2. August
August
I can count the number of raindrops as they each drip from this woman’s soaked frame. While she’s busy staring at the fire I have going, she’s creating a pond at her feet.
My knuckles whiten with the grip I have on the towel in my hand as I try to tear my eyes away from her state.
Every instinct screams that she shouldn’t be here—that she was meant for some other man’s doorstep, some other man’s life.
Not mine. But the flat tire, the storm, the sheer dumb luck of it all has dumped her here instead, and now I’m stuck playing host to a stranger who smells like rain and bad decisions.
That doesn’t stop my nostrils from flaring as I inhale the hints of pumpkin spice that cling to her skin. I only noticed it once she brushed past to enter my cabin. Ever since, it’s lingered.
Shifting, the floor creaks, giving away my position. At the same time, she turns her head to look in my direction.
The anger in those onyx colored eyes remains, but the reflection of the flickering flames against her skin makes her expression look soft.
I shouldn’t have said what I said; that’s a given. There’s no question of my disdain for that company, however.
My exhaustion runs wild each time I have to hear about success stories, every time I have to see new faces on my hikes, and watch people experience something a guy like me can’t have.
Cupid’s Bloom Co. made it very clear when I caved and tried the ridiculous program for myself.
Incompatible. What does that even mean?
After getting told that my ‘fated other half’ wasn’t on the site, I wrote off the whole arranged marriage ploy of theirs as nothing but a waste of time and a way to pocket application fees from suckers who are desperate enough to find love that they can’t see what is going on behind the scenes.
Call me bittersweet. Jealous. Whatever it is.
Trying my hardest not to get lost in the view, I move toward her and offer the towel. “So, what is your story? What has brought you to Willowbrook Ridge?”
Patting her hair, a waterfall of brunette waves now that it’s no longer tied back, she turns her attention back to the flickering flames.
Even without looking at me, I can see the emotion swimming around her expression.
“And here I thought you had it all figured out. Didn’t think you’d feel the need to ask. ”
“Call me curious.” Muttering the words, I try not to let the honesty pour out. I am curious. Curious to learn why a woman as beautiful as herself needs to rely on a service to find her a husband. Wherever she came from, I’d expect the men there aren’t blind. They should be dropping at her feet.
Thunder rolls in the background, making the storm brewing outside louder than the silence forming between us.
My fingers twitch at my sides, and for once in my life, I don’t know what to do with them.
Not that my experience with women is at a flat zero, but I don’t purposely invite any of them into my home while a storm is brewing outside.
I’ve already let my tongue run wild, painting myself out to be an asshole. No use in trying to comfort her.
Patting her body dry, I will my eyes not to follow. “Well, it’s not for the reasons you think. It’s just—I’m looking for some tranquility. A place where I won’t stick out like a sore thumb, and I can keep to myself.”
She’s come to the wrong place, then. If Walt doesn’t work out, she’ll find someone else in town who will want to provide her with what she wants. The problem is that she does stick out.
“Got a name?” I ask, then catch myself.
With her, it’s not just about taking—it’s about giving, too. A trade.
“August,” I offer, like it’s something she might actually care to know.
She purses her lips together before the tension in her shoulders loosens. “Payton.”
Payton. Payton.
It’s relieving to have one answer to the multitude of questions spiraling around in my head.
“Payton.” Saying her name out loud, I notice the way she shivers. Is the fire not hot enough? Do I need more logs?
No, it must be her clothing. The fabric is still damp, risking drying out her skin at this rate.
“Can’t you change into something dry?” The words come out clipped, and I bury my fingers through my hair to let out the frustration I’m feeling.
“All my stuff is out in my car, and that’s a hike uphill in mud. So, unless you have a better idea, I think I’m going to have to suck it up.”
I do have a better idea—for her. However, I know if I go through with my idea, I’ll be the one suffering. Still, it beats watching her shiver until her teeth start chattering. It’ll save me from her complaints later if her skin chaps.
“Wait here.” Turning away, I don’t wait to see if she’ll listen. Instead, I drift to my room. Heading to the closet, I sift through my clothes, trying to find something old. Something I don’t wear anymore. Something I can say goodbye to.
Finally, I find a buttoned-up shirt that’s faded from countless days out in the sun. On her, it’s big enough to be considered a nightgown. I’m sure she’ll swim in it.
