Chapter 19 #2
I shrug off my jacket, placing it where I took it out moments ago, lining it up neatly with the others.
I don’t tend to be crazy over people coming over and where they put things for their short time here, but with my current state of mind, I would feel better without his jacket resting on the back of the couch.
Picking it up, the earthy smell of his cologne hits my senses, and I find myself inhaling it to memory as I drape it over the back of the high-top chair sitting at my kitchen island.
Dallas comes back with a towel that he must have found in the garage, tucked under four wooden logs in his arms. The sleeves of his solid black flannel shirt are rolled up, exposing his forearms. The muscles protrude, and damn, he’s hot.
There’s no other word for Dallas Westbrook.
I mean, there’s probably a lot more words if I had time to think them through, but that happens to be the only one that comes to mind.
Moving quickly in front of him, I move the fireplace screen out of the way for him.
He places the four logs, resting on top of the towel, on the ground, being careful not to get any wood on the carpet.
My heart races at how much care he’s putting into ensuring things remain neat.
Kneeling beside the fireplace, he tucks his head in to look inside.
While he examines it, I grab a lighter from the end table next to the couch for him to use.
“Have you ever used this thing?”
“No,” I admit, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
“But you have wood, and know how to start the fireplace up?”
My cheeks turn fire engine red as I shake my head again. “Griffin drops the wood off for me. To be completely honest, I have no idea how to use this thing. I wasn’t even sure it was a functioning fireplace. It’s mostly decoration for me.”
He laughs, picking up a log and placing it inside the fireplace.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
He keeps stacking the logs in perfect formation before brushing his hands over the top of them to remove the dirt. Anxiety churns in my gut waiting for his response, and then he turns to face me.
“Why not?”
“I mean, is this just you being a friendly neighbor?”
“A friendly neighbor.” He raises an eyebrow, and it sounds more like a statement than a question. Then he shrugs. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
I stand there, stunned. I have no clue what to think about the way he just said that.
It makes me think there’s more to this. Do I want there to be more to this thing happening between us that neither of us is acknowledging?
Yes. Considering the state of my brain a few minutes ago, this is a crazy revelation.
“I’m a friendly neighbor, Poppy,” he continues when I don’t reply. He stands from his spot on the ground, erasing some of the space I put between us, but also keeping a safe amount of distance for both of us. “But that doesn’t mean I want to be friends.”
“Dallas,” I breathe out.
“You know…to be completely honest and all.” He winks before reaching down and grabbing the lighter that was still in my hand.
If there’s one thing about Dallas, it’s his confidence in the way he talks to me. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get it.
It terrifies me.
I wonder if I told him all the parts of me I keep hidden, if he would run.
Would he stay?
Would he still act the way he is now?
There’s nothing more horrifying than saying “Here I am. This is the real me. Please don’t turn and walk away.”
“Dallas,” I say, just above a whisper, and he snaps his head around to face me. “I’m not like other women you’ve dated or been with before,” I repeat my words from the last time I said this so he remembers.
“I know.”
“I’m really different.”
“I know.”
My chest feels tight, like my heart is inching closer to the surface and ready to burst free from my ribcage. My palms feel sweaty, and I try to brush them on my jeans.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“I was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder a few years back,” I finally admit.
It feels like a foreign language coming out of my mouth as I don’t think I’ve ever said it to anyone other than my therapist. “But I’m in therapy for it and everything.
We’re working on making it not take over my life anymore,” I rattle off quickly, as if to defend myself.
“It makes me feel a little crazy sometimes.”
Dallas pauses, as if he’s absorbing everything I have to say.
There’s no disgust in his features, though. He’s simply processing.
He feels so far away from where he stands near the fireplace, like there are miles between us. He closes the gap, he’s in front of me, lifting my chin to meet his stare with just his finger—a feather-like touch.
“That doesn’t make you crazy, Poppy. It makes you human.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I never knew how much I needed to hear something like that. I’m certain my therapist has said those exact words. This feels different. Coming from Dallas, everything feels different.
He must sense the shift in my body, the way it relaxes with his words.
