Chapter 3
Leah
My skin is tingling, and my chest is warm from the way he keeps finding reasons to touch me.
First, it was my hand getting out of the car, then holding on to me, leading me to the door. Those could be explained, since they were necessary.
But now he's made me nearly gasp twice. Once, when he tucked my hair behind my ear and left his hand there. Again, a few moments later, when his fingertips grazed up and down the back of my arm while he talked about taking care of his mom.
After Henrietta left, I couldn't think of a thing to say, so Allister filled the silence with his warm voice.
And I want to keep listening to him. He's not just talking to hear his own voice.
He knows he's settling me with his stories.
I could listen to him talk for hours and never want him to stop.
"When my father died from a heart attack, my mom died with him a little. She had some rough years, but managed to get herself back together. Now, I just do my damnedest to make sure she stays that way. Not always easy." The low chuckle he lets out makes me smile back.
"Where does she live?" I fold and unfold my hands in my lap. Then I reach for the fork and murder another carrot I have no intention of eating.
Allister's golden-brown eyes follow my hands. It only makes me more nervous, so I leave the carrot to die a slow, agonizing death and hug myself, rubbing my arms, trying to scrub away the last of the tingle he left when he touched me.
"Not far from me. I bought her a condo about a half mile from my house. Any day I can't get over there to check on her, I send one of the girls."
The girls.
Hearing him use that word sends a flash of jealousy through me.
At the Monarch clubs, the staff are mostly women, and I'm sure they're who he means. But that does nothing for the green-eyed monster clawing up my gut.
I know from Decker and May that they have a tight group at the places they run. But let's just say, the women who work the clubs are what male fantasies are made of. Add in my scars, my leg braces, and the fact that I can't walk on my own, and I'm not exactly fantasy material.
"That's nice." I push the murdered carrots around my plate, hating the bratty tone in my reply. Neither of us has taken a bite, and the food's gone cold.
Allister takes a deep breath, and I'm once again captivated by the veins on the backs of his hands. The dark hair peeking from under the white cuff of his shirt is more interesting than it has any right to be. No part of a man has ever done this to my body before.
Stop staring at all his man-ness, ding-dong. Clearly, you can't handle it.
The voice in my head thankfully doesn't mention the demise of my panties.
"It's not like that," he says, and the gentleness in his voice tells me he's trying to soothe my nerves, which only makes them worse.
I turn to look out the window over the sink. The sunlight streaming through it hurts my eyes, but I'd rather not face him right now.
"I want..." He stops, his hand shooting out to close over mine, fork and all. "I need you to know it's not like that. Leah, I'm their boss, that's all. Some of us go back a long way, but it's never been, and never will be, anything more than professional. Never."
"None of my business," I snap, turning back to meet his eyes, and the contact sends my heart racing.
"Leah, listen to me. It's not like that."
His eyes are so open, so honest. It makes my face hot. I nod, and he lets go of my hand, but a part of me wants him to grab me again.
How can a man who looks like him exude such softness?
I haven't been charming, not even a little, and not once has he shown me anything but acceptance and kindness. It's as though he wants to draw the petulance out of me and absorb it into himself, take it away and hand me back something warm in its place.
For a second, I'm lost in his calm power. I shiver, imagining what that caged intensity looks like once it's let loose.
In anger.
Or passion.
The thought of the second one draws my nipples tight. A flash of him naked, arms locked, caged above me, nearly pulls a whimper out of me. Instead, I shift in my chair, squeezing my core tight as the tension builds by the second.
"I'm still stuffed from earlier." He lets out a sigh, and for some reason, I find myself wondering how long it's been since he was with a woman. "Are you still full?"
All I can do is nod, but it's enough. He traces the backs of his fingers over my wrist, so lightly it leaves a tingle and a burn behind.
"I know I promised to get you to eat. But that can wait. Let's set it aside for now."
"I used to cook," I blurt out, suddenly needing him to know I wasn't always like this.
And dance, I want to add, but I keep that one to myself.
"Yes? But Henrietta scared you out of the kitchen? Because that would be understandable." Allister picks up the plates and stands, carrying them to where the pots and pans sit.
"No. Getting around in there just became such a hassle.
