Chapter 18 #3
The hot water feels like a luxury, and when I finally step out, I actually put in the effort to blow-dry my hair until it falls into soft waves, curl the ends just slightly, and apply a little more makeup than usual—eyeliner, mascara, and my peach lipstick that matches my nails.
I stare at myself in the mirror, and the flush in my cheeks has nothing to do with the makeup.
Stop getting your hopes up, Lenny.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Paul is standing by the bedroom window with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the street below when he asks, “I guess you don’t have a vacuum clean—” He cuts himself off when he turns, and his eyes do a slow sweep from my socked feet up to my face, lingering on my lips before finally meeting my gaze, making my stomach flip.
“You’re done already?” I ask, stepping past him to examine his work, needing to look at anything other than the way he’s looking at me.
The bed is perfect. The frame is assembled, and the mattress is sitting properly on it, but not only that, he’s made it.
Fresh white sheets I’ve never seen before are tucked neatly at the corners, pillows I don’t own are propped against the headboard, and on top of everything sits my yellow blanket and pillows, the one he washed for me.
And in the center of the pillows, placed with obvious care, is Mr. Muffin.
My throat tightens.
“Paul.”
“You smell amazing,” he says quietly from behind me.
I turn to find him closer than I expected, and my breath catches. “I-it’s just body wash and lotion.”
“It’s you.” He takes another step, closing the distance between us. “Lemon and something sweeter. It’s been driving me insane for a while now.”
My pulse kicks up as his fingers slide into my hair at the base of my skull with a gentleness that makes my knees weak. He tilts my head back, and his nose brushes the side of my neck as he inhales deeply.
“This smell…” he murmurs against my skin, “… is going to be the death of me.”
I’m completely frozen, heart slamming so hard I’m sure he can feel it. Heat floods through me, pooling low in my belly, making my hands shake, and I don’t know what to do with any of it. I don’t know if this is real or if I’m dreaming.
I hold my hand out in front of me.
Five completely normal, non-breadstick fingers.
Holy shit. This is real.
Paul pulls back slowly, his hand sliding from my hair, and the loss of his warmth makes me want to chase after it.
His eyes find mine, and there’s a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Am I still being too subtle?”
“I-I…” The words won’t come. I’m standing here like an idiot, still holding my hand out for absolutely no reason.
His gaze follows my outstretched hand, and then he reaches out and catches it, turning it over to inspect my palm. His thumb traces the edge of the healing wound with careful attention.
“It looks way better,” he says, all clinical focus now, like he wasn’t just burying his face in my neck. “Does it still hurt?”
I shake my head, unable to form words.
He turns my hand over again, and his expression shifts slightly. “Your nails are new.”
I glance down at the peach polish. “My favorite polish was almost empty, so…”
“It’s pretty.” His thumb brushes over the back of my hand. “Matches your lipstick.”
Even more heat floods my cheeks. “Thanks?”
“Come on,” he says finally, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I’ll drive you to work.”
The moment we step outside, I realize I have no idea what I’m doing.
Walking beside Paul toward the logging truck feels surreal, as if I’ve stepped into someone else’s life where handsome men show up with furniture and smell your neck, saying things like “I’m not here out of guilt” without explaining what they are here for.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I climb into the cab, the height of the truck making me feel small. The interior smells like work. Oil, leather, and something earthy, so completely different from his Mercedes.
Paul slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, and suddenly we’re alone together in this enclosed space, and I’m hyperaware of every breath and small movement.
“Is this your truck too?” I ask when he pulls out of the parking lot.
“No, I borrowed it from my brother, Marcus.” He checks his mirrors before turning. “The boxes didn’t fit in mine.”
“Looks like a working truck.” I glance at the worn dashboard. “You can just use it?”
He shrugs. “He didn’t ask questions.”
“And what are you going to tell him when he asks why you needed it when you bring it back?”
His mouth curves. “That I was being a Good Samaritan.”
That should have made me feel safe. Instead, it made me feel stupid.
“Oh.” I turn to look out the window, watching the trees blur past.
A Good Samaritan.
Of course. That’s what this is. He’s just… helpful. Maybe he has some kind of helper syndrome. Sees someone in need and can’t help but fix things. That would explain all of this—the furniture, the attention, the way he keeps showing up.
It’s not about guilt. It’s not about me. It’s simply what he does.
