Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
florence
My Kindle screen flickers to black. A smutty book usually does the trick when my mood drops. Today, though, it does the opposite. Reading about a woman getting railed by the sexy, broody cowboy hits a little too close to home.
I’m a hot, horny mess. My fingers, toys, erotic novellas—they all leave me aching for more. Nothing sates me. My vagina knows exactly what will. Hussy.
May turned into June, and a week has passed since I dry humped Dex like a dog in heat. Not my finest moment but also one of the most mind-numbing orgasms.
Granted, he didn’t reject me, but hearing him call what we were doing a distraction cut deep.
Disappointment and humiliation drove me to put a stop to whatever we were about to do next.
It wouldn’t have been fair, not when my feelings continue to grow.
It might sting now, but I’m proud of myself for protecting my heart and setting boundaries.
Since that evening, we’ve been two ships passing in the night. The summer camp construction is well underway, keeping us both distracted, which is ironic.
The porch swing sways as I kick off the floor and tuck my feet underneath me.
The deck of the A-frame is small, with just enough space for the swing and a side table.
A citronella candle burns to keep the mosquitoes away, and the early evening sun streaks through the branches dancing in the wind.
I could get used to the 9–5 life if this is how my working weeks end.
The buzz of a saw echoes from the workshop.
It takes all my restraint not to walk in there to see what Dex’s doing.
He’s not taking it easy since his attack, only allowing two days of recovery before he returned to work.
I wanted to ask more about his condition.
Do his other employees know? What are the triggers? Are there signs to look out for?
Dex is a Japanese puzzle box—smooth on the outside with no hints at how to get inside, the contents a mystery. I want to crack him open, but that would only complicate things.
Co-workers and friends. Nothing more.
I’m about to call it a night when the man himself materializes. His protective goggles sit on top of his head, thick work gloves tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. Wood shavings fall from his shirt as he brushes them away.
Today’s color is navy.
He squints in my direction, and when we lock eyes, his shoulders draw back. A large hand rises in greeting before he hollers, “Have dinner with me tonight.”
His deep laughter floats toward me as I point a finger at my chest.
“Yeah, you.” He smiles. “I’m making tacos. Come inside; it’s gonna rain soon.”
Well, shit. I can’t say no to tacos. This is good. A bit of normalcy. Friends having dinner together. I glance down at my outfit: a dusky pink romper, white tee, bare feet. Chancing it, I race across the gravel path separating our cabins.
He smirks. “Someone likes tacos.”
I thrust my hands on my hips. “Never come between a girl and her food.”
A large palm settles between my shoulder blades, guiding me inside. I’m a human torch under his touch, my body temperature rising dangerously high with each step. Inside the kitchen, he withdraws, giving me some reprieve.
“Sit,” he orders gruffly, pulling a dining chair out for me. “It won’t be long. The tortillas are just warming up.”
Same, tortillas. Same.
“Want something to drink?” he asks over my inner thoughts.
“Surprise me,” I reply, only because he’s quickly obliterated any rational response.
He nods then reaches into a cupboard for two glasses, filling them from a jug of iced tea.
For the next few minutes, I watch this giant man mosey around the kitchen, making normal sized plates look miniature.
He’s every bit rugged, from the dark hairs on his corded forearms down to his slightly grown out mustache.
He dominates most rooms, but seeing him carrying out such domesticated, simple tasks is oddly endearing.
Every so often, his attention darts to the window above the sink, interrupting his fluid movements.
He doesn’t react when the oven dings, and, needing something to do with this nervous energy, I jump out of my seat to retrieve the tray.
He frowns when I slide the tortillas onto a plate and set them on the table.
“I didn’t hear it go off,” he mumbles.
“I’m happy to help.” I smile, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.
“Well, tonight is somewhat of a thank you. For the other week. Which means you’re supposed to relax and let me do all the work.” He jerks his head at the table. “Get your ass in the chair.”
“I’ve clocked out, you know? You can’t boss me around outside of working hours,” I volley, chin raised.
That earns me a scowl.
“I’ll boss you around whenever I feel like it.”
My dirty brain transports me back to that night, when he dragged and positioned me to his liking.
Fuck, Florence, he’d growled, head thrown back. Take me deeper. Take every inch.
A trickle of warmth blooms between my thighs. I snap them together and scurry back to my seat. Five minutes later, the table overflows with bowls of taco fillings, and his authoritative tone remains.
“Now, eat.”
Thankfully, he keeps his dominant nature at bay while we dig in.
The silence during bites is nice, and we chat away about the summer camp and whether he’ll be coming to family dinner at my mom’s next week.
After three mouthwatering fish tacos with pineapple salsa, I’m stuffed.
Dex polishes his seventh portion off, and I collect the dishes, carrying them over to the sink.
My face wrinkles at the idea of washing up. “Do you have a dishwasher?”
“Nah. Seemed pointless with me living alone.”
I sense him behind me as hot water flows from the faucet, bubbles frothing under the spray. Tentatively, I lower the plates into the suds. It feels childish, but just thinking about a piece of food floating below the surface has my stomach rolling.
A warm palm lands on my waist, gently ushering me to the side. Dex fills the vacant spot, hands diving into the water, and starts scrubbing. He jerks his head at the dish towel. “I’ll wash. You dry. Deal?”
Swallowing down my embarrassment, I nod. “Deal.”
We’re halfway through the dishes when I blurt, “Since I was little, the feel of food floating in water has repulsed me. I’m not lazy. It’s a sensory thing. Another quirk of ADHD.”
