Chapter 4
Chapter four
Shane
What am I doing?
Parked in the semi-circle drive of Melissa’s historic house, I sat in my truck and stared at the front door.
I had walked out of it less than ten hours ago, and every single minute I had been away from her felt like an eternity.
This wasn’t like any other infatuation I’d experienced. This was different.
She’s different.
Special.
And not meant for a man like me.
If I was a better man, I would start my truck and leave right now.
I would go home, get on my bike and ride until my hands go numb and my legs ache.
Until I forgot the coffee-brown hue of her eyes.
Until I forgot the sounds she made when she came.
Until I forgot the intoxicating taste of her pussy and the way she flooded my fingers when I forced that third orgasm out of her.
Fuck.
My cock ached in my jeans. I had jerked off twice last night after getting home.
The first time, I had barely gotten my front door shut behind me before I was yanking my dick out of my pants and stroking hard and fast to the memory of my face buried in Melissa’s cunt.
The smell of her clung to me, and I had reveled in it, in the musk and tang of her.
The second time had been less than an hour later.
Tossing and turning in bed, I kept thinking about her.
I kept remembering the way her nails scratched at my scalp, the way she gripped my shoulders and shuddered when she came.
My cock had throbbed to life, and I had made a mess of my hand and sheets by the time I was done.
Realizing I was well and truly fucked, I wiped my hand down my face and tried to make a decision. If I left right now, she might not even know I had come back. She might think I had been all talk. She would chalk it up to me being a liar who couldn’t be trusted and forget all about me.
But the thought of losing her trust, of disappointing her, absolutely gutted me.
I wanted her to believe in me. I wanted to her to know she could count on me for anything.
Keeping her safe in a bar fight. Giving her a ride home.
Tongue-fucking her into an orgasm that left her weak and shaking. Fixing her little library.
I want to be her man. I want to be the one she calls when she needs something.
But does she want me?
I couldn’t imagine a world where a woman like Melissa would ever want a washed-up ex-con. Sure, I was reformed. I had done my bid. I had started a business. I had made a comfortable life for myself. In most circles, I would even be considered respectable.
But I wasn’t a surgeon. I wasn’t an educator with a master’s degree. I had barely finished high school. I had never done anything impressive. I for damn sure had never done anything to deserve the attention of a school librarian.
The front door opened, and Melissa stepped out onto her front porch with a coffee mug in hand. She waved at me, smiling warmly, and my heart jumped into my throat, thumping wildly and making it hard to swallow. My decision was made for me. There was no escaping now.
I stepped out of the truck and reached back in for my phone and metal tumbler of coffee from the center console.
I strode down the sidewalk and let my appreciative gaze run from the messy bun atop her head to the bare toes pressed against the steps that desperately needed a good sanding and paint job.
She had on a pair of loose black shorts that skimmed mid-thigh and an oversized tee emblazoned with her school’s mascot.
She looked so damn good. I didn’t know how I was going to get my to-do list punched with the distraction of those curvy brown legs on display.
“Morning,” she greeted brightly.
“Mornin’.” I stood at the bottom of her front steps and stared up at her in wonder. She hadn’t bothered with any makeup this morning, but I didn’t care. It was one less thing to mess up when I finally got her back under me again.
“You want some breakfast?”
“I already ate.” I should have known she’d offer to feed me.
“I’m waiting for my English muffins to pop out of the toaster.” She eyed my truck and read the logo on the door. “Heathcote’s Carpentry.” Her forehead scrunched together as if she was remembering something. “I think you did the work on my dad’s shop renovation a few years ago.”
“What shop?”
“Barajas Tire and Auto.”
Oh, fuck. Fuck.
“Your dad is Eddie Barajas?”
“Yes?” she answered uncertainly, as if afraid of what I might say next. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” I said quickly, too quickly. “I mean...” I winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe?”
“Why?”
“Your dad knows me. He knows all about my history.”
“So?” She shrugged. “He hired you to put in all that cabinetry and workspace in his new shop.”
“There’s a difference in hiring a felon to design and build cabinets and work benches and letting that same felon touch your daughter,” I pointed out rather bluntly.
She rolled her eyes. “Shane, I’m almost forty years old. My dad hasn’t had an opinion on the men I date since I was twenty.”
