Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
dexter
I’ve never claimed to be a sage man.
I like to believe I possess some good qualities. My friends and family don’t complain, my customers speak highly of my work, and no one has ever punched me in the face.
I lead a simple life, exactly the way I like it.
So, when Our Place’s annual New Year’s Eve party came around, I turned up with zero expectations apart from chatting with friends, getting a little buzzed, and passing out on my sofa with a pie from the local pizzeria. Same shit, different year.
What wasn’t simple or expected was having my hands on my best friend’s little sister.
A woman almost eleven years my junior.
Florence peered up at me as the crowd counted down, long lashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks and emerald eyes sparkling. The sensation that coursed through me was like grabbing a live wire with wet hands.
There was no mistaking it. Her body relaxed into my touch, lips parting as the gap between us closed. That sliver of bare skin under my palms around her waist was forbidden and so fucking tempting.
Only one drink down—there was no blaming the alcohol.
I’d officially lost my fucking mind.
Thankfully, sanity washed over me when Florence’s drink went flying, soaking us both.
Now, my sticky shirt hangs on the door handle of the office hidden at the back of the restaurant.
Standing in the middle of the room in jeans and a black undershirt, I’m trying my best not to follow the gentle swell of Florence’s breasts and dip of her waist as her white T-shirt clings to her lace bra.
Trying and failing epically.
There must be something in the water, or the bar staff doubled up my whiskey and coke.
I’ve known Florence Sadler my whole life.
One summer, I found her crying on her porch because she needed braces.
Then, she got too drunk at her junior prom and called me for a ride because she didn’t want her brothers knowing.
Every interaction and thought that has ever involved Flo was innocent. Like my little sister.
Her discomfort was obvious as we stood around watching the happy couples interact. My hand on her back was instinct, intended to be a friendly gesture.
We were ushered in here after the spillage and left alone to clean up.
Since stepping foot in here, we haven’t uttered a word.
Silence is my foe. It literally haunts my dreams, and I’m about to crawl out of my skin if one of us doesn’t speak soon.
I hate wearing my hearing aid, but with the large crowd and loud music, following conversation proves difficult without it. Now, though, the lack of background noise in the office amplifies small sounds, like the ticking clock, pipes groaning in the wall, and Florence’s loud sighs.
The hearing in my left ear started fluctuating when I was fifteen.
My mom took me to the doctor, who couldn’t see anything wrong.
When my parents noticed me messing with my ear and complaining about it being blocked, they pushed and pushed for further tests.
It was only when the tinnitus became unbearable and intense vertigo knocked me unconscious that the doctors took their concerns seriously.
At seventeen, I was diagnosed with Ménière's Disease—no cure, no idea if or when I’d lose all hearing, and a constant ringing on the worst of days.
Almost two decades later, I can’t remember a time before my diagnosis.
The hearing in my left ear has slowly deteriorated.
Everyone knows I prefer not to discuss my condition.
It’s also why I “forget” my hearing aid more often than not.
Without it, the odd stares and second glances don’t happen.
It’s easier to pretend.
Which is why I unhooked the device and shoved it into my pocket the second we walked into the office.
Florence struts back and forth, wound tighter than a garden hose. She fists a handful of paper towels and dabs at her chest between frustrated huffs.
“You good over there?” My voice cuts through the quiet like butter.
Her marching stops. “Yes, sorry, just…grrr, you know? People with no spatial awareness grind my gears.”
I understand in the heat of the moment people forget to slow down their speech. It’s nothing new. I’ve been lipreading for years, so following Florence’s rant is easy, though as her plump, peach-colored lips move, I’m quickly distracted.
She sweeps a hand down the length of her body, pouting. “This outfit was cute, and now it’s ruined.”
My eyes betray me and drift to the danger zone. “Cute isn’t how I would describe it.”
“I currently resemble a drowned rat.”
All sense deteriorates. “Far from it. You look beautiful, Florence.”
“Looked,” she corrects and rolls her eyes, dismissing my compliment.
My attention moves to the clock on the wall.
The novelty of the party has worn off, and tiredness creeps into my bones.
The last few weeks have been chaotic, and that’s without the holiday festivities and the flying to visit my parents after Christmas.
As appealing as going home is, Florence’s little frown and clenched fists plant a new seed.
