Chapter 10
ALLYSON
Ding dong!
The doorbell chimes happily, and I set down the rag I’ve been working across the kitchen counter for the past ten minutes. It’s already spotless, but Sunday is my day to reset for the week ahead, a little something I call ‘bless this house’.
I’ve got laundry going, the bathrooms sparkle, and Cooper’s been dusting every flat surface for the last hour. He’s not the best at it, but I think it’s important for him to have chores so he develops a sense of pride and ownership. A sense of home.
“Coming!” I call out, my steps quick toward the door.
I peek through the peephole and I’m left breathless. What’s he doing here?
I put a hand up to my mess of hair, piled haphazardly on my head.
I’ve got my glasses on, which make me look owlish and nerdy.
But worst of all, I’m wearing a pair of ratty cotton shorts that are way too short for company and a tank top with a built-in bra that only mostly keeps everything locked and loaded.
In short, I look like shit that slept on the ground outside overnight and then lucked into a roof over its head for the day.
And I smell like Pine-Sol.
I blink, wondering again what he’s doing here. But I open the door anyway. “Bruce?”
I see the genuine surprise on his face, his brows jumping up and crinkling his forehead. But then his eyes sweep lower over me and something more animalistic takes over his expression. “Al?”
My skin tingles and there’s a tiny piece of me that preens under his heated perusal. Maybe I’m at least a hot mess?
“What are you doing here?” I say, knowing I sound ridiculously breathless for the situation.
He holds his hands up, each one clasping a gallon jug of pink liquid. “Watermelon water delivery. This is the address Shay gave me?” He answers his own question, leaning back to look at the metal numbers affixed over the mailbox beside the door.
“Oh, uh . . . yeah. Debra said she was going to order me some fancy juice she had at brunch the other day. I guess that’s you?”
Of course, it’s him, Allyson. He’s literally standing on the front porch with the juice Debra raved about.
But I can’t help it that my brain cells are misfiring when he’s at my house, looking good enough to eat in worn boots, dirty jeans slung low on his hips, and a black T-shirt with the sleeves and most of the sides cut off like redneck air conditioning.
I can see the sides of his torso, ridges and bumps that are new and tempt me to explore with my hands and my tongue.
Dear God, are you trying to torture me? Haven’t I earned some good favor by now?
Apparently not, because Bruce looks at me questioningly. “Where do you want it?”
It takes me a full three seconds to realize he’s talking about the watermelon water and not the other liquids my body is craving. His sweat on my skin, his hot mouth on mine, his thick cum filling me.
No. Get ahold of yourself, girl. No.
I remind myself to think about Cooper, my son, and how much football means to him.
Fucking his coach would ruin all that. Not to mention, Bruce and me together is a supremely bad idea of epic proportions.
Even though we still have chemistry between us—that kiss at Hank’s sure as shit proved that true—there’s been too much time and way too much has changed.
“Right in here.” I finally answer his question with something resembling a brain.
I hold the door open and he steps into the living room.
It’s always seemed like a perfectly respectably sized house, especially for just Cooper and me, but with Bruce in here, it feels absurdly tiny.
Vaguely, I wonder if he stretched out his arms if he could touch wall to wall.
Deep inside, there’s a seed of niggling worry, but I’m easily able to hush it.
Bruce would never hurt me, at least not physically.
With the barest tease through my psyche, I realize that despite his overwhelming size, I actually feel safe with Bruce.
I take that seriously, listening to my instincts.
I give him my back, a respectful sign he likely doesn’t even recognize the importance of, and lead him to the kitchen. “Here, let’s put them in here so they stay cold.”
I can see the condensation coming off the bottles, and Bruce tugs at the bandana knotted to his belt loop to wipe them down before setting them on the table.
“One for them, one for me,” he explains, dropping the damp bandana to his side before pulling one out of his back pocket like a magician.
He lifts his cap and swipes the fabric across his forehead before setting his hat back down and shoving the bandana in his pocket again.
I open the fridge, setting one jug inside, and then realize the proper thing to do here. “Would you like a glass? I haven’t had it before, but I hear great things about it.” I’m already pulling two glasses from the cabinet.
“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.” His voice is flat, cautious like I might spook at the slightest provocation, which is understandable, I guess, after I ran out on him.
