3. Dean
Dean
Lewis would want me to take care of his daughter in whatever way possible. He’d want me to make sure she’s happy, and give her whatever she needs.
If he knew what kind of thoughts were forming in my head as I sit here watching her shovel food inside like she hasn’t had a good meal in days, he’d be rolling around in his grave.
I should be ashamed. Fuck, I should be forking out the money to get her the next plane ticket back to Texas so we can go back to playing it safe.
There’s no risk of trying to make the young woman mine with thousands of miles separating us.
Now that she’s here—under my roof, at my table—I can’t bring myself to let her go. Even if I tried, the way she clings to the warmth of this house, the quiet relief in her tired eyes, tells me she won’t leave without a fight.
I’d have to be a damn fool—or a far worse man—to send her back into the storm, knowing she’d struggle alone when I could keep her safe.
So, I’ll do what’s right. Keep my word. The guest room is hers for as long as she needs it.
But that’s where it ends. No more slipping into her space like I did earlier, no more aching to let my hands linger where they shouldn’t. No matter how badly I want to.
The lights flicker above us, a warning. Her gaze darts up, lips parting—not quite fear, but close. She doesn’t have to ask. I already know.
“Generator’s out back if the power goes out. No point in worrying about it, I’m sure it’ll happen before nightfall,” I say, nudging her plate toward her. “Eat. The storm’s gonna get worse before it gets better. Enjoy it while it’s hot before we can’t heat it back up.”
She obeys, picking at the pasta like it’s something sacred. My eyes drag the entire length as she brings the fork to her plump lips. Her cheeks match in color, stained pink. All it takes is the sight of her tongue to make my knee bounce.
I’m a good man. I am. The only way I’m going to convince myself is to put my focus on her without taking in the small details. What I need to do is take in the bigger picture here.
The way her throat works when she swallows, the faint tremor in her fingers—it’s been too long since she’s had a real meal.
Not anymore. If she stays here, she eats. She sleeps. She stays safe.
There isn’t any other option. The only cost is my patience and the constant test of my strength.
We get a few minutes of silence, a few minutes of me trying to think of something I can talk to her about without bringing back that hurt expression to her face.
Can’t ask about college, or the choice not to move to a dorm instead of traveling out here.
Can’t ask about her lease and why she decided to leave everything behind.
What else is there to discuss?
“Mr. Whiskers looks fluffier in person,” she murmurs, like she’s thinking the same thing I am. “Tell me he enjoys cuddling. I’m going to need someone to sleep with.”
My knee bounces faster. I blame the next strike of thunder for why my heart pounds heavier.
“He can’t decide what he wants to do. Sometimes, I wake up with him on my face. Others, he acts like he’s too good to be near me.” She snorts, and I stifle a smile behind my propped-up hand. “I’ve only spoken good things to him about you, so you have a fair chance to stay on his good side.”
Alani rocks back in her chair to look around for the white ball of fluff, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
As long as he’s not getting fed, he doesn’t care.
If I have to guess, the storm has him hiding under my bed.
Her lips purse together, and I consider moving to hunt him down so that I can see another smile form on her lips.
She’s beautiful when she lights up. Like the sun on a summer day.
Fuck me. Focus.
Once her plate is empty, I push back to clear it, but she moves too.
Like it’s a competition, her hand darts out, fingers skimming mine in her rush to prove she doesn’t need me to take care of her. Like she doesn’t want to be a hassle.
I don’t think she is. I want to take care of her. After upsetting her earlier, she thinks such a concept is unfathomable.
God, I want to take care of her in every way possible. Can’t she see how much it’s tearing at me that I can’t allow myself to hover?
She’s an adult, an independent young woman who has barely learned of the hardships of this world. Hardly twenty-one or two years old. So, why do I want to treat her like she’s the complete opposite?
A jolt races up my arm, tingling from the moment our bodies make contact. My whole body locks up, refusing to budge like I’m experiencing a full-body shutdown.
She’s grinning, smug as hell, but I can’t even look at her face.
I’m too busy staring at my traitorous fingers, still buzzing like she left lightning under my skin. Curling my fingers, I pull back and frown as she abandons the table to clean her plate.
“I’m not going to be some leech. I’ll clean up after myself. So, if there is anything I can do around here to pay you back for what you’re doing—” She lets the water run long after the suds no longer cling to the porcelain. “—just say the word. Anything, I mean it.”
She clutches the plate as water droplets drip against her arm, tracing the length of her veins. When my frown deepens, she groans in return.
“I’m serious, Dean. I know I might not be good at a lot of things, but—”
Cut in the middle of her sentence, a loud bang hits somewhere outside, nothing like the thunder we’ve heard in the passing hours. It’s enough to spook her, making her jump before the disk slips from her fingers.
Whatever caused the bang kills the lights, plunging the kitchen into darkness. A sharp gasp follows, the crash of shattering ceramic, then the low groan of a hiss between clenched teeth.
