Chapter 9 #2
If the women in my life can’t understand how I’m wired then they aren’t the women to be in my life.
It’s not to discredit anyone. I’ll be the first one to say in order to have anything with me, a woman has to be strong.
I’m not a man to sugar coat anything. I did the husband thing.
I’m not trying to be a provider again. When I’m with any of them, I’ll pay for everything we do, sure.
But I am not building a life with any of them.
My house is my home, they don’t need to make it their space.
My money is mine. I’m not paying bills for their lifestyle, what we have, well that isn’t it.
Cut and dry.
Harsh? Maybe.
It’s where I am in life and I don’t see that changing.
I am up front about it. No one is forced to be part of it. And I won’t apologize for the way I live and the way I care about the people I care about.
And if I meet someone along the way, well, we’re adults. Whatever happens, happens.
If Holley shows up for dinner, we can eat and she can go back to whatever she does, or we can see where another kiss can go. Either way, I’ll still sleep just fine.
My stomach growls reminding me it’s time to plate this meal and get to it. I scrub a hand over my chin looking at my watch.
Eighteen-twelve.
“Alright,” I mutter, pushing away from the counter. “Enough standing around like an idiot.”
I plate my serving, the quiet clink of fork against ceramic oddly loud in the otherwise still cabin.
And then—lights in the windows, tires on gravel.
Slow. Hesitant. Not the aggressive skid of a stranger or the bold roll of someone confident. This was someone comfortable but in no rush.
My pulse kicks up.
Her car eases to a stop outside. I don’t rush to the door.
That’s not what this is. When she doesn’t make her way inside after a few moments, I go to the door.
Looking out, I see her gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her in place.
If she lets go she’s going to float away to outer space or something.
Seeing her like this, something in me softens in a way I don’t like to analyze. I move down the porch to the car.
She looks up.
Our eyes meet.
And I smirk. I can’t help it.
She rolls her eyes the tension easing and her lips twitch like she is fighting a smile.
She steps out carefully, her hair falls in a soft wave around her face.
She wears simple jeans, a fitted sweater, and dainty shoes that Honey calls ballet slippers.
I open her car door, extend my hand. She puts her palm in mine and electricity shoots through me in a way I haven’t felt in years.
With her hand in mine, I shut her car door and lead us back inside the cabin.
“You came,” I say letting her see my surprise, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Well,” she murmurs, glancing toward the stove. “Someone promised dinner.”
“I did didn’t I,” My voice drops. “Or maybe it was someone else.”
She gives a small, breathy huff. “You know you did. It smells amazing.”
“A man’s got to eat, no need to do it alone. Food’s hot. Let’s get to it.”
She hesitates for only a second—just long enough for me to catch the nerves flickering in her eyes—before walking past me to the stove.
“You cook?” She questions studying the stove top.
“I don’t starve,” I remark casually, brushing past her to get to my plate on the other side of the stove.
But she doesn’t move. Her gaze follows me like she can’t look away.
“You’re comfortable in here,” she admires softly, almost to herself.
“Why wouldn’t I be? Men gotta eat too. I’m not gonna keep these abs eating a bunch of fast food garbage.”
“I don’t know.” Her voice dips. “It’s not a man thing. I’ve never seen someone move in a kitchen like it’s second nature.”
“Marine Corps, I was a cook. You would be amazed at how creative one can get to make chow hall food feel and taste like a home cooked meal.”
Her eyes go wide at my admission. Is she impressed? If so she has her bar set very low. I try not to read into it.
“Sit,” I instruct gently.
She does, sliding onto one of the stools at the counter as I plate her dinner—two chops, golden potatoes, asparagus, and gravy I spoon carefully so it cascades over everything.
When I set the plate in front of her, she stares at it like it is some kind of art.
“Tony, this looks amazing.”
“Good. Eat.”