May and I used to spend hours with the cooks at the house before the accident.
My constant craving for blueberry Poptarts is what got her baking.
" I let the words trail off and brace for the silence that follows.
But if he notices it at all, he doesn't let it show.
"I've been lucky enough to taste some of May's pastries." He chuckles. "My God, Decker will be the fat man from the circus within a year. And, let's face it, you and I have our favorite flavor of Poptarts in common, so I can't be all bad."
He sets the plates down and smiles as he pats his stomach. It's broad and flat, his dress shirt stretched tight across. For a beat, the thought of what he looks like under his clothes hits me again. Is the rest of him covered in the dark hair dusting the backs of his hands and knuckles?
Would I like that? God, yes, I would.
And, God, what about his abs? I imagine them defined and hard, my fingers tracing the valleys between them. Does he have those cut lines that run from his hips, down toward—
"Leah? Where'd you go?"
"What?" I shake off the burn in my cheeks, certain my thoughts are floating over my head like a cartoon bubble. "Did you say something?"
"I said, I want you to come to my place."
His place? My mind turns each word over, hunting for the sense in them, and comes up blank. "What?"
"I can't have you here alone. I'm sorry, I just can't. And this place.
" He looks around the streamlined modern kitchen.
"I don't feel comfortable with you here.
I'll be the perfect gentleman. I've got a guest suite on the first floor.
It's all made up already, you won't have to do a thing.
I keep it clean. I want you to come. Or I'm going to stay here with you, sleeping on the couch.
And that couch doesn't look like it will last a night with me. "
We both look over and chuckle at the squared-off white leather sofa anchoring the living room off the kitchen. Barely half of him would fit.
"Decker gave me a cell phone. I'll be fine."
The truth is, I've never spent a night truly alone in my life.
Not counting the nights they locked me in the basement, and even then, I knew a guard stood outside the door, so I never quite felt it.
Out here in the guesthouse, with May and Decker gone from the main house tonight, is as close as I've come, and it already feels lonely. I could ask him to just move us both over there, but I won’t.
Because I want him to ask me again. I'm pleading for him to take control. To insist. To take the decision out of my hands.
"A cell phone won't help if you can't get to it.
Or you need someone to run out and buy you some Ben & Jerry's at midnight.
Or there's a spider in the bathroom, and you need me to come with a flamethrower and kill the rat bastard.
These are things I can do. A cell phone can't. I'm better than a cell phone, you'll have to trust me on that. "
A giggle spurts out of me at this enormous man. I've never met anyone quite like him. Decker comes close, but Allister is somehow harder and softer at the same time.
Decker runs serious, and May can ruffle his feathers with barely a wink, but with me, he's stayed quiet. Allister feels like a giant teddy bear that could turn grizzly at the drop of a hat.
I'm dragged down from my moment of euphoria by the weight in my stomach. If I stay with him, there's no hiding all my contraptions, the hardware it takes to keep me mobile. I may have been like this for a while, but letting other people see all of it still makes me wildly uncomfortable.
All my insecurity kills what could be a perfectly lovely moment.
I have to look away because the desire in his eyes only makes me feel more humiliated, like he can't possibly understand what my life actually looks like.
"Well, I'm all settled in here, but…" It's a weak excuse, and he's across the kitchen in a heartbeat, crouching beside my chair.
"You'll be settled in better at my place." The command in his voice sets off another round of tingles between my legs. "You're coming, that's settled. I'll take care of you. Now, where's your wheelchair and your crutches?"
He slaps his hands together and rubs them.
The matter-of-fact tone in his voice when he uses those words, words that would normally make me shrink with embarrassment, has me so turned on. And the way his eyes lock on my face has me lifting a hand and pointing down the hall, no more protesting.
"Great. You want me to go ahead and pack some of your things, too? Or you want to come with me?" He stops, making a face. "Sorry. I'm trying not to be overbearing, but I'm failing. I'll let you decide what to bring. You point, I'll pack."
"What? No, I can manage. I may look helpless, but..." I catch myself, because all this defensiveness with him is pointless. He only wants to help, and he means it. "Sorry. I mean, thank you, but I can get my stuff together."
"I want to help you, Leah. Let me help."