CHAPTER 4
Bailey
As I pull along the same curb that I’d left just last night, I wished I would’ve taken the time to swing by my room to change.
Wearing my uniform at work and running errands is one thing, but wearing it to finally meet Palmer and help her deliver the rest of Clay’s stuff to him feels kind of weird.
That being said, I wasn’t about to say no when Moore asked me if I’d be willing to help him out.
Something about getting to help someone out of a similar situation as my mom and getting to fuck with the asshole that caused it is incredibly appealing.
Still. I wish I would’ve changed.
Movement catches the corner of my vision, and I glance toward the front door. The woman who I’m assuming is Palmer based on what I remember from the photos, gestures at me to pull into the driveway. I shift the truck back into drive and pull up alongside her Honda SUV.
I expect to find her waiting on the porch, but instead, I’m greeted by the door cracked open and noises coming from behind it. I rap my first two knuckles gently on it then push it in when I hear a voice call, “It’s open!”
Part of me is tempted to ask her if she knows how dangerous it is to a) leave her door cracked open and b) invite random strangers in, but I curb the impulse.
Leaning her back against the archway that leads into the living space, Palmer struggles to slip her foot into a tennis shoe. She looks up at me as the sunlight from the doorway lands on her and flashes a cordial smile.
“Hi!” Her foot finally slides into the shoe, and she stands up to her full height, then steps toward me, hand outstretched.
She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts, and her legs seem to stretch for miles.
“I’m so sorry you got roped into”—she gestures toward herself and the pile of boxes behind her—“all of this, but I really appreciate your help! I’m sure you already know, but I’m Palmer. ”
Taking a moment to really look at her, Palmer seems more relaxed than she did in any of the photos I had seen last night.
She’s pretty. A pair of oversized sunglasses rests on top of her head, and just like in the photos, her eyes are a piercing gray; captivating, even if her gaze is a little intimidating.
I remember Moore saying something about her being a teacher with Lindy, and that tracks with my current evaluation of her.
I bet she can bring a classroom to silence with a single look.
She’s tall. A couple of inches taller than me even; she’s got to be at least six foot. That means she’s a couple of inches taller than Clay.
I bet he hates that. The thought makes me smile.
Her long, blond hair is swept on top of her head into a messy bun.
When she smiles, her eyes crinkle at the corners, and a smattering of freckles adorn her entire face and the parts of her chest and shoulder that I can see from the baggy, cut-up shirt hanging off her.
Something about the way she tilts her head makes me think about pressing my lips to the soft skin where her neck meets her shoulder.
Whoa, what the hell?
It's been a while since a woman has made me have any sort of thoughts of that nature. Actually, I don’t know if a woman has ever made me have any thoughts like that within thirty seconds of meeting them, and I mentally remind myself to get it together.
It’s probably just because I have some sort of hero complex and feel some sort of connection to her because her situation reminds me of my mom’s.
Definitely not going to bring that up to a therapist any time soon. The last thing I need to add to my long list of childhood trauma, deployment-related PTSD, and other associated alphabet soup is the label of mommy issues.
I’m just here to help.
The fact that I probably need to get laid is something I tab to revisit later.
I take her hand in mine and give it a firm shake; her skin is warm and soft, but her handshake matches mine in confidence.
I catch a whiff of a sweet floral scent and have to stop myself from asking her why she smells so good, because that’s weird, right?
The substitute hired muscle coming over and talking about how good you smell?
Yeah, I mentally confirm. Definitely weird.
Determined not to be, I come back to myself and realize she’s looking at me expectantly. Shit. I am being exactly what I just told myself I wouldn’t be: weird.
“Sorry. Uh—” I have no idea if she asked me a question or said something other than her name. Deciding on addressing what I do know she said, I say, “Nice to meet you, Palmer. It’s really no problem at all. I was here yesterday with Moore, so I don’t mind helping out. Your ex is… something.”
She glances down at our hands, which are still joined, and her cheeks pinken. “Yeah, that’s putting it mildly.”
I release her hand and almost instantly wish I hadn’t. Something about touching her while looking into those storm-gray eyes has me feeling some sort of way.
Am I always this fucking awkward around literally anyone? Christ, it’s like I’ve never talked to a beautiful woman before.
Slipping her hands into the pockets of her shorts, Palmer takes a step back and clears her throat before speaking again.
“My, uh, my friends call me PJ. Or in Chase’s case, Peej.
Although I will say he and Lindy are the only people in the world allowed to call me that, so I’m not super sure why I mentioned it.
You can just call me PJ. Nobody really calls me Palmer. ”
Her stream of consciousness rambling is cute and makes me grin like an idiot.
Get it together, man.
“So,” Palmer starts, digging the toe of her shoe into the floor at her feet. “You must be Diