Chapter 7 - Jimmy
I shut Lily's door behind me and stand in the hallway for a moment, trying to get my head straight. What the hell am I doing? I've known this woman for all of twenty-four hours, and now she's staying in my house. In my private space that no woman has entered in... Christ, how long has it been?
I head to the kitchen and grab a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water from the tap. My hands are steady, but my mind is racing. The image of Lily in that yellow dress keeps flashing through my thoughts: how it hugged her curves, how it rode up her thighs when she climbed into my truck.
Fuck. I'm acting like some horny teenager instead of a thirty-five-year-old man again. This woman just lost everything. The last thing she needs is me leering at her like some perverted old man.
I down the water in a few gulps, then refill the glass. Through the walls, I hear movement in the guest room, then the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing. A moment later, the shower starts running.
And just like that, my mind conjures an image I have no business imagining. Lily standing naked under the spray of water, rivulets running down her soft curves, her dark hair slick against her skin.
"Jesus, Sullivan, calm the fuck down," I mutter to myself, but the damage is done.
My cock stiffens painfully against my jeans, and I adjust myself, trying to think about anything else. Equipment maintenance. Budget reports.
Nothing works. The soft patter of the shower continues, and with it, my mind keeps creating detailed scenarios of what's happening just a few feet away. Is she soaping those curves right now? Is she washing away the last traces of smoke from her skin? Is she thinking about me at all?
I move to the living room, putting more distance between myself and the bathroom, but it doesn't help. I can still hear the water running, can still picture her naked body beneath it. Before I can stop myself, my hand slides down to the growing bulge in my jeans, pressing against it.
This is wrong on so many levels. She's vulnerable, homeless, dependent on my charity. And here I am, getting hard at the thought of her showering in my bathroom.
But I can't seem to stop. My hand slips inside my jeans, then under the waistband of my briefs until my fingers wrap around my cock. I'm fully hard now, throbbing with a need I haven't felt in longer than I care to admit.
I stroke myself once, twice, groaning softly at the relief it brings. Just a few more strokes and I could finish this, rid myself of this inappropriate tension before she—
The water shuts off abruptly.
Fuck.
I yank my hand from my pants, guilt washing over me like a bucket of ice water. What the hell am I doing? I adjust myself as best I can, willing my erection to subside before she emerges from the bathroom.
I need a distraction. I head back to the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator to grab a beer. The cold bottle feels good in my overheated hand, and I press it briefly against my forehead before twisting off the cap.
"That shower felt amazing."
I nearly drop the bottle as Lily's voice comes from behind me. I turn to find her standing in the kitchen doorway, and my mouth goes dry instantly.
She's wearing one of my old PHFD t-shirts—just the shirt, as far as I can tell. It hangs to mid-thigh on her, making her look even smaller and more delicate. Her dark hair is wet, curling slightly around her face.
Without makeup, she looks younger, more vulnerable, but somehow even more beautiful. Her legs are bare, smooth and curvier than I'd imagined when they were hidden beneath that yellow dress.
My cock, which had just begun to settle down, springs back to full attention. Thank god the kitchen island is between us.
"Glad it worked for you," I manage, my voice rougher than usual. I take a swig of beer to wet my suddenly parched throat.
She gestures to the shirt self-consciously. "I hope you don't mind. I still have to get new clothes, but right now it's..."
"Hard," I finish for her, then wince at my word choice. "Difficult, I mean."
A slight smile curves her lips, and I have to look away before I do something stupid.
"I can make some calls," I say, staring intently at my beer bottle. "A few people in town might be able to help with clothes. Nothing fancy, probably secondhand, but better than wearing my shirts."
Though the sight of her in my shirt is doing things to me I'm not proud of.
"That would be amazing," she says, padding further into the kitchen. Her feet are bare, toenails painted a soft pink that seems absurdly delicate in my rough house. "Any chance you have something to eat? I just realized I haven't had real food since... well, before the fire."
