“What…what are you doing in my room?”
“You were making the craziest noises. You scared the hell out of me. I thought something was wrong.”
He would have had to break the lock.
Finally, my breath slows enough for me to calm down. “I thought they were after me, but I couldn’t call out for help.”
“You’re safe now. You hear me?”
I go limp, and Wylie pulls me against him.
We shouldn’t. But I need this.
“I hate being so afraid. I hate crying. I hate that I brought you so much trouble.”
Wylie hushes me, his lips pressing against my head.
“You didn’t bring me any trouble.”
“Liar.”
He snorts a laugh, which makes me smile against his shoulder. I feel so guilty for wanting to kiss him there. To kiss him everywhere.
When he kissed me before, I didn’t know what to do with my hands.
But I know now. I know exactly what I want.
I circle my arms around Wylie’s rib cage and bring him in tighter to me. Go ahead and drag me to hell, but I can’t keep fighting this.
Wiley groans as I press my breasts against his chest.
“Olivia.”
“Wylie.”
“You keep touching me like that, we’re going to have a problem.”
“What kind of a problem?”
“I’m going to want to kiss you again.”
“I’m not going to sue you over it, boss.”
“Yeah, but then I’ll want you under me.”
A shiver of anticipation runs through me.
“I still don’t see the problem.”
He sighs a full-body sigh, then pulls back a little bit and presses his forehead to mine. “You’re still healing.”
I don’t know if he means from my literal injury, or from emotional scars of almost being forced to marry a disgusting polygamist.
All I know for sure is Wylie does not want to hurt me. That’s first and foremost. I’m tough, and I don’t care about my injury, which seems to be healing just fine. But I’d never forgive myself if messing around with him caused me to bleed again. Wylie would beat himself up.
“Then we can just cuddle,” I offer. And with a smile, I add, “Here. In Curly’s room. Because that’s way less sexy.”
Wylie laughs loudly, and I shush him. “Ennis’s room is right next door. You don’t want him to know you’re in here.”
“Hell. My brothers will likely congratulate me if anything.”
I move out of the way, allowing Wylie to slip under the covers with me. “Congratulate you for what?”
He rests his strong hand on my waist as I roll to my side and hike my legs up in a semi-fetal position. Wylie is careful not to put pressure on my bandage.
“For showing you how I feel about you.”
I let those words settle on me. Charlie hops up on the bed, turns twice, then plops down by my shins at the foot of the mattress.
“Want me to send him to my room?” Wylie asks.
“No way,” I think.
A dog and a cowboy in my bed. This feels right. And good. And safe.
Sleep falls over me again, and this time, it’s restful.