Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
EWAN
Oliver’s singing appears to be catching.
Humming to myself, I load the canvases into the back of the Jeep, not stressing too much about keeping them clean.
Daniel sent them to me, hoping I’d put something down to push me out of my funk.
If there are dirt stains beneath the paint, who the fuck cares?
They’re going to end up in the trash anyway.
Three cars honk a hello as I’m loading the Jeep.
Cheerfully, I wave back. I’m exhausted, and there are aches in my arms, shoulders, and stomach that feel like they’re gearing up to give me hell tomorrow.
It’s been a long time since I did anything that might count as physical fitness, and a day hauling certainly counts as that.
I’m disproportionately proud of myself, riding the endorphin high of a day spent working hard and in good company.
And the day’s all set to continue, as soon as I can get this shit loaded and my ass into the shower, because as nice as the boat smell is on Shiloh, it seems less intriguing on myself.
I smell like a corpse left to rot in the sun.
My face also feels a bit crusty, which means I’ve probably got a nice sunburn brewing underneath the salt caked to my skin.
Still, I wouldn’t trade away this day for anything.
Slamming the back of the Jeep, I’m still humming as I head back inside to spruce up.
I scrub the shit out of myself in the shower, pinking up the skin that wasn’t already discolored from the sun.
Standing in front of the mirror, thoughtlessly running the towel over my hair, I contemplate my appearance.
I think I’m going to leave the scruff, because I like it, and I’m pretty sure Shiloh does, too.
I’m also going to leave my hair a little messier than I usually would before showing up at a date, because again, I’m pretty sure Shiloh likes it.
I caught him looking at me enough times today to think about the bits of my appearance that might have been catching his eye, and I mean to play those up as much as possible.
If he prefers me to look windswept and sunburned and sweaty, then that is the Ewan I will endeavor to be.
I’m still channeling my inner Oliver as I gather a couple of other things to bring to Shiloh’s, singing random bits of song lyrics and humming through the ones I don’t know.
Arms full, I do another quick sweep of the room.
Somehow, in the short time I’ve been here, my belongings have seemed to scatter.
I’d wonder if they were moving themselves if I didn’t recognize my own propensity toward disarray.
Dumping the last load of stuff into the back seat of the Jeep, I lock up the cottage and hop into the driver’s seat, unable to stop grinning.
Maybe I should quit being an artist and haul lobster for a living instead.
Anything that leaves you feeling this good is worth the time.
Shiloh’s front door is propped open with a rock when I park the Jeep next to his truck. Literally sitting wide open, letting in mosquitos and flies and murderers. I shake my head as I walk toward the house, locking the car, even though I’ll be coming right back out to unload.
“Shi?” I call through the open doorway, and then huff an incredulous laugh when I can’t even see him. The door is wide open and he’s not even down here. I raise my voice a bit. “Shiloh?”
“Up here!” he yells back, voice filtering down the stairs from the upper level. “Come on up.”
Wiping my shoes off as best I can, I climb the staircase.
Slowly, because I haven’t yet been up here and I’m curious.
There aren’t any bedrooms downstairs, which means they’re up here.
Shiloh’s bed is up here, his closet. His toothbrush and razor and everything of a more personal nature are up here, and I’m itching to sniff it all out.
Unfortunately, no snooping or opening of random doors is needed to find Shiloh.
There’s a steady slide and banging noise coming from the open doorway on the left.
Peeking my head around the doorframe, I raise my eyebrows and grin at the very pleasant sight of Shiloh bent over, ass toward the door as he works to shove the bed frame to the wall.
“Well, hello,” I greet him happily, admiring that firm, round, blue-jean-clad bottom. He grunts, looking back over his shoulder at me.
“Do you mind?” he asks, clearly asking for help.
“Not at all,” I reply, clearly talking about something else entirely. He laughs, unable to keep fighting with the bed and straightening up.
Shiloh turns and moves toward me. I smirk at him, leaned casually against the doorframe, and just because I can, I look him up and down in a way that would have had my mother smacking the back of my head.
