Chapter 10 Riley
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Riley
I was in the zone.
I’d been writing for six hours straight, barely stopping for coffee or bathroom breaks, completely lost in the world I was creating. The story was flowing like water, words pouring out faster than my fingers could type them, scenes unfolding with a clarity I hadn’t felt in months.
It was a friends-to-lovers romance. My favorite trope. Definitely not because of any recent developments in my personal life, thank you very much.
The heroine was a sarcastic writer with trust issues and a tendency to make questionable decisions regarding tall strangers. She had a ceiling stain she’d named George. She ate cereal over the sink at midnight. She ran a book club about morally gray love interests who would commit murder for you.
Totally fictional. Completely made up. Not autobiographical at all.
The hero was a mysterious blonde man who showed up unexpectedly and turned her world upside down.
He had gray eyes, because gray was a perfectly normal eye color and not at all specific to anyone I knew.
He was unreasonably tall. The kind of tall that made doorframes nervous.
He washed dishes without being asked and brought gifts that were too thoughtful and looked at the heroine like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
His name was Cameron, which was completely different from any other name. The fact that it started with the same letter and had the same number of syllables was pure coincidence.
I was in the middle of a scene where Cameron brought the heroine breakfast. Pastries, from a bakery that used the right amount of butter.
He told her she was the most interesting person he’d ever met.
It was fiction, and I was so damn focused on it that it took me a second to realize why the screen suddenly seemed way too bright.
The lights had gone out. One second I was typing, the next the room was plunged into darkness around me. Thunder rumbled outside, rain lashed against my windows. I’d been so absorbed in the story that I completely missed the storm building outside.
“Shit,” I muttered, checking my laptop. Three percent battery. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I saved the document frantically, watching the battery icon drain, and managed to close the file right before the screen died. Nice save.
As I could, I navigated the room to the circuit breaker by the glow of my phone flashlight. I flipped every switch, tried every combination, jiggled things that probably shouldn’t be jiggled. Nothing worked. I tried calling my landlord. No answer, straight to voicemail.
It was Sunday. The tattoo shop was closed, and I couldn’t afford an electrician, not with what Damien left of my finances. Between his forty percent cut and the “expenses” he claimed to pay on my behalf, I had approximately three hundred dollars to my name until my next royalty check.
I was alone in the dark, my phone battery was at thirty-six percent, and I really should conserve it. I scrolled through my contacts anyway, looking for someone who might help.
Sloane was out of town visiting her mom. Jade was probably with Thessa. Margo was probably working, because she had a bit of an addiction.
My thumb hovered over Caelan’s name.
He was nearby. One block away, according to where Sloane dropped him off. He was strong, capable. I shouldn’t call him. It was late, it was storming, this wasn’t his problem at all.
But my fingers were already pressing the call button. I bit my lip as it rang once, twice, then-
“Riley?” His voice was alert and not sleepy at all. “What’s wrong?”
“My power’s out.” I felt stupid saying it.
It wasn’t an emergency, it was barely even a problem.
“I tried the circuit breaker and it didn’t work, and my landlord isn’t answering, and I know it’s late and storming, but I didn’t know who else to call, and you’re nearby, and I thought maybe you might know how to. ..”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Caelan, it’s pouring outside. You could just tell me how to fix it, you don’t have to...”
“Nine minutes.”
He hung up, and I stared at my phone. Well then.
I used the remaining battery to light candles.
I had approximately three hundred of them, because I was a romance writer and candles were basically a professional requirement.
Vanilla, lavender, “autumn leaves,” “ocean breeze,” various unnamed dollar store candles I’d bought in bulk during a depressive episode.
By the time I’d scattered them around my living room, the golden light made everything feel softer, warmer, more intimate than intended.
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
I checked my phone. Seven minutes.
When I opened the door, Caelan was standing in my hallway looking like a drowned god.
His hair was plastered to his forehead, water running in rivulets down his face.
His shirt, a thin cotton t-shirt that he clearly wasn’t expecting to get soaked, clung to his chest like a second skin.
