Chapter 16
Dom
“You’re back,” she shouts from a rocking chair on her porch. After I helped Riley earlier, I had to go back to the barn and finish mucking out the stalls. She was focused and working when I left, and it was exactly the right time to do so.
The way she beamed when I would praise her efforts or give her a thumbs up after completing a task...
She was asking for help with things she wasn’t sure about, that she could have done herself perfectly.
It’s not easy for me to not just do them, as my parents taught me, but she needs to know she can do it.
It breaks my heart that nobody has ever let her know how brilliant she is. Riley is a force to be reckoned with, and I find myself wanting to be in her path in more ways than one.
I’m affected by her like the tides by the moon, or the flowers by the sun.
But I can’t let anything beyond admiring how formidable she is and watching from afar happen.
Every relationship I’ve touched has ended up in flames, and Riley deserves more than being ashes on the ground.
She doesn’t deserve to be in a polyamorous relationship with a man who doesn’t know how to put others before his work, and that’s all I know how to do.
Not that I learned it from anyone, since I was the first in my family to do the things I did—first to get divorced, to make a woman cry, to prioritize everything else but my relationship.
The first one to lie, though not on purpose.
It was when I put a ring on her finger as a promise of something I could never deliver. We never stood a chance.
I can’t be the one watching Riley’s light dim day after day, even if she makes me feel something I’ve never felt before.
I’ve never felt my soul lit on fire before. Not the way Riley does to me. And I just met her.
And we’re neighbors.
And she owns this ranch.
And she’s over a decade younger than me.
If I can’t have her, then why did my heart skip at the sight of her smiling at me, excited I’m back?
“I am.”
She stands, hands on the rail, wet, long blonde hair spilling over her breasts. “I was wondering if you would have dinner with me tonight. I cooked. As a thank you, again.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She runs to me, barefoot through the grass, bottled up sunshine, cinnamon, sugar, and vanilla all in one.
Like a homemade dessert. I don’t know if it’s her hair, her skin, her laundry, or a combination of all those things at once, but it hits me, and I have no choice but to clench my jaw and hold my fists to keep myself from grabbing her and kissing her senseless.
Wanting Riley is a mistake I can’t afford to make, but needing her in my life would be even worse, and judging by the way I can’t say no to her, when she stares at me with her impossibly hope-filled blue eyes, I’d say I’m past the point where I can deny it.
At least I haven’t done anything about it.
And I won’t.
“I wanted to,” she says. “And don’t tell me you already ate, because I know you didn’t. Please. It won’t take long, and I could use some company too.”
“Riley…”
“Or not. It’s okay if you had other plans.” I don’t understand what in her head flips a switch from sure and owning her shit to this version of her, who doesn’t think she can hold her own. “Never mind.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“I’m a good cook. I promise.” She chuckles nervously. “I know I break a lot of shit, and overall, you’ve had to save me more times than I’d like to admit, but I am a good cook—when I’m not burning pot pies and all.”
“I know.” Doesn’t she remember that? Why is she acting like this, as if me saying yes or no holds more meaning than anything else?
“Then why won’t you come?”
Yeah, Dom, why not?
I hesitate because I can’t tell her the real reasons. I can’t tell her she terrifies the hell out of me. I never lose control, but with her, it feels like I never have it, and she’s the one pulling all the strings.
“Come on. It’s just dinner.” She holds my hand, trying to pull me to the cabin but unable to move me. Despite my better judgment, I let her. I’m tired of fighting the way I feel when I’m around her— light, comfortable, happy.
It’s been a long damn time since I’ve been happy.
Her hand never drops mine until we make it to her kitchen, where two empty bowls and a slow cooker sit on the dining table.
“No crackers today?” I ask, taking my hat off and setting it on the counter.
She twirls her hair behind her, exposing the tight tank top hugging her frame. Goddamn.
Not that it’s hard to remember how perfect her body is, especially when she wears the tiny outfits that shouldn’t even be considered clothing every morning to run, but it never ceases to amaze me all the same.
She walks past me to the chair. She has to know the effect she has on people, the one she has on me, with her strong legs, her now tanned skin that glistens like she's been dipped in cinnamon sugar, and the slight tint of her cheeks when she catches me ogling her.