“Well, he might have one now,” I warned, thinking of how loud her father could get when he wasn’t happy about something. Eddie wasn’t a man I wanted to get on the wrong side of, that’s for damn sure.
He was a great guy, a real stand-up man who ran a successful business and had ties all through the community.
He rode bikes with his church club, a bunch of Catholic dads and grandpas on Road Kings, trikes and cruisers.
We mixed socially, usually at the Lone Star Rally every November and the smaller fundraisers around town.
If he didn’t like me messing around with Melissa, he could make my life a living hell. Maybe even ruin my business.
But it was a risk I was ready to take.
“You let me worry about that.” She glanced back at her open front door. “I think I heard my toaster. I’m going to get my breakfast. You want to come inside?”
I glanced at the mess in her front yard. “I should get started on this. It’ll take a while for the concrete to set up once I get that post in the hole.”
“Concrete?” She seemed taken aback. “I didn’t use concrete when I put the library in the first time.”
“Which is exactly why those assholes were able to take it down so easy,” I replied matter-of-factly. I didn’t mention the black powder coated metal post I had pulled from my stockpile of random supplies. “When I’m done with my repairs, it will take an Abram’s tank to get it out of the ground.”
She looked worried. “That sounds like something that might need a permit.”
I waved my hand, “I’m friends with Jerry down at city hall. He’d give me one if I needed it.”
“Well, all right,” she conceded. “You’ll need to give me your Venmo when we’re done or I can write a check.”
“For what?”
“The cost of materials and labor!”
“I’m not charging my girlfriend for repairs!” I couldn’t believe she expected to be nickel-and-dimed by me.
Her eyebrows rose. “Girlfriend?”
Too late, I realized what I had said. I felt the tips of my ears get hot.
Before I could come up with some lame ass excuse, she saved me with, “You can call me whatever you want if it means you’ll make me scream like you did last night again.”
That was a challenge I happily accepted.
“Let me eat and find my shoes.” She retreated toward the house. “Then I’ll come back out and help you.”
Twenty minutes later, she had opened the door of her detached garage and led me inside the neatly organized space. I wasn’t at all suprised by the very sensible Honda Civic sitting inside. Safe. Great gas mileage. Affordable. The happy blue color did surprise me.
It was easy to see her librarian’s touch here with the rows of clearly labeled storage totes on sturdy shelves. A pegboard wall displayed all the necessary tools for keeping a house maintained. She had a small selection of landscaping equipment in one corner including the wheelbarrow I needed.
We worked well together. She took direction easily and anticipated the tools I would need. I shouldn’t have been surprised, not after finding out about her father. I suspected she had spent hours in his shop, learning at his side.
By the time lunch rolled around, we had the new metal post cemented in place and supported with braces until it cured. Setting and affixing the actual library would have to wait until tomorrow. I wanted to take the box home with me and do some minor repairs to the woodwork anyway.
“We’ll need to replace this sod,” I muttered, crouching down to inspect the deep gouges left in the lawn.
My gaze traveled to the crushed section of her flowerbed.
“New flowers, too.” I stood up, ignoring the twinge in my knees.
“We could head over to Martinez Sod and Nursery?” I glanced at my watch. “Grab some lunch?”
“Fine, but I'm paying.”
I frowned. “Not if I get my wallet out first.”
She frowned right back at me. “Keep it up, and I’ll make you take me grocery shopping, too. Fill up my fridge on your dime.”
Enjoying her silliness, I said, “Kroger or Arlan’s?”
“Depends on the weekly ad and sales,” she said honestly. “That librarian salary doesn’t stretch as far these days.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I was luckier than most when it came to money and being comfortable.
Even in my youngest days, I had invested my ill-gotten gains in businesses and real estate.
Between my carpentry, what I had wrapped up in the stock market and a handful of small rental properties, I didn’t have to worry.
“I’m not, like, destitute,” she clarified a little while later as we drove to a lunch spot I enjoyed. “I did okay in the divorce. More than okay,” she added honestly. “I just like to be careful, especially in this economy.”
“I hear you.”
“Is carpentry your only business?”
I shook my head as we idled at a red light. “I own a piece of Margie’s bar and another one down near Surfside. Both under the table because of licensing laws,” I explained. “I also have some rental property up and down the beach.”