Chapter 13
13
[Cort]
I t’s been a helluva week.
On Wednesday, I missed my massage therapy session due to a roofing crisis over in Huntington.
I was able to reschedule my appointment for Thursday but was assigned to someone other than Vale.
I walked out.
Thursday night, Vale was not in her typical spot at Milton Roadhouse, and within thirty minutes I’d realized I’d reached stalker level tendencies, waiting on her appearance like a Tennessee Terrors fan hoping for a glimpse of his favorite player.
However, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the woman after our interaction at the Sylver Seed & Soil last weekend.
The way Vale was glaring at those innocent bee smokers.
The way she eventually looked at me, all teasing and playful.
Her face softening at the mention of my mom who was devastated when Stone and I fell out.
At one point during our interaction, I’d lost Vale a second.
Something dark and worrisome came over her face, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what I’d said to cause the shift.
Cause her sudden turning away from me, glaring back at those tin canisters like they’d offended her.
Deep down, I knew it’d been me somehow, and the anxiety was eating me up.
I wasn’t a man who over-processed a look or overanalyzed a sentence, but I was second guessing everything with Vale.
Like why I felt the need to touch her in some small way after every massage.
Just run my hands over her fingers or caress her skin, like some weak token of my appreciation.
My gratitude for her touch.
The comfort of her hands on me has been both confounding and titillating, igniting an unexplained but not unwelcome craving for more connection with her.
Earlier, I’d been at a small Italian bistro in Rogue River, seated at the bar, eating alone, when I saw Henry Stanton on a date, and it just pissed me off.
Like, how is it that bastard was entertaining a woman, and I was eating alone in public, which I typically hate to do.
However, I hadn’t been ready to go home, alone, and face my empty house on a Friday night after this shitty week.
Afterward, I drove over to Randy’s Bar, the dive located between the two towns.
Making an appearance in his uniform, Stone entered, sending a signal to some of the riffraff who have been wandering into the dark place lately.
Seated at another bar—alone again—Stone’s entrance and exit was another gut punch on this week.
Every time I saw him was a reminder of what I’d done, what I’d lost. And it’s a good reality check that I’m not worthy of Vale’s attention.
Still, I relish every time Vale touches me.
Every gentle placement of her hands.
Every tender stroke of her fingers.
Sometimes I even imagine her lingering a little longer in a spot.
Like I’m not paying her to help me, but she actually wants to touch me.
I’d never complain.
Thinking of her hands on me, I sit straighter on the hard wooden stool, admonishing myself for being such a damn sourpuss tonight, like a spoiled child not getting to play with his favorite new toy.
Vale isn’t a plaything.
She is a beautiful, considerate woman, and I’d wronged her in the past. The boundaries of therapist and patient need to be respected.
Same with the off-limits lines around her as a mother to a kid I coach.
Only sitting upright, my back pinches, and I’m reminded why I need Vale in my life.
At least that’s the excuse I use to stop moping and give into the pull I feel toward her.
A desperate desire that started as a niggle of doubt now morphed into an anxious longing inside my chest. I need Vale’s hands on me.
And I want to earn the chance to touch her again.
So, standing on the dark porch of the Sylver family home is the last place I should be.
“I know it’s late, but I need a massage.” I hate how much that sounds like a proposition for more.
Even hate how greedy I sound, but I can’t exactly explain this newfound and unsettling, yet not wholly uncomfortable, yearning to have her touch me.
Whipping my straw cowboy hat off my head, I spin it by the brim round and round in my hands.
“Are you serious?” Vale gapes.
“Now?”
She’s staring at me, a queen bee preparing to sting, with one hand on her hip and the other hand holding the door like she’s ready to slam it in my face.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what she said the other day, that I was ignoring her.
The truth is, she’s all I’ve been thinking about .
Pressing my luck, I step forward, brush past her, and enter a house I haven’t set foot in for more than two decades.
Instantly, I fight the memories of trying to face my friend like a man, when I’d fucked up.
When I’d been weak and betrayed him during his most vulnerable time.
I’ve never forgiven myself.
But my being here isn’t about Stone.
Or even me and my back.
This is about Vale.
And this strange, inexplicable need to have her hands on me.
Vale steps back as I enter a living room I no longer recognize.
Once dark and dingy with threadbare furniture and a slew of spent alcohol bottles, the room is now light and airy in shades of sandstone and sapphire with comfy looking chairs and an overstuffed couch centered around the fireplace.
Photographs line the mantel, and the old brown brick has been whitewashed.
The soft snick of Vale closing the front door draws my attention back to her.
Coming here was a risk.
A dangerous dare. But unexplainable relief also rushes through me.
Or maybe that’s just anxiety mingling with adrenaline, because Vale could say no, and have every right to do so.
“This is unprofessional and unethical. I don’t do house calls.”
While she glares at me with those cool clear eyes, I don’t correct her that I’m the one calling at her home.
Her eyes are the prettiest I’ve ever seen.
To boot, her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing a pink athletic shirt with black leggings.
She takes my breath away.
“Stone could be home any minute,” she adds.
“But he won’t be,” I counter because I saw him earlier at Randy’s in his uniform.
“Where did you park?” Vale turns toward the window in the front door, noticing the absence of my truck in the space designated for several vehicles.
The night is pitch black and this house is miles from town, which makes the woods nearby even darker.
“Behind the barn.” I might be reckless, but I’m not an idiot.
I pulled down the lane along the side of the house and parked behind the old building.
Just in case .
“Hudson is here.” She sounds like she’s reading off a checklist of reasons I shouldn’t be standing in this house.
I have my own list, but something supersedes all my concerns.
And she’s standing here, glaring at me.
“I was hoping he’d be in bed.” The excuse is weak, but it’s nearly ten-thirty on a Friday night.
“Mom?” Hudson calls from the upper level.
Vale steps around me like she can hide me behind her back.
I’d chuckle at the scenario of her slimmer frame trying to block out my bulkier body, if I wasn’t suddenly holding my breath.
“Be right up, bud,” she calls out.
“Just letting you know I’m out of the shower. Atticus is going next.”
My brows pinch.
“You got the Stanton kid here?” Fuck that Henry Stanton guy .
Hitting on Vale. Making snide comments.
Then out on a date. Poor woman must be blind to what he’s like.
“Yes,” Vale whispers, turning back to face me.
“And you need to go.”
For a long minute, we stare at one another.
Me not wanting to leave.
Her . . . saying a thousand things with those eyes that I cannot read, because she’s so beautiful when she looks at me, even in irritation.
Plus, I don’t know her well enough yet to interpret those eyes.
Don’t know her at all, now, as a woman, and a mother, but I want to.
God help me, I want to learn more about her.
How does she kiss? Does she hiss when she’s touched?
Does she lose her sting when she fucks or embrace it ?
I clear my throat, accepting I’ve gone too far.
I shouldn’t be here.
It’s late. She has kids here.
Her brother hates me.
Twirling my hat in my hand one more time, I admit defeat.
“I’ll just?—”
“Let’s go to my room.”
Never in my life did I think such words would cross her lips or turn me on.
I shouldn’t want to be turned on.
I’m here for my back.
But who am I kidding? I’m here for Vale.