Chapter 4 Derek
I don’t think. I move.
My shoulder slams the door. The lock snaps, and I stumble inside, heart in my throat, ready to rip through whatever monster made her scream.
But the only monster here is me, because standing in the middle of the room is Annabelle, wet and naked.
Jesus.
Steam curls around her like a dream made of light and silence. My brain short-circuits, and my body doesn’t get the memo. I freeze, every instinct going haywire as water traces her curves, worshipping her.
My lungs seize.
“Derek!” She lurches back, arms crossing over her chest like that’ll fix the damage already done to my memory. “Turn around!”
I spin so fast, I nearly dislocate something. My eyes snap to the ceiling like it’s got the answers to life’s most important questions, but it’s too late . I’ve already memorized the entire beautiful fucking view.
“Right, sorry!” I grab a towel from the back of a chair and hold it out blindly behind me. “Here.”
My heart’s pounding for a hundred reasons I can’t name. Or maybe I just won’t let myself name them yet.
Silence. Then the soft rustle of fabric, and her whisper.
“You can look now.”
I turn slowly. Carefully.
The towel wraps tightly around her frame, and I lock onto the way the fabric clings to her hips, the rise and fall of her chest, and the damp ends of her hair curling against her skin.
My hands twitch.
I take a step closer before I even register it. Then something dark scuttles across the floor. Annabelle lets out a strangled squeak and practically levitates into me.
I steady her and fight a grin. “That scream was for our charming roommate, I take it?”
She glares toward the bed. “There was a spider in the shower too. And that…thing.”
I nod solemnly toward the floor where the cockroach vanished. “Motor-Inn’s unofficial welcoming committee.”
She shudders and her eyes dart back to me like I’m the only stable thing in the room.
“You’re coming with me.” I reach for her.
“But my stuff?—”
“I’ll get it tomorrow.” I lift her into my arms, towel and all. She stiffens, then melts as if her body is remembering the exact way we used to fit.
Her arms loop around my neck, and her breath ghosts across my throat. The heat of her, the scent of soap and skin—it all hits at once.
Yet beneath it, I feel her hesitation, and her fear. God, Belle, what happened to you?
“I can walk.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
She sighs and relaxes a little, but I’m not letting her go. If I do, I might lose her again, along with every chance to fix all the broken parts of my Annabelle to make her whole again.
The hall reeks of stale smoke and regret.
When we hit fresh air, her grip loosens, but mine doesn’t.
Lords Valley sprawls ahead, sleepy and unchanged. Except Annabelle’s here, and I’m carrying her home like 2007 all over again.
“Now that I’ve got you right where I want you… Are you finally back to marry me? You know, it’s our year.”
She rolls her eyes. “You propose like a hillbilly. And yes, our year.”
“I propose like a man who remembers our promise sealed between your thighs.”
She chokes on laughter. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re bendy when you’re drunk. If I recall, we make excellent decisions when we bend together. You get loud. Real enthusiastic.”
She swats my arm. “Derek.”
“Ah, so it is Derek now.”
Her face warms, but her eyes flash want, doubt, and shame. I feel her history rolling through my chest, still there since she left after Huntz died.
She goes quiet.
And suddenly, I need to know.
I tighten my hold, voice dropping to a low growl. “Why are you fighting this so hard? We’ve already slept together. You know what we are.”
She stiffens, then brushes a grease smudge from my brow. “Exactly. You know what I’m like in bed. There’s no more mystery. Doesn’t mean anything.”
Wrong.
It means everything. And she’ll forever be my mystery.
“You’re perfect,” I blurt.
No answer—only her pulse against my fingers. Twenty minutes later, I carry her to my front porch like she’s mine to bring home. My boots thud against the steps, the porch creaks beneath us, and my breath damn near stops when I cross the threshold with her in my arms like newlyweds.
She’s here.
In my house.
“Welcome home, Annabelle.”
The dogs go wild, Bear sniffing and Kara wagging her tail like her best friend’s back.
I set Annabelle down gently, and she immediately tightens the towel.
The dogs are relentless until she crouches and gives them a proper welcome filled with pats and belly rubs.
When she stands, her eyes flick to the photos on the mantle of Blake and me.
Her lips part, and I swear to God, if she says sorry , I’ll lose it.
She doesn’t say anything.
I turn, rummaging through the closet for something she can wear. I hand her Misty’s old sweatpants Blake left here, and one of my shirts.
“These’ll work until I fetch your suitcase.” I hand them over.