Shit.
My attraction to her is getting harder to deny and harder to hide. I can’t tell if this is a one-sided attraction or not, and I can’t lose time thinking about it either. It can’t happen.
“Some grump scolded me over crackers not being dinner. I made soup.”
“What kind?” I ask, taking a seat opposite her at the table.
“The good looking, overbearing kind,” she replies in a giggle, leading me to pinch my nose so I don’t growl. What the fuck?
“I meant the soup, Riley. What kind of soup?”
“Swamp soup.” She takes the lid off the pot and serves us both a bowl of what looks like Lainey’s soup she made all fall and winter long.
“It’s a family recipe and the first thing I learned to make.
Can’t fuck this one up when all you have to do is dump shit into a bowl.
” She takes a bite of her soup, flinching when it hits the roof of her mouth.
This is not the first time she’s said something like that, and each time, it makes me more and more confused. She’s capable of so much; I’ve seen it, and I’ve only known her for a couple of weeks. So why does she believe the worst?
I take a bite of the soup too, and goddamn, it’s everything I was expecting and more.
“You don’t have to eat it if it’s not good.”
Why is she second-guessing herself right now? “What makes you think it’s not?”
“The scowl on your face.”
Fuck.
“It’s not because of the soup. This is delicious.” I take another bite for good measure.
“Oh yeah? Then what is that all about, then?” She moves her hand in the air in front of my face.
“I was wondering why the hell you think you’re not good at this. This is fantastic, and I had your pot pie too, all of it. So I know you’re a good cook.”
“I almost burned the entire cabin down.” She lets out a sigh, but not in the way she always does, like she’s annoyed at my existence. This is more like she hates being vulnerable, even if for a second.
“Once. You almost burned the cabin down once. Has that ever happened before?”
She shakes her head, continuing eating, like the topic at hand is usual conversation for her.
“That doesn’t make you bad at something. Everyone makes mistakes.”
She blinks, staring down at her bowl before visibly shaking her shoulders and blooming like a flower in front of my eyes. Except, the smile she’s wearing is not sincere.
“I mean it, Riles.” The nickname eases off my tongue like it’s second nature, catching us both by surprise.
“Uh-huh,” she deflects, finishing her bowl and taking it to the kitchen sink before taking the chair in front of me again. “What are your plans for the rest of the night?”
“Shower, read, sleep.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Ooooh, any spicy books you’re reading tonight?”
“I’m in the middle of a historical fiction right now.”
“Go figure.”
“I do read romance too, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
She chokes on her spit. “You? Dominic Broody Diaz reads romance?”
I cough, hiding my laugh to no avail. “I do.” I love the reaction from people when I tell them I read romance, like it would make me less of a man or something, when in reality, it’s the opposite.
I’ve learned more about interpersonal relationships and self-awareness through those pages than sitting on any overused couch of a therapist who doesn’t understand me.
It has given me more empathy and understanding than people might think.
“What about you? Are you reading tonight?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m painting. I got an idea today while I was working on the shed, and I need to get it out of my brain, or there won’t be space for anything else.”
I nod, cleaning up after myself, avoiding looking at her while I wash my dish and hers. She must be moving things around behind me, judging by the noises and the muttered shit after she slams the fridge door.
“Reaching behind you,” she says before her hand rests on my shoulders, her other one reaching to grab a spray bottle from the cabinet above the sink. Cinnamon and sugar take over the citrus dish soap I’m using, and soft hair brushes against my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
She feels it too, because she tenses, fingers wrapping around the bottle.
She turns to face me, a small breath catching when her sky blues collide with my darkness.
I need to get out of here before I ask her if I can sit next to her and read while she paints.
The urge, the pull, the need to be near her is astronomical.
“Got it,” she whispers, standing flat on her feet and removing the hand that was on me, immediately leaving me raw without her touch.
“Have fun painting. Should I expect you up at the crack of dawn again?” I ask, diffusing the bomb threatening to explode inside me.
“That’s silly. I’ll be up before that.” She winks.
“Goodnight.” I grab my hat and walk out of her cabin before I can change my mind.