She takes a bite. Then another. Then closes her eyes, letting out a sound so soft and surprised it shoots right through me to my damn cock. Watching her eat and enjoy every mouthful is a turn on.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “This is incredible.”
Heat prickles low in my stomach. I turn away, grabbing my own plate to hide the reaction.
We eat in comfortable silence for a minute, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the quiet clink of silverware.
“You really didn’t have to do this,” she adds eventually.
“Didn’t do it because I had to.”
She pauses, fork suspended halfway to her mouth. “Then why? You don’t know me and you don’t owe me a meal.”
I meet her gaze. Steady. Direct.
“Well, the way I see it, I gotta eat, you gotta eat. We can eat together. You deserve a warm meal. And because I wanted to share my time with someone.”
She looks down immediately, cheeks coloring.
She doesn’t speak again until half her plate was gone. “Tony?”
“Yeah.”
“About last night…”
I wait not sure where she’s going with this.
She swallows. “You kissed me.”
“You needed an out,” I answer evenly. “That guy was unstable. You were uncomfortable. I created a distraction.”
She studies me trying to read me. Hate to tell her that’s impossible. “That wasn’t a distraction kiss.”
No. It sure as hell wasn’t.
I scoop another bite of potatoes onto my fork. “You complaining?”
“No!” Her eyes widen. “No, I just— I mean you didn’t have to do that.”
“It was fun. Don’t read so much into shit, baby. Be in the moment because the next second isn’t promised.”
Her face flushes deeper, a rosy pink spreading across her cheeks. She bites her lip and looks down at her food.
Silence stretches between us again, but it isn’t awkward. It is charged. Warm. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t be possible yet somehow is.
After we finish, I stand, collecting our empty plates.
She rises too. “Let me help.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I want to.”
Her tone isn’t pushy—it is gentle. Needing to participate, not just receive.
So I nod. We move around each other easily, like some small domestic dance we have done a thousand times. She rinses dishes. I dry. She wipes the counter. I stoke the fire.
When everything is clean, she turns toward me with a small smile.
“Dinner was amazing.”
I give her a shrug. “Glad you liked it.”
“I more than liked it. I think that was the best dinner I’ve had in months? Maybe longer.”
I smirk. “I’ll cook again.”
She raises and eyebrow in question. “Will you?”
“If you’re here.”
Her breath hitches.
She stares at me a long moment, eyes flicking over my face, searching for something. Maybe confirmation I’m not teasing. Maybe permission to want more.
“Tony,” Her voice softens. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
I step closer. Slow. Deliberate. Not touching her—just letting my presence settle around her like heat from the fire.
“Because I want to be,” I state simply. “Because you deserve someone in your corner.”
Her eyes shimmer.
I don’t touch her. Don’t kiss her. Don’t push.
I just stand there, giving her space to decide.
After a few seconds, she exhales shakily. “Thank you.”
“For dinner?”
“For everything.”
I nod once. “You’re welcome.”
She hugs her arms around herself like trying to contain all the emotions swirling inside. “I should probably go. I have a full day tomorrow.”
“You sure?” I ask softly.
She hesitate—just long enough to tell me she didn’t want to leave. But finally she nods.
“Okay,” I respond. “Let me walk you out.”
At the door, she pauses, looking up at me through her lashes. “I’m glad I came,” she whispers expectedly.
“So am I.”
She draws in a slow breath, then steps into the cold night. I standon the threshold, watching her climb into her car.
Before she shuts the door, she calls softly, “Goodnight, Tony.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Sleep well, Holley.”
Her cheeks flush again, and she begins back down the drive.
I wait until her taillights disappeared behind the trees before closing the door.
The cabin feels different now.
Warmer, but also empty in a way without her sharing space with me.
Still quiet—but a quiet that feels expectant, as if something had shifted in the air and settled there, waiting for the next time she walks through that door.
And I know, deep in my chest, that this isn’t the last dinner we’d share.
Not by a damn long shot.