"Sure," I say, glad for the distraction. "I can throw together some sandwiches. Or there's leftover chili I made yesterday. I know it’s not Thanksgiving food, but…"
"Chili sounds perfect," she says before I can finish, perching on one of the barstools at the island. The shirt rides up slightly as she sits, and I force myself to turn away, focusing on retrieving the container from the fridge.
As I move around the kitchen, heating the chili and pulling out bowls, I notice her eyes following me. It's been a long time since I've had an audience for these mundane tasks, and it makes me self-conscious in a way I'm not used to feeling.
"You have a really nice place," she says after a few moments of silence. "I noticed all the firefighter photos in the living room. Looks like you've been with the department a long time."
I nod, stirring the pot of chili. "Fifteen years next month."
"That's incredible," she says, and her genuine admiration makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "But I couldn't help noticing there aren't any family photos. Not a single one."
The observation catches me off guard. Most people don't notice details like that, or if they do, they don't mention it. I consider deflecting, giving some vague non-answer, but something about her direct approach makes me want to respond in kind.
"Don't have much family to take pictures of," I say finally, keeping my tone neutral as I ladle chili into bowls.
She doesn't push, just nods. "I get that. I don't have many family photos either. At least, none I'd want to display."
I set a bowl in front of her, along with a spoon and some crackers. "Careful, it's hot."
"Thank you." She takes a small bite, then makes a sound of appreciation that goes straight to my groin. "This is really good. You're a good cook."
"It's just chili," I say, but I'm pleased by her reaction. "When you live alone, you either learn to cook or eat a lot of takeout. Cooking's cheaper."
She takes another bite, then looks up at me with those big brown eyes. "Can I ask you something personal?"
My guard goes up instantly. "Depends on what it is."
"Have you always lived alone? I mean, you're—" She stops, a blush spreading across her cheeks.
"I'm what?" I prompt, curious despite myself.
The blush deepens. "You're not exactly hard on the eyes, and you can cook, and you have this amazing house. I just... I'm surprised you're not married or something."
Not hard on the eyes. Coming from this woman who looks like a fucking dream sitting in my kitchen wearing nothing but my t-shirt, the compliment is almost laughable.
"Never married," I say, leaning against the counter as I eat my own chili. "Came close once, a long time ago. Didn't work out."
That's the abbreviated version. The full story involves finding my fiancée in bed with my former best friend six weeks before the wedding. But Lily doesn't need to hear that particular tale of woe.
"Her loss," Lily says.
I nearly choke on my chili. This conversation is veering into dangerous territory. A beautiful young woman in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, telling me some ex made a mistake by letting me go? It's like the setup to every middle-aged man's fantasy.
"What about you?" I ask, desperate to change the subject. "No boyfriend wondering where you are?"
She shakes her head. "No boyfriend. I've been too focused on the shop to date much."
"Hard to believe," I say before I can stop myself.
She looks up, surprise evident in her expression. "What do you mean?"
Shit. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Just that you're—" I gesture vaguely with my spoon, "—you know. Pretty. I'd think guys would be lining up."
Her laugh is short and disbelieving. "Right. Because men are so interested in awkward, ugly and fat florists who can barely make eye contact."
"Ugly and fat?" I repeat, genuinely confused.
Is that how she sees herself? This gorgeous woman who has curves that could make a saint sin, and she thinks that’s bad?
"My mother's word, not mine," she clarifies, looking down at her bowl. "She always said I'd 'find a husband faster if I lost twenty pounds.'"
I can't help the snort that escapes me. "Your mother sounds like a real piece of work."
"That's one way to put it," she agrees, a small smile playing at her lips.
I try not to stare as she eats, but it's a losing battle. Every movement she makes—tucking her hair behind her ear, licking her spoon, stretching slightly in her seat—draws my attention like a magnet.
"Thank you," she says when she's finished, pushing her empty bowl away. "For the food. For everything. And happy thanksgiving!"
"It's just chili," I repeat, but we both know that's not what she's talking about, “Happy thanksgiving for you, too.”
She stands, and the shirt rides up again, giving me a brief glimpse of simple white cotton panties before she tugs it down. The flash of white is enough to send another jolt of heat through me, and I have to turn away, busying myself with clearing the dishes.