Chapter 2
Sophie
Davis was silent after we dropped Gwen off at her place. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed at being forced to spend more time with me, or just despondent over his injury. Either way, I owed him.
"I feel terrible, Davis.” I did my best to apologize as I drove back toward the Pruitt Farm. "Jo's gone a few more days, right?" At his sullen nod from the back seat, I mustered a smile. "Then, consider me your farm helper, roomie."
"No."
I sighed, debating the shortest route to gain his agreement.
Whether he was willing to admit it or not, with Jo out of town, he needed an extra hand.
Literally. And I couldn't exactly climb two flights of stairs to my apartment in my current condition.
Tattling to Jo wouldn't go over well. Best to save that as a last resort.
"You won't even know I'm there," I wheedled.
Davis snorted.
I tried not to let his rudeness hurt my feelings.
Most people responded to my bubbly enthusiasm, but Davis had long been the exception.
Terse. Grouchy. A loner. All those descriptors fit him to a T.
But he was also loyal to a fault, and judging from the kitten foster operation he ran out of his barn, had a big ol’ heart under that broody exterior.
He wouldn't let me struggle. Playing the sympathy card was my best bet for orchestrating what we both needed, even if he didn't think he wanted it.
"I can't manage the stairs at my place, Davis. Not every day. If I crash in Jo's room at the farm, I'll heal that much faster. Plus, I can help you with chores. See? Win-win." I added my most charming grin, hoping to sell him on my plan.
At least this time, he didn't audibly dismiss my idea, and I counted it as agreement.
"Great, it's settled. I'll drop you at home and grab a few things from my place, then be back to make you lunch."
Davis sighed, the heavy gust sounding like he dragged it from the depths of his soul. "What do you need? I can handle the stairs and bring you whatever it is." His offer, grudging as it was, still warmed my heart.
"Thanks, Davis." I bit my lip, debating.
The thought of climbing my stairs made me want to cry.
Which meant I was giving Davis permission to touch my underwear.
I wasn't sure who was going to be more embarrassed, him or me.
"I need some basics. I'll make you a quick list," I offered, taking the turn to my apartment instead of to the Pruitt Farm.
When we arrived, I jotted down a handful of must-haves on the back of an envelope with the pen from my purse and handed it to Davis with my keys.
His dark brows drew down, a frown taking over his features.
"You need all this?" He swallowed, throat bobbing, and a wash of color deepened his tan. "Okay, Bee."
As if accepting his fate, he strode to my apartment building, jogging up the stairs with an ease I envied.
My ankle freaking hurt. I'd done my best to keep a positive attitude, but all I wanted was to curl up in front of the TV with an ice pack.
My foot felt like fire. The throbbing had only intensified since we left the clinic.
At least Davis had accepted my list with grace, and I wouldn't be forced to navigate my stairs. I'd worried he'd balk at gathering my work outfits and toiletries, but he seemed to recognize that I considered them essentials.
A few minutes later, Davis returned, my bright rainbow bag in one masculine hand. He stowed the huge duffel in the back, then slid into the front passenger seat.
"Got it all?" I asked, surprised by how quickly he returned. I'd thought finding everything I'd requested would take him longer.
"Yep." Davis refused to look at me, making me wonder if he'd found some of the other things I kept in my underwear drawer.
"Thanks, Davis." I was embarrassed by how squeaky my voice sounded. I tried not to picture his big hands fondling my lacy underwear or finding the toys at the bottom of my drawer as I drove us back to his place.
He came around the hood, offering me his arm for support as I hobbled inside, my bag casually slung over his other shoulder.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I made it to the couch, collapsing on the brown leather monstrosity in front of his TV.
"Ice pack?" he offered after dropping my bag in Jo's room.
I nodded. "Please. Thanks again, Davis. Are there any chores you need help with today?"
"Nope."
Somehow, I suspected that even if the real answer was a list a mile long, his response would have been the same.
He dropped an ice pack in my lap before tossing the TV remote on the couch next to me and disappearing.
Slowly, I looked around the living room, not sure exactly what I'd expected.
Davis didn't exactly hang out under the best of circumstances. I shouldn't have been surprised that he ditched me as soon as was borderline polite. After all, I'd effectively invited myself to be his houseguest. Still, his abandonment hurt. Telling myself he was just a private man, not annoyed by my very existence, and believing it were two different things. Just because I got along with most people didn’t mean there wouldn’t be exceptions. I’d only hoped that once he got to know me, he’d put down his armor and soften.
The Pruitt farmhouse dated back to the 1950s, so not very old, and, thankfully, it was designed along the lines of the ramblers of the era, all one story.
Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, living room, and small office—it was nothing lavish, but it was comfortable.
Davis and his sister Jo had kept the house when they took over the farm from their father.
Everything in it had the cozy patina of age, from the coffee table to the couch and recliners.