Gripping it tight in my fist, I return with a straight face. “It’s one of the shirts I don’t wear anymore. It has to be more comfortable than hanging around in wet clothes.
She stares at my offering, blinking as if she’s struggling to understand what I’m trying to give her. I can’t blame her for being hesitant. I wouldn’t trust a stranger after the first meeting enough to wear their clothes.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t really have the choice to pick and choose what she can do to get her comfort.
“Um, thanks.” Growing suddenly shy, I don’t miss the way her cheeks grow pink as she takes the shirt from my grip. Looking around my home, I clear my throat.
“The bathroom is just around the corner. You can’t miss it.” Pointing over in the direction of the hall, I shuffle my way toward the couch to sit. I’m not sure how much I trust my legs to keep carrying me like this. Not while I’m feeling this way.
Such confusing feelings.
Thanking me, she drifts away, giving me a few minutes of peace. Some time to figure out what the hell I’m doing.
Damn storm. If it didn’t give us limited options, I could have her on the other side of the mountain by now.
With my knee soon bouncing, I’m back on my feet, running straight to the fireplace to throw in another log. I need a proper reason to feel as warm as I do.
Payton steps back in, drowning in my shirt.
The thing swallows her whole, the hem brushing mid-thigh, but it’s the way she plucks at the buttons—like they’ve personally offended her—that snags my attention. Her fingers fumble, and my gaze drifts lower before I can stop it.
Creamy thighs, flushed pink from embarrassment. A sliver of collarbone peeking out where the fabric gapes. She’s muttering something about the size, but all I hear is the hitch in her breath when she catches me looking.
Fuck. This is what I get for trying to be helpful.
I jerk my chin toward the couch. “It’s dry. That’s all that matters.”
My cock stirs, thick and stupid, like it’s forgotten what a woman’s skin tastes like. It’s been years.
I scrub a hand over my mouth, bitter laughter lodged in my throat. Of all the nights for my body to remember it’s alive.
Payton doesn’t notice. She’s too caught up in returning my frustration with her annoyance. She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest and juts her chin like she’s ready to pick a fight, even now.
Instead of spitting something out that could possibly sting, she surprises me by dropping her shoulders. After an unnecessary sigh, she collapses on the couch and draws her knees to her chest.
“Thank you for this. It’s pretty comfortable.” Muttering her appreciation, she’s back to staring in any direction but my own as she gets comfortable.
Grunting, I look at the spot next to her and debate returning to my seat at her side. Might be a little too close.
I can’t just keep standing around here doing nothing. I need to busy my hands before I’m tempted to do something I shouldn’t.
“Have you eaten?” Rubbing the back of my neck, I don’t miss the way her eyes flick over my way at the mention of food.
She curls tighter into herself, knees pressed to her chest, but the hem of my shirt rides up anyway, exposing a sliver of thigh.
Should’ve given her shorts. Sweatpants. A damn blanket—anything.
But now it’s too late, and if I offer to give her something to cover up a peek of pink, she’ll know I’ve noticed. That I’ve looked too long.
This woman is meant to be Walt’s bride. The reminder hits like a bucket of ice water. I can’t let any wandering thoughts drift around. Those are the most dangerous kind.
“I’ll pay you back, I swear.” Her voice is a ragged groan as she shakes her head. “I was too nervous to eat earlier. Now I’m freaking starving.”
Good. A distraction. I wave off the mention of money—like I’d take a dime from her after looking as much as I have—and turn toward the kitchen before my gaze can wander again. Food is easy. Food is safe.
I need somewhere I can breathe without inhaling pumpkin spice. That’s far too dangerous.
There’s a bowl of beef stew I’d cooked the night before that takes only a few minutes to reheat. While I’m waiting, the lights above my head flicker in time with a hellish howl of wind outside.
If the power goes out, I’m going to have to deal with the generator. What a headache.
If I were by myself, I’d just sleep through the rough parts and deal with the aftermath in the morning. With my current situation, I’m not sure that option is even on the table.
With someone sharing my space, an oddity that is more than unusual, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep a wink tonight.
As the microwave beeps, pulling me out of the thought, I shake my head as if it’ll fly right out. As if.
Fetching a spoon, I return with the bowl of stew on a platter to catch her watching the trees sway and the rain splatter against the glass. Clearing my throat, she jerks.