Her fingers brush mine.
The air shifts.
I step back. If I don’t, I’ll yank that towel off and finish what we began years ago.
“You’re sleeping in my room. I’ll take the couch."
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“What about Blake’s old room?” she offers, hope flickering in her voice.
“Converted to storage.”
“And the RV?” She points to the backyard where the old camper has become a decorative fixture.
“I promise no spiders in my room. The RV needs a scrub."
She frowns, lips parting, then exhales and says, “Fine. But just for tonight.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. "Just for tonight."
If I have it my way, she’ll stay here forever.
“Bathroom’s down the hall, on your right.”
She looks back over her shoulder. “I remember.”
Of course, she does.
Her footsteps disappear up the stairs, and I crack my neck .
Ten minutes later, the house smells like her.
The clean scent of my soap mixes with the warmth of her skin.
I’m pacing the living room, trying not to picture her in my bed.
Trying not to imagine that towel slipping to the floor, or the curve of her hips, or the little green panties with pink apple blossoms I know she has packed in her suitcase.
She once called them her good-luck panties. I made sure to test them thoroughly, and decided she was right.
I exhale hard and head for the RV. I tell myself I’m cleaning. That’s a damn lie. I’m running.
A memory hits me when I step inside the rusty home on flat wheels: her laughter, her moans, her kisses showering my skin like I was the last man on earth and she was starving for touch. The way she gave me her virginity, so willingly.
I clean for an hour, or two.
A spider clings to the shower corner, but I leave it. Keeping a spider here feels like tempting fate, but I need her in the house—with me—and maybe the spider will make that happen.
Later, I end up in the hammock between the apple trees. My loyal shadows, Bear and Kara, curl at my feet. I stare at the stars and think about what the hell I’m doing.
She’s in my bed. She’s in my house. And all I want is to reach past the walls she’s rebuilt between us and remind her what it felt like to be mine —why she’ll forever be mine .
When the morning sun kicks me in the face, everything aches. My back. My neck. My pride.
I stumble inside and make coffee, hands working on autopilot. Annabelle likes it strong with one splash of cream.
Her footsteps pad down the stairs, and when she enters the kitchen, gravity loses its pull.
She’s in Misty’s sweatpants. And my shirt.
My shirt.
It hangs off her like sin and softness—the fantasy of every lonely night.
“Morning. Smells good.”
“Morning.” I hand her a mug.
The brush of her fingers resonates along my skin. I feel it everywhere.
She sips and exhales. “You remembered.”
Of course, I remembered. I remember everything.
I lean back against the counter, arms crossed. “Figured you hadn’t changed that much.”
“You figured right.”
Her eyes flick past me, toward the backyard window, where the RV glints from between the rose bushes in the morning light.
“So…” she starts slowly, “how bad is it?”
I let the question hang. Either way, it’s going to take more than a little cleaning.
I glance over my shoulder, then back at her. “It’s bad.”
Her brow arches, skeptical and sharp. “Bad how?”
I sip my coffee. “Let’s just say... unless you’re into eight-legged roommates and mildew-flavored air, you might want to stay put a little longer.”
She groans, eyes falling shut. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?”
Her head drops back, jaw tight. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She lifts one eye, just enough to glare at me over the rim of her mug. “I mildly dislike you at the moment.”
I grin. “Progress.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no fire behind them. Just a hint of something softer. Something familiar.
I should probably tell her the truth. That the RV’s cleaner than it’s been in years. That I scrubbed the damn thing from top to bottom last night with nothing but elbow grease, rage, and one very surprised spider I let live for strategic reasons.
But I don’t.
Having her downstairs in my shirt, barefoot in my kitchen, drinking my coffee—that’s my new daily goal. If I can fix complicated cars, I can get her back. She just needs some TLC, and I’ve got plenty of that.
“Do you mind if I borrow your bike?” she asks, tone softening. “I want to see Eric and Emma, meet my nephew, catch up with Mom and Dad.”
I set my mug on the counter. “I can drive you.”
“No, you’ve got work, and I need time to figure out how to apologize without sounding like an ass. A bike ride will be nice. I’ll be quick. I just…don’t want them learning I’m back from anyone else.”
Fair.
She slips out, and I don’t stop her. But I don’t like it.
The house turns hollow in minutes. I scrub the kitchen like a man possessed, trying to erase the image of her in my shirt—bare legs, damp hair, perky curves peeking through cotton that never had the right to look that damn good.
Half an hour later, a car pulls up.