Jeans and a blue plaid shirt have never looked so good as they do on Shiloh.
He comes to a stop close enough that it takes me by surprise and then shocks me by cupping my chin and tightening his fingers on my jaw.
“Oh,” I say softly, not even meaning to say it at all. I can feel it again—that same possibility that swirled around us at the lighthouse.
This time, there’s little to interrupt us, though.
There’s nothing but us, and suddenly I realize just how scary a thought that is.
For so long, I’ve carried a torch for this man, and everyone knows planting an expectation will only leave you reaping a disappointment.
I want to say it wouldn’t matter if we weren’t sexually compatible, but I can admit to myself that it would come as a blow.
There are a lot of ways I’ve shown Shiloh how much I love him, but physically showing him hasn’t been one of them.
Now it’s an option, and I crave the opportunity to tease and taste and worship.
Silently, I look into his blue eyes and think, Please let me.
He stands there, keeping me in place with that hand on my jaw, for long enough that I start to wonder if this isn’t going where I’d thought it was.
But then he dips down, closing the short distance between our mouths, and I realize he’d only been giving me enough space to say no.
I inhale involuntarily the moment I feel his breath on my lips, eyes drifting closed.
There’s something to be said about letting someone else lead, about standing in the dark and waiting for the inevitable.
It’s a matter of seconds before he kisses me, but time feels stretched and taut like the misleading pop of silent color right before the firework booms. That’s how it feels when his mouth finally presses to mine, everything narrowed down to burning lungs and soft lips and the press of a thumb against my jaw.
He doesn’t push things too far, too fast, staying slow and gentle, just the way I’d always imagined Shiloh would kiss.
He’s not persistent, but caring. The kind of man who kisses like he wants you to enjoy yourself, and never mind how he feels.
I sigh against him, putting a hand on his forearm and giving my brain another place to devote neurons to.
He stops the kiss by turning my face to the side and pressing his lips to my cheekbone.
A slide of his thumb, scratching across the scruff on my face, and he drops his hand.
Mine falls with it, and I don’t yet let go of his forearm.
There’s something distinctly frightening about the pocket of space after an initial act of intimacy, a question about who liked it and how much and if it will continue.
Usually, I devote very little to these questions, the same way I care very little about the answers.
But this is Shiloh, and everything is far more precious and fragile.
Don’t go, I want to say, but don’t, because I’m the one who leaves, not him.
“That was a nice surprise,” I whisper, looking at the layers of blue in his irises—the darker ring around the edges and the spots of silver within, like the depths of the ocean.
“Was it?” he asks mildly. “I suppose after seven years of waiting, you’d start to wonder if we’d get there at all.”
I smile, not wanting him to follow that train of thought any further and get sad. Today has been too good to let the past weigh us down. If I have my way, the evening and night will be just as good, which means memories and regrets get to stand off to the side and wait for a rainy day.
“You should have waited for me to move the bed.” I’m thinking there are better things to do with that bed than move it, but I suppose I do have an entire SUV full of crap that needs unloading.
And I can smell something spicy wafting through the open door, which means Shiloh has dinner on.
Too much to do to hope for fun bedroom activities, in short.
“Here, grab that side,” Shiloh says, clearing his throat and looking away from me, but not before I catch the flush on his cheeks through the short beard covering them.
I smile at his back as I follow him to the bed, happy that my quiet, slightly shy lobsterman wasn’t fully replaced by the confident one.
We slide the bed against the wall, and Shiloh lifts the ends so I can tug out the towels he’d placed underneath the feet to protect his hardwood floors.
I survey the room as I do, noting the big window looking over the front drive.
No ocean view from this room, but the thought of working in here and watching for Shiloh’s truck to come home at the end of the day…
call me crazy, but it feels like I’m winning in this scenario.
“I’ll bring this downstairs,” he says, drawing my gaze away from the window over to where he’s standing with a hand propped on his hip and the other gesturing toward a dressing table. “You might need the chair, though?”