His fingertips trail along my jaw until he’s tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“The most beautiful thing about you is who you are. Besides, everyone’s a little crazy in their own way.
” He laughs. “I don’t know enough about your past, and I don’t know if there was someone who made you think this way, but Poppy, you shouldn’t hide who you are because of it. ”
A tear breaks free, and Dallas quickly swipes his thumb to brush it away.
“I feel like I’ve had this most of my life,” I admit.
“I’ve always had weird quirks that I thought were normal—lining things up, organizing them, or ensuring that all the light switches are either up or down.
I’ve always been the type of person who, when I can’t stop thinking about doing something, I have to do it.
No matter what it takes. In college, I knew I wanted to teach first grade.
I was willing to do whatever it took to get there. ”
“I can relate to that.”
Dallas makes me feel safe enough to let the walls come down in front of him.
There’s this pull in my chest to let him see all the parts I’ve kept locked away from the world.
I want Dallas to understand me, and with everything I’ve just told him, he hasn’t so much as flinched. He’s not judging me or running away.
His steady presence makes me feel like I can keep sharing more.
Like I don’t have to carry all of this on my own anymore.
“I had a boyfriend at the time,” I continue. Dallas stiffens at my words, even though it’s in the past. “He basically said the way I prioritized my career and daily routine was just too much for him. He made me feel like I wasn’t enough. And maybe I screwed up. Maybe I should have put him first—”
He holds up a hand to stop me. “No.”
I tilt my head to the side in question.
“First of all, fuck him.” That forces a weak laugh out of me.
“Second of all, if he cared about you in any sense of the word, he would have pushed you to be the best you could be. He would have pushed you to see the success you craved. It makes my blood boil right now that you’ve spent all this time thinking you’re less than what you are because of that. ”
All this time, I’ve been terrified of being vulnerable with anyone.
Dallas is showing me that it’s not a weakness. It’s the courage to be seen as you truly are.
When it’s met with care, the way he is doing right now, it’s like the weight of the world has just lifted off my shoulders. It feels like exhaling for the first time in a long time.
“I guess, because of that, I thought most guys wouldn’t want to deal with something like that.”
I try to look away, emotions ripping through me like a tornado.
He grips my chin, forcing me to keep looking at him.
“I’m not most guys.”
I swallow, not even sure how to process that.
It’s not like it’s new information for me. I know Dallas Westbrook is different.
So much different.
“If I were like other guys, I would have kissed you by now. I would have had you in your bed and on your back ten minutes ago, forgetting your own name.”
“Dallas,” I whisper, letting my eyes flutter closed.
There’s so much more I want to say, but all my words stay stuck in my throat.
I want him to kiss me.
I want to feel his body on top of me.
I want things I’ve never felt before, and only from him.
Just as I’m about to admit any of that to him, the lights turn on, and I hear the heater start running again.
We both look around before we turn back to one another.
The air between us is thick. There’s so much I want to say, and so many unspoken words linger on his tongue.
I can tell by the way his eyes darken with each passing second.
“I should go see if everything is up and running again at my place. I had a load of laundry in the washer when the power cut out,” he says before leaning down, his lips dangerously close to my skin. “And before I finally dare to act on everything I just said I would do.”
I smile, thinking about all of it.
The feeling of his lips on mine, and him taking me to my room.
I’m not ready for any of it.
But I want to be. I want to lose everything to this man in front of me.
He lets his lips graze my cheek as he pulls away, not fully pressing them to my skin, but it’s enough to make my body shiver and my heart pound in my chest.
“I’ll see you soon, Poppy.”
And as he walks toward the door, he gives me one more passing glance and a wink before closing the door behind him. As it clicks shut, silence engulfs the room. For once, it’s not heavy or crushes me like a ton of bricks.
My thoughts aren’t spiraling.
There are no voices in my head telling me I’m not enough.
Dallas didn’t try to fix me. He didn’t show me pity. He just saw me for me. I didn’t realize how loud the war zone in my head had been until he quieted everything.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
I’m just breathing.
And it has everything to do with Dallas Westbrook.