Chapter 18 #2
“Yes I most certainly did. To this day, I can’t stand mustard.”
“Under the dresser?” Shepherd looks appalled. “That’s disgusting.”
“Hey, desperate times.” I shrug. “I was seven. My problem-solving skills weren’t exactly refined.”
“Did they ever find your stash of moldy sandwiches?”
“Only when we moved. My mom thought we had mice.” I laugh at the memory. “I never confessed.”
Shepherd shakes his head, eyes crinkling with amusement as he drains the pasta. Steam billows up, momentarily obscuring his face. “You were a diabolical child.”
“I like to think of it as resourceful,” I correct him.
“I think this is all ready.” He gestures with a wooden spoon. “Will you grab those plates?”
I reach for the plates he’s pointing to, our domestic rhythm surprisingly natural.
If someone would’ve told me when I first met Shepherd that he’s as impressive off the field as he is on, I would’ve never believed it.
I find myself mesmerized by the confident way his hands move, chopping, stirring, plating with an effortless precision I never expected from someone who makes his living on a football field rather than in a kitchen.
“Not bad,” I say, taking a bite once we sit down.
“Not bad?” he repeats.
“Yeah. That’s high praise.”
He cocks his head. “That’s insulting.”
“It’s accurate,” I argue, not wanting to inflate his ego too much.
In reality this food is to die for.
Best meal I’ve had in a long time.
He watches me as I take another bite and waits for me to say something. “Okay,” I admit. “It’s really good.”
He beams. “There it is.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. I’m actually smiling. And that’s when I realize I haven’t thought about leaving since I walked in here. I haven’t been counting the minutes and I’m not currently planning my exit. I’m just…here. With Shepherd.
And I don’t hate it at all.
It’s raining outside but something about the rhythmic sounds on the roof of this little house is calming.
My weather app has been warning us of an unstable night ahead but it’s Portland.
It rains all the time and right now there’s no storm.
Just a gentle rain that smells heavenly as I let my front door hang open.
My body aches and by all means I should be tired, but I’m not.
Something about today—a rare day with no work—has left me feeling strangely alive.
The cottage gleams from hours of scrubbing, and through the barely open windows drifts the scent of rain-soaked earth and untamed forest that makes me want to breathe deeper than I have in months.
For once my chest doesn’t feel tight.
For once I don’t feel like I’m bracing for something.
I have a roof over my head every night. I’ve eaten warm meals with Shepherd every night that he’s home thanks to his affinity for cooking too much food, and he’s a kind and compassionate man who keeps me company more often than not. For once, life doesn’t seem so bad.
There’s music playing softly from my Bluetooth speaker and instead of turning it off and relaxing into bed with a book and a drink, I turn it up. Just a little.
Then a little more.
And before I can overthink it I start moving. It’s not graceful and it’s not planned. It’s just…me. Bare feet on hardwood, hair falling loose from its tie as I spin once, then twice, laughing under my breath at how ridiculous I probably look, but I don’t care.
I don’t stop because dancing feels…good.
I feel…free. Unstressed.
God, when was the last time I felt like this?
My walls are crumbling and I’m not thinking ten steps ahead like I used to.
I’m not always looking for an exit and that thought makes me beam.
I know this is because of Shepherd Haynes.
Somehow in these past couple months the universe decided to place me in his path and he hasn’t asked me to step out of his way even once.
His compassionate nature is astounding and his patience admirable.
Despite my lifelong eyeroll at millionaire athletes who get paid obscene amounts to chase balls around fields, I can’t deny that something shifted in me the night Shepherd Haynes walked through the door of my bar.
I really like him.
Like…really, really like him.
And so here I am, dancing it out because I’m in a good mood and because those signs in gift shops always say to dance in the rain, right?
Well, here I am, world.
Dancing in my kitchen like nobody is watching.
Alive in my own body.
I lift my arms, letting the air brush over my skin as I sway to the music, the faint rumble of thunder rolling in the distance like a quiet promise. My reflection catches in the darkened window and for a second, I don’t even recognize the girl looking back at me.
She looks lighter.
Softer.
Happier.
Prettier.
My breath comes a little faster as I push my hair back from my face and turn toward the open front door, and that’s when I see him.
Shepherd, leaning casually against the patio door of the main house, his arms crossed, watching me with a casual smile etched on his face. He’s wearing a Portland Rush T-shirt and, what the fuck?
Shepherd Haynes owns a pair of slutty gray sweatpants.
My heart stumbles and heat floods my face as I freeze in place.
Oh my God.
How long has he been watching me?
“Well,” he says, his voice muffled by the rain when I step outside, “that explains the music.”
I groan, dragging my hand down my face. “How long have you been standing there?”
His mouth curves, slow and amused. “Long enough.”
Damn his sexy grin.
“Fantastic,” I say, already stepping back, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement I just made. “Sorry. I’ll stop.”
“Don’t,” he says immediately, the word landing softer than I expect. He’s completely at ease, like watching me dance around the house is the most normal thing in the world. “You looked…” He trails off, like he’s choosing his words carefully.
My stomach flips. “Like what?”
His gaze holds mine. “Happy.”
I swallow, unsure what to do with that. “I was,” I admit softly. “I am.”
His expression changes just enough that I catch it. Like it matters to him that I’m in a good place.
Thunder rolls again, louder this time, and the sky flashes briefly, lighting up the space between us. He straightens, tapping his knuckles once against the glass, his T-shirt pulling taut across his chest.
“Storm’s about to hit.”
“I noticed,” I say, suddenly aware of how chilly it is out here. My nipples betraying me at every angle.
“You eat yet?” His gaze drifts down, then lifts back to my face.
I narrow my eyes immediately. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The question that leads to you feeding me.”
He shrugs, a slow smile spreading. “I’m predictable.”
“You’re suspicious,” I counter, my voice lower than I intended.
He laughs, and fuck me, the sound vibrates through my body. “Actually, I was hoping you might want some ice cream.” His eyes meet mine, steady and somehow both careful and hopeful at the same time. “I got that toothpaste with chocolate in it you like.”
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “It does not taste like toothpaste!”
“Agree to disagree.” His smile widens, and something in my chest loosens. “But just know it’s going to sit in my freezer forever if you don’t eat it…” He shrugs. “Though I suppose Kill and Hop will find it eventually so, no pressure.”
I find myself nodding before I’ve fully decided. “Yeah, okay. Ice cream sounds…perfect.”