He pauses, gaze lowered. “I like your quirks.”
“Good, because it’s too late to change me now anyway.” My joke falls flat.
Dex stands taller, ignoring the soapy water sloshing over the sides as he grips the edges of the sink. “I’d never fucking dream of it. And if anyone ever tells you otherwise, send them my way. You’re perfect, quirky traits and all.”
“Oh,” I squeak. “That’s sweet.”
He grunts like the caveman he is. Damn him for luring me here with the promise of tacos then melting me into a puddle. This isn’t what friends do.
There’s one bowl remaining when a drumming noise sounds above our heads.
“Oh, you weren’t wrong.” I point outside. “The heavens have opened.”
I jump out of my skin when he sprints to the backdoor, peering through the foggy window. “About fucking time.” He turns to me, expression giving nothing away, and offers me his hand. “C’mon, Little Sadler. Let’s go dancing.”
“Dancing? Why would we—” I suck in a breath.
My list.
2) Dance in the rain.
He steps forward. “I know you said to forget about it, but there’s a reason your dad left you that list. I’m sorry it’s not the letter you were hoping for.
If anything, this is your chance to be close to him again.
It’s what you bonded over.” Another step.
“Think of it as a summer bucket list, something we can do together—as friends. If I’m overstepping, tell me, and you can do it alone.
Just…” He scratches the scruff covering his jaw.
“Please don’t let what happened last week be the reason you don’t complete it. ”
After leaving his bedroom, I found the list and tucked it safely in its envelope. It felt stupid completing it by myself, and I wasn’t about to ask my boss to help me.
My heart jack hammers. “I’ve already asked too much from you.”
“You’ve asked nothing of me. This is my choice.” He clasps me by the shoulders, ducking his head to lock our gazes. “And hey, maybe this will get me out of the workshop on my days off.”
I roll my eyes. “You never take days off.”
“Even more reason we should do this together.”
I bite my tongue. “Do you know how to dance?”
“Not a chance, but we managed it at the wedding last year.”
Visions of us clumsily standing on each other’s toes flood my memory. I’d just returned to town, and we all attended Graham’s ex’s wedding, who’s a total witch. The only reason we went was because she was marrying our cousin, and we wanted to keep up appearances for our mom.
Dex removes his hearing aid and places it on the counter. Before I can respond, I’m marched outside.
The smell of rain mixes with briny ocean and sweet pine. Fat raindrops splat on the ground, turning the usually gray pebbles a dark green.
Dex steps out from under the protection of the roof. He shucks off his shirt and hangs it over the porch railing, leaving him in a plain black tee. The material clings to his biceps, the rain sluicing down his tattoos and dripping from his fingertips as he waits.
I cup my hands over my mouth and shout, “There’s no music!”
He narrows his eyes, studying my lips. “Florence, get over here, woman, or so help me.”
Still barefoot, I tiptoe over, squealing as the cold spray hits my legs and arms. I stop a foot away from him, raise my arms, and tilt my head back.
It’s rejuvenating. The rain washes away any lingering doubts about, well, everything. Even if it’s temporary, the pressures usually weighing on me lift.
In a world where I’m too small and too big, too loud or too quiet, too me, it’s easy to fit in here, surrounded by nature and the freedom to be myself.
I look at Dex to find him staring at me. He blinks rapidly and steps closer, déjà vu swimming in his stormy grays. His rough hands slide behind my back. The distance between us is PG, which is comical, all things considered.
Unable to help myself, I lock my hands together behind his neck and close the gap. He’s motionless before he shifts his weight from left to right, swaying us gently. The cool air doesn’t bother me, not with the heat from his body warming me from the inside out.
My eyes drift closed. We slow dance to the beat of the rain, the tempo of the downpour matching my heart. I’m overwhelmed—by his kindness, fierce and genuine. He’s mature enough that my one-sided feelings aren’t an issue. This means nothing, just friends doing favors for friends.
His thumb massages small circles into my spine. “Your dad was the one who drove me to my first day at the lumberyard. Did you know that?”
“No,” I reply before nuzzling into him, hiding the sadness that comes with talking about my dad.
“My parents were visiting my grandmother in the hospital, and my truck wouldn’t start.
Pat was busy, probably chasing Jo with hearts in his eyes.
I called Ted, and five minutes later, he pulled up outside my house.
” His chest vibrates under my ear with his deep voice.
“He saw the scared shitless expression on my face and said something to me that’s always stuck.
‘It might be scary now, but that means you care about it.’”
A tear tracks down my cheek, hidden by the rain. Dad loved Dex.
“Sometimes…” I start before I raise my head. “Sometimes, I worry I care too much.”
He goes rigid at the sight of my wobbly lip.
“Sorry.” I wince. “Didn’t mean to make things weird.” I edge away, sensing the moment is over. Dex tightens his hold, pulling me flush to his front.
The tension in his muscles loosens, a smile cracking through his steely exterior.
He’s so handsome, but it’s the beauty in his words that leave me speechless.
“If more people cared the way you do, the world would be a much better place. We’re lucky to have you in our lives.
You’re the light on a cloudy day, Florence.
” He looks skyward. “It’s easy to forget storms exist when you’re around. ”
He’s not trying to be cruel or lead me on, but it’s difficult to not fall for him even more as he presses a chaste kiss to my cheek, lingering for one, two, three.
“Brave the storm, Florence. I swear, it’s going to be okay once you come out the other side.”
We dance and dance. No music, no cares. Another item checked off.
Now, my worry isn’t whether I care too much.
It’s how I’m going to survive a summer of Dexter Moore.