It’s the lack of sleep, the only explanation for my next question. “How do you feel about pizza?”
She blinks rapidly. “It’s the world’s greatest invention and it’s blasphemy to put fruit on it.”
For a second, my brain tells me to really think this over. Florence and I have hung out together plenty, but always in the company of her brothers.
Option 1: drive her home, grab a pizza, go to bed.
Option 2: grab a pizza, drive her home, go to bed.
Snatching my sodden shirt up and opening the door, I jerk my head down the hallway.
“C’mon, Little Sadler. Let’s get you fed.”
She beams at me, making me feel ten feet tall.
That should’ve been warning number one.
Apparently, there’s a third option.
Grab a pizza, drive home with Florence riding shotgun.
I’m not sure whose idea it was, but here we are.
What really toes the line of dangerous territory is she’s no longer in the transparent white tee.
No. It’s worse. After climbing into my truck, I’d forgotten about the pile of flannel abandoned in the back seat.
Without asking, she grabbed one, tore off her T-shirt, and slipped a yellow and black shirt over her shoulders.
Not before I got a glimpse of her peaked nipples poking through the delicate triangles of lace covering her perky tits, though.
Sand filled my mouth when she shimmied off her skirt, saying something about sticky skin on leather. Who fucking knows—I was busy tracking the length of her long legs propped up on my dash.
The cuffs kiss the tips of her fingers, and the hem hits just above her knees. As she sits there, drumming her fingers on the pizza box in her lap, my cock punches behind my zipper.
Naked. She’s practically naked, in nothing but my shirt.
Do her panties match her white bra?
Fuck, I need a stiff drink before my one-way trip to hell.
This is Florence.
My eyes remain firmly on the darkened roads. The snow has eased, but the journey takes double the time as I avoid patches of ice.
When the steering wheel vibrates and gravel kicks the underside of the truck, I know we’re almost there. Florence knows it too, and she bounces in her seat.
“I haven’t seen your cabin in so long.” She grins at me. “Has it changed much?”
Her excitement is contagious, shooing away my wariness. I can do this. There’s nothing weird or inappropriate about spending time with a member of the opposite sex who also happens to be your best friend’s younger sister. Patrick will be thankful I gave her a ride, even if it is to my place.
“You’ll have to wait and find out.”
“What’s your latest lumberjack project?” She leans across the bench, smirking.
“How many times do I need to tell you I’m a carpenter, not a lumberjack?” I cut her a sharp look.
“Have you ever chopped wood?”
“Yes,” I mutter.
“While wearing flannel?” Her pitch rises, humor lacing her words.
“It’s possible.”
I catch her dramatic shrug. “I’m sorry to report, you are, in fact, a lumberjack.”
My shoulders shake, deep laughter rolling from my throat. “You’re such a brat.”
She’s silent. Turning, I find her chewing her lip, amusement and something else I can’t name sparkling in her eyes.
We make a sharp left, and then my pride and joy comes into view.
I built it seven years ago, upgrading from my two-bed cabin. It was my first major project where I worked with a small team to bring my dream home to life. As we used only the lumber from the space we cleared, spruce, fir, and pine make up the three bedroom, L-shaped cabin.
It put Moore Lumber on the map and drew the attention of homebuyers and property investors across the northeast. I turned down a disgustingly large sum of money to sell it. Fortunately, the buyer loved the eight bedroom, two-story cabin we built him nine months later.
Under the midnight sky, there isn’t much to see. Banks of snow climb up the rails of the wrap-around porch, and with the low temperatures, the goats are tucked away in an indoor pen out back.
We both step out, and the security light illuminates the driveway.
The towering conifers sway with the wind, sending down sparkling specks of silver. I turn, fully expecting to find Florence shivering. Instead, she spins in a circle, pizza box abandoned, her arms spread wide, face upturned. Eyes closed, she catches snowflakes on her tongue.
Specks of white camouflage themselves in her silver hair, and the light glints of her septum piercing.
Once round, her cheeks are now more angular, and there’s something about her graceful movements that remind me she’s no longer the wild twenty-one-year-old I remember.
She’s flourished into something I’m struggling to put into words.
She spots me watching and freezes.
Where the fuck is that bottle of Jim?
“Let’s get inside,” I holler, and we stomp toward the house, shaking off the snow from our shoes.