Why do I feel sick all of a sudden?
“Shit. I didn’t mean…”
I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep staring out the window as he pulls into the inn’s parking lot. The moment he cuts the engine, the silence feels too loud.
“I should…” I reach for the door handle. “I should get inside. Thank you for driving me.”
“Lennon, wait—”
But I’m already pushing open the door and sliding out of the truck before he can finish. My boots hit the pavement, and I start toward the entrance, walking faster than necessary.
“Lennon.” His door slams, and I hear his footsteps behind me.
I push through the door into the warmth of the inn, and he’s right there, following me inside the kitchen with my purse in his hand.
Dammit.
Nevan is leaning over the prep counter as if he’s been waiting for me, and when he looks up the moment we walk in, I watch his expression shift as he takes us in—me first, whatever’s on my face, then Paul behind me.
“Hey,” he greets, his liar’s grin sliding into place even though something flickers in his eyes. “Everything okay?”
Paul sets my purse down on a clean section of the counter. “Yeah, just helping Lennon move some furniture.”
“Furniture?” Nevan’s eyebrow raises, but he’s still smiling. “Damn. And here I thought chivalry was dead.”
Paul’s hand finds the small of my back, and the touch sends a shiver through me even though I’m still confused, still unreasonably hurt.
“I’ll let you get to work,” Paul says quietly to me, then leans down to press a kiss to my cheek, his lips lingering near the corner of my mouth. “I’ll be back to drive you home.”
“I can walk,” I protest. Even if I’m unreasonably hurt, I don’t want him to have to come here again in the dark if he’s afraid of it.
“I won’t make you walk home alone in the dark,” he argues back.
“I’ll walk her,” Nevan cuts in, and I shoot him a grateful smile.
When Paul pulls back, his eyes hold mine, and there’s something in them I can’t quite read. Something almost desperate.
I used to be good at reading people. I trusted my readings, but I spent a year and a half being told I was misreading things, overreacting, projecting, being too much, and now I stand in front of a man whose eyes are doing something I recognize and cannot make myself believe what I see.
I don’t know when I got so afraid of being right.
Maybe around the same time I started confusing shrinking with being loved.
Paul is looking at me with pleading eyes.
Strange, mysterious man.
Maybe I retired the serial killer theory too quickly.
“I’d love to see you again,” he says. “Maybe without furniture this time.”
My brain struggles to catch up. “I…uh…”
I fumble for words, and then Nevan clears his throat.
“Restaurant’s closed Mondays,” he offers helpfully. “You two should grab dinner tomorrow night.”
I turn to look at him. What are you doing?
He smiles at me like he’s doing me a favor.
“He didn’t mean a date—” I start, but Paul cuts me off smoothly.
“Tomorrow is perfect. Can I pick you up around three?”
“Three?” Nevan raises an eyebrow. “Bit early for dinner, isn’t it?”
I shoot him another look. Stop helping.
Paul reaches out, his finger lifting my chin to bring my attention back to him. “Three?”
I can’t breathe or think. I can only nod mutely as his thumb glides over my chin before he lets go.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he murmurs, then steps back and heads toward the door.
The second it closes behind him, I let out a breath.
“Did that just happen?” I whisper, turning to Nevan.
He’s watching me with an amused expression. “That definitely just happened.”
“I can’t go on a date with him.”
“Why not?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Because you basically forced him to ask!”
“I gave him an opening,” he corrects with a shrug. “There’s a difference. He could’ve said no.”
“Fine. Because…” I gesture helplessly toward the door. “Because he’s only being nice because he feels guilty!”
Nevan actually laughs at that. “Yeah, no. That man does not look at you like that because he feels guilty. He looks at you like he’s two seconds away from throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you off somewhere. Possibly to a cave. Very primal.”
Heat floods my face. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re being oblivious. That’s not guilt. That’s interest.”
“Or a savior complex.”
“Or he likes you,” Nevan says simply. “Which, for the record, is not hard to believe. You’re likable.”
My throat goes stupid tight at that.
“That’s…” Alarmingly nice, actually.
“True?” He tilts his head. “I know, shocking. But someone had to tell you.”
I stare at him for a long moment, processing this, then scrunch up my nose at him. “You’re kind of annoying, you know that?”
“Yeah.” He reaches out, his thumb sliding over the bridge of my nose to smooth it out. “That’s what friends are for.”