We drink, and I’m surprised at how good it tastes, even after Debra’s rousing endorsement. Bright, light, and refreshing. “Wow! So you make this?”
He snorts, almost choking. “No, I grow the watermelons or whatever Shayanne tells me to. She’s the genius in the kitchen.
Has her own business now, a couple of them, actually.
She makes goat milk soap with the supply from her herd and then has about a dozen recipes she makes seasonally.
She sells all over town, to the resort, to folks in Great Falls, and she’s even shipping the non-perishable things out on special request. I’m just the delivery guy when she gets too busy to do it herself, which is damn near all the time. ”
I scan my memories, finding an image of Shayanne.
She must be around eleven or so, dirt-smudged on her freckled face as she hangs upside down in a tree by her knees, teasing Bruce and me.
We were out on a walk on his family farm and she’d tagged along, not understanding our teenaged desire to be alone.
“Guess Shayanne’s all grown up now, huh . . . guess we’re all grown up too.”
His mouth opens like he’s got something to say about that, and I’m already flinching as if it’s going to be a biting response, but Cooper comes sliding into the kitchen, saving me. “Coach B! I thought I heard voices! What are you doing here?” He’s excited and every word is a bit too loud.
Bruce smiles an actual teeth-flashing grin at my son, who doesn’t realize in the least what a gift that is. “Hey, Cooper! Just making farm deliveries, brought you some watermelon water.”
Cooper runs for the cabinet, grabbing a glass, and I hold myself back from helping as I watch him carefully pour himself some.
He takes a big slug of it, not a care given to whether he might like the never-had-it-before flavor or not.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“That’s pretty good! Where does this fall on the whoa-slow-go scale? ”
I have zero idea what he’s talking about, but Bruce goes into coach mode before my very eyes.
It’s a sight to behold as his stiff harshness with me melts into kindness.
“Definitely a slow. The fruit’s good, but Shay adds a big dose of sugar syrup to it.
And don’t drink your mom’s. Grown-ups sometimes like to add extra to theirs, and that’s a definite no for you.
” He winks at Cooper, who’s eating this up as he bounces around like he just drank a Red Bull instead of one sip of sweet juice.
“Got it.” Cooper nods, taking mental notes on every word Bruce says.
“Hey, you wanna stay for lunch? Mom’s making sandwiches, and you can have my strawberries if you want.
” Cooper loves strawberries, so for him to offer them up is suspicious as hell.
I eye my son, who looks innocent as a newborn angel.
But I’m well aware of his scheming and genius-level gymnastics to get his way.
“Cooper, Bruce probably has other deliveries to make,” I say, trying to give Bruce an out. Or if I’m honest, myself an out. I don’t know if I can sit here with him in my kitchen like everything’s fine when it’s most definitely not fine at all.
I want to hate him. I want to love him. I want to kill him. I want to fuck him.
It’s too much. I shut down with the overwhelming litany rushing through my brain on a loop.
Bruce’s barest hint of a smirk dares me, though, a silent ‘challenge accepted’ passing between us.
“Actually, a sandwich would be great. Mama Louise packed me a lunch, but I’m a growing boy, so an extra sandwich would be just right.
” He rubs his hand over his flat stomach, making the cotton hug his rippling abs.
Is he doing that on purpose? Is he flirting or trying to drive me mad? My mouth feels like I just swallowed cotton, but it’s definitely the only thing dry around here.
My legs squirm, and I chug a solid drink of watermelon water, hoping it’ll cool me off a bit. But the smug satisfaction I see in Bruce’s expression tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
Asshole.
“Fine. Let me get everything together while you boys wash your hands.”
Cooper drags Bruce down the hall to the bathroom, and I wash my own hands in the sparkling clean kitchen sink before pulling out bread, chicken, cheese, mayo, and lettuce.
I can hear their voices down the hallway but can’t make out what they’re saying. Even the rumble of Bruce’s voice partnered with Cooper’s high-pitched, excited one makes me yearn for something I can’t define. It feels homey? Or like home, I realize with a shudder.
Nope, not doing that. Not even going to allow myself to pretend or play the ‘what if’ game because there’s no going back. There’s no ‘what if we hadn’t broken up?’ or ‘what if this was our life?’ or most painfully, ‘what if Cooper was Bruce’s son?’