Transparent in places, outlining every muscle and line.
Every ridge of his stomach. Bless the water that dampened that shirt so I could behold his fucking magnificent chest.
Water dripped from his jaw, from his elbows, from the hem of his shirt where it stuck to his hips.
He looked like he ran here, like he sprinted through a hurricane to get to me. And he was looking at me with those gray eyes like getting struck by lightning would have been a minor inconvenience compared to not showing up when I called.
“You came,” I said stupidly.
“You called.”
The simplicity of it cracked my chest open. You called, as if that was reason enough. As if my voice on the phone was a summons he would answer no matter what stood in his way.
“You’re soaking wet.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re going to catch pneumonia.” I said, unable to process a lot of thoughts while having his chest in front of me.
“I don’t get sick.”
I snorted. “That’s not how immune systems work.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t...” He broke off, dripping on my welcome mat and forming a small puddle. “Can I come in?”
“Right. Yes. Of course.” I stepped back, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and shoved it at him. Manners and all. “Here. Dry off. You’re insane.”
“Insane would’ve been not coming when you sounded like you needed it.” He took the towel but didn’t use it yet, just held it while water continued dripping down his face. “This is the bare minimum I’d do for you.” He said it simply, like it was obvious. “Now, where’s the problem?”
I blinked, still processing “bare minimum” while he was already moving past me, toweling off his hair in a way that made it stick up in absurd directions. He should look ridiculous, but unfortunately to my uterus, he looked devastatingly attractive. Life was profoundly unfair.
“Where’s the…” He paused for a second, “Circuit breaker?” he asked.
I showed him. He examined it with the same intensity he brought to everything, brow furrowed, jaw tight, like the circuit breaker had personally offended him and needed to be dealt with accordingly.
He flipped switches, prodded things, muttered in what might be another language. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, then finally he turned to me with a sheepish expression.
“I have no idea what’s wrong.”
I just stared at him. This massive, capable, probably-could-bench-press-a-car man just admitted he couldn’t fix my electricity. I couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped me.
“It’s not funny,” he said, but his lips were twitching.
“You ran through a storm in seven minutes. And you can’t fix it!”
“The wiring in this building is probably antiquated. The video I saw wasn’t like this. This infrastructure is completely...”
“You don’t know what’s wrong.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he admitted. Then his chin lifted slightly, a hint of that confidence returning. “In my defense, I have many other useful skills. Electrical work just isn’t one of them.”
“What skills? Being wet and decorative?”
“Ah, little menace. I’m the one that makes people wet,” his eyes glinted in the candlelight. “But I’m glad to know you find me attractive enough to think I’m decorative.”
My face heated and I cursed him internally, ignoring the growing wetness in my panties. Damn him. “That’s not what I...”
“First hot, now decorative.” He stepped closer, still dripping slightly, a slow smile spreading across his face. I had to bite my lip to stop a whimper from coming out. “You’re doing wonders for my ego, Riley.”
“Oh, I’m sure your ego doesn’t need help.”
“Maybe not. But I like hearing you compliment me anyway.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his wet fingers leaving a cool trail on my cheek. “Even accidentally.”
I almost fucking fainted, my heart going a mile per hour. I was suddenly a teenager standing in front of her crush. What the hell was wrong with me?
“I should...” I stepped back, gesturing vaguely. “The storm. You can’t go back out in that.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll get struck by lightning.”
“The statistical odds of that are...”
“Stay.” The word came out harder than I intended, so I cleared my throat. “Please. I’d feel terrible if you got hurt only because you came to help me. I can make dinner. I have a camping burner somewhere. It’ll be terrible, but it’ll be food.”
“Okay.” He nodded. No hesitation or argument, just immediate compliance.
“Okay?”
“You asked me to stay.” He shrugged like it was simple. “So I’m staying.”
“That easy?”
“That easy.” His gray eyes held mine in the candlelight. “Ask me for anything, Riley. See how fast I say yes.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. So I did what I always did when he said things that made my heart race.
I changed the subject.
***
We ended up cooking together by candlelight.