I turned on a comfort baking show, trying to distract myself from the throbbing in my ankle. I debated texting Jo, letting her know about the day's drama, but I didn't want to disturb her. She'd been talking about the Craft Brewers Conference for weeks, and I couldn’t ruin it for her.
My stomach rumbled, and I looked longingly toward the kitchen. How annoyed would Davis be if I asked for a sandwich? I couldn't even be sure he was still in the house. It'd be just like Davis to slip out the back door to do chores, leaving me alone. Assuming he could do much with his arm.
Guilt filled me. It was my fault he'd gotten hurt.
I'd suggested staying at the farm with the intention of helping, not creating more work for him.
But I felt crummy. The ice was helping some, but I dreaded going back to school on Monday.
Teaching all day would be hell. Second-graders were adorable when they were occupied, but let them run wild, and I'd have a tornado of chaos on my hands. I was tired just thinking about it.
Davis appeared, startling me out of my pity party. He used his good hand to set a plate on the coffee table in front of me.
"I could hear your stomach growling from my room," he groused, disappearing almost as quickly as he'd appeared.
"Thanks," I called out after him, watching him stride away.
Was he going to eat in his room?
I took a tiny bite of the tuna fish sandwich, chewing slowly, trying to overcome my disappointment that Davis had abandoned me again. I spent enough time at work surrounded by eight-year-olds, a little peace at the end of my day was usually exactly what I needed.
Davis flitted in and out of my orbit on nights I visited the farm, always moving in the background, but it was like his big body absorbed the frenetic energy around me, cushioning me from the world. He was peaceful to be around, even if he never stopped puttering.
I smiled when Davis reappeared, a second plate in hand, and settled on the other end of the couch.
"Thanks for the sandwich," I said softly.
Davis focused on the TV, slowly demolishing his sandwich, ignoring my thanks.
I turned to my own plate.
We finished our lunch in silence, watching the bakers present their creations.
Seeing the delicious-looking cakes fired up my sweet tooth, but I’d already leaned on Davis enough with lunch.
Asking for more would be tempting fate. If I pushed him too far, he might decide I was less trouble at my own apartment.
I shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable. With a heavy sigh, Davis reached for my feet, pulling them into his lap. I held my breath as he peeled the ice pack away from my left ankle.
"You need to elevate this," he grumbled, resettling my feet over his broad thighs.
I tried not to squirm, wary of scaring him away.
His fingers were so gentle, it was hard to believe the deft touch came from Davis.
He was built like a linebacker, all brawn and bulk from farm life.
He sported a tan that came from working outdoors, his dark hair shaggier than was stylish.
Not that Davis cared about fashion. Other than the farm and his kittens, I had no idea what the man was into.
But judging from the avid way he watched Bakers Anonymous with me, at least we had that in common.
Slowly, I relaxed on the couch, settling deeper into the cushions. Davis idly traced the bones in my good ankle, sending a shiver down my spine. His fingers caressed me almost absently, but I felt the impact of his touch to my core.
I watched him beneath my lashes. Did he have any idea what he was doing to me?
That gentle stroke was the most action I'd seen in months.
Sad, but true.
My crush on Davis was an open secret. As in, the only person I'd managed to keep in the dark appeared to be Davis himself. And at this point, I had to chalk that up to him being willfully obtuse. My attempts to flirt with him had fallen flat. Even winning a date with him and his kittens at the bachelor auction hadn’t been enough to get him to see me as more than his sister’s friend.
He'd given me no indication he felt anything for me but reluctant tolerance. I couldn’t push it further without sacrificing my remaining pride.
My relationship with Jo was our only real connection.
He couldn't exactly avoid me. I was at the farm with Jo almost every Tuesday for campfire night with our other friends: Gwen, Izzy, and Eve.
Our evenings around the fire were a balm to my soul, but the small glimpses of Davis added an extra bit of excitement.
I was too old for a crush at twenty-eight, but, really, who was I hurting, fantasizing a bit?
He no doubt thought of me as a harmless bit of fluff, and dreaming of him helped assuage the loneliness of the cold winter Campfire nights.
New resolve filled me. As bad as I felt for involving Davis in my ballooning mishap, it presented a golden opportunity: maybe with enough time spent together, I'd be able to get over the silly crush I had on him.
I'd do my penance, helping him with chores, and, in return, I'd get an overdose of Davis and finally get him out of my system.
That's totally how addiction works, right? Binge on the thing you can't get enough of, and maybe it won't have the same hold on you?
It had never worked for me with coffee. Or ice cream. But maybe with Davis there was hope.
Continuing to lust after a man who didn't want me was just sad.
And avoiding him wasn't an option as long as he and Jo lived together.
The only solution was to gorge myself and hope that did the trick.
Maybe with enough of his sullen attitude, grunted non-responses, and overall dickishness, I'd get over him.
Counterpoint, my conscience whispered. He's already helped you pack a bag, made you lunch, and is currently caressing your uninjured ankle like one of his precious kittens.
You might be hooked for life.