The generator kicks in. Weak light floods back. Takes no time at all to figure out the reason behind the noise.
There she is—crouched on the floor, fingers pressed to a bleeding cut on her palm while her other hand clutches a shard too sharp.
“Clumsy,” she mutters, but her voice wavers. Her eyes are wide, like the cut has surprised her as much as it has me. Her skin is pale, like she’s unsure of what to do next. How in the world has she managed all by herself if a cut has thrown her for a spin?
Unlike her frozen form, I’m moving toward her without a thought passing.
I don’t ask. Just grab her wrist, turning her hand over. A jagged slice, welling red. My thumb brushes the edge, and she shudders.
“Not even a day has passed, and you’ve hurt yourself.” My voice comes out rough, thick enough to choke on the words. “Now I’m gonna have to work extra hard to take care of you.”
A beat. Then, too soft, too honest, like the words come out without much thought behind them.
“…I’d like that.” Three words with enough weight to leave a man like me wrecked and forgetting how to do something as simple as function properly.
The air between us goes heavy. My eyes flick up toward her mouth, and I catch her biting her lip like she’s trying to stop more words from spilling out.
Her blush burns brighter than the cut. She doesn’t meet my gaze, but she doesn’t have to. The damage is done.
We want the same thing. The question is, how far can I let myself give in without crossing the line that needs to be between us?
If I cross it, there’s no chance of going back.
I don’t shy away from the line by letting my fingers linger longer than they should. “Let’s get you to the table, and I can find the first aid kit.”
Alani doesn’t budge. “I’ll get blood everywhere.”
The cut is hardly deep enough to act like a geyser, but there are a few droplets against the tile. Even as she presses into the cut, another drop falls.
“You’re stubborn, you know that?” She gets it from Lewis. Hardly rushing to prove me wrong with a layer of silence, I curse under my breath and rush out of the kitchen to find the kit. When I come back, I find that she’s made herself quite comfortable on the counter.
“If you look to your left, you may see a blood smudge, but I’ll clean it up.” Her heels brush against the cabinet doors. “Figured it might be less of a hassle if I were your height.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. She thinks she’s being helpful.
All she’s done is put herself right where I’ve dreamed her—knees parted, all too welcoming with her body tilted toward me like an invitation.
It takes everything in me not to step between those thighs, not to cage her against the counter, and finally find out if her mouth tastes as sweet as it looks.
Cracking open the kit, I pull out alcohol swabs and warn her of the burn before I swab it across. Even with the warning, she hisses, and I feel the same pain through my body. Not wanting to drag it out, I’m checking to see if the cut is deeper than I assume. Thankfully, it’s not too bad.
Alani sucks in a breath as my thumb strokes along the length of the cut like I can soothe the pain with touch alone.
She leans in instead, her breath warm on my cheeks as I struggle to pull away and grab a bandage. “You’re good at this, you know? I’ve been a pain since you found me, and you’re going above and beyond.”
I can tell her that I’ve done plenty of tending wounds in my past, but I don’t. Not while it feels like I’ve got fingers digging in my throat with a grip that’s tight.
Grunting, I’m far quicker with placing a bandage on her palm. Once I’ve smoothed it down, she lets out the little sigh that plucks at a taut string in my chest.
“Thank you, Dean.” She cradles her hand, looking at the bandage like it’s worth more than a few cents. “We should clean up the plate before I cut something else.”
She’s right. I shouldn’t hope for another excuse to cradle another body part. There are a lot of things I shouldn’t do.
“Stay here. Don’t want you stepping on a shard.” Choking on the words, I pull myself away so I can hunt down a broom. All while her eyes follow my movement, I clean up the destroyed plate. It’s easy and quick, and once I’m done, she doesn’t jump off.
My fingers twitch at my sides, and something twists around in my chest.
“You need help getting down?” A question I shouldn’t ask.
Alani nods, as if we both know she wouldn’t have any issue hopping down.
I move back toward her, my body acting on its own.
For once, I don’t allow myself to think.
My fingers glide along the length of her thighs until both hands settle on her hips.
At the same time, her hands find my shoulders like she expects me to not just pick her up, but to carry her around wherever she pleases.
My cock stirs as her fingers tickle the hairs on the back of my neck.
I’d carry her to the ends of this earth if that’s what she wanted.
Light as a feather, I pluck her off the counter. Taking two steps back, she slowly slides to the floor before she’s forced to release me. Her hands leave a hot trail down my throat and the front of my chest as she purposely takes her sweet time releasing me from her hold.
“Thank you again.” Her whisper is soft, but her eyes are daring. That little smile—knowing, like she’s aware of precisely what she’s doing to me.
I want to kiss her. I won’t. I can’t.
A noncommittal grunt leaves my lips as I take a step back. I busy myself with the bandage wrapper, crushing it in my fist like I can choke out the need clawing up my throat.
She steps away, leaving the room feeling cooler as she creates some distance.
I don’t ask her where she’s going, or ask her to stay.
That’s what’s best. For her. For my sanity.