Chapter 7 Delaney #2
My body hums with leftover sensation, phantom touches that have no business feeling as vivid as they do. My lips feel swollen. My neck feels hot. My thighs…
Nope. I’m not thinking about that. I made that mistake already with Silas, letting my body write checks my life couldn’t cash, and look how well that turned out. Absolutely not doing it again. Not with anyone under this roof.
I flop back against the pillow and cover my face with my hands.
“Get a grip, Delaney,” I mutter.
It was a dream.
Just a dream.
Sure, it starred a man I’ve known for a few hours, who lives across the hall, who works with me, whose family employs me.
No big deal.
Everything’s fine.
I groan into my palms.
Because here’s the real problem: it didn’t feel like some random fantasy my brain cooked up to torment me. Parts of it felt true. My subconscious had been taking notes all evening.
It shouldn’t be Caleb in that starring role. If anything, my guilt should be fixating on Silas, the man I actually slept with, or on Marcus, the cautionary tale I still taste like ash in the back of my throat.
But my mind skipped right past the man who already touched me and the one who already hurt me and landed on the one who simply listened.
I roll onto my side, pulling the pillow close, and stare at the wall.
He’s off limits.
Full stop.
Colleague. Housemate. Boone’s almost brother. Silas’s cousin. Sadie’s… whatever he is to her. Uncle, friend, anchor.
He is not a good idea.
I know that.
My brain knows that.
My body is apparently illiterate, which is exactly how I ended up naked with Silas and also unemployed in the first place.
I lie there, trying to will myself back to sleep, but every time I close my eyes I see him in that dream again, moonlight and flannel and dark eyes and rough-voiced promises.
At some point, the night starts to thin toward dawn. My alarm isn’t due to go off for another hour, but I give up on sleep entirely and throw the blankets back.
If I’m going to survive living under the same roof as these men, I need a plan.
Step one: coffee.
Step two: walls. Big ones. Around anything resembling attraction—Caleb’s quiet eyes, Silas’s reckless charm, and Boone’s controlled intensity, all firmly on the other side.
Step three: treat Caleb as a coworker. Nothing more, nothing less. Same for Silas. Same for Boone. No repeating history. No getting attached.
I shuffle into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and study my reflection. My cheeks are still a little pink.
I scowl at myself.
“Off limits,” I remind my mirror image. “Repeat after me. Off. Limits.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
By the time I step into the hallway, the house is quiet, that pre-dawn stillness wrapped around everything. I pad toward the kitchen, intent on starting coffee before Sadie wakes up, before Boone appears, before Silas stumbles in with his hair a disaster and a smirk already loaded.
As I turn the corner, I nearly collide with a solid, warm body. Strong hands grip my shoulders, steadying me before I can fall.
“Easy,” a familiar voice rumbles.
I freeze.
Look up.
Caleb stands there in the dim light, hair tousled, tee shirt soft and worn, flannel unbuttoned over it. His eyes meet mine, sleepy and clear and more I don’t want to name.
His fingers are still on my shoulders.
For half a second, the dream overlays reality so perfectly that I forget which is which.
“Sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t think anyone else would be up.”
He lets go, stepping back just a fraction. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d start on the morning barn check early.”
“Right.” My brain is helpfully supplying image after image from my subconscious’s greatest hits reel. “Of course. Animals. Sunrise. Very… on brand.”
His mouth twitches as if he wants to smile but isn’t sure if he should.
“You okay?” he asks.
His gaze flicks over my face, cataloging details again.
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… lots of new.”
He nods slowly. “Coffee helps.”
“Working on it,” I state, moving toward the counter so I don’t have to keep standing so close to him in the half-light while my traitorous brain replays his dream smile in full HD.
He stays a moment longer.
I can feel him watching me.
Then he says quietly, “If you need anything… you can knock on the barn door.”
I glance at him over my shoulder.
His face is neutral. Nothing in his expression suggests he’s spent any part of the night dreaming about pressing me against a stall door and kissing me senseless.
Of course he hasn’t.
Why would he?
The idea makes my stomach twist in the strangest mix of relief and disappointment.
“Thanks. I’ll… remember that.”
He nods once, then slips out the back door, the cool morning rushing in to fill the space he leaves behind.
I stand there, alone in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the old clock the only sounds.
“Off limits,” I whisper to myself again.
But as the coffee machine starts to gurgle and light slowly creeps into the sky, one unwelcome truth settles in the space behind my ribs:
Off limits doesn’t mean I don’t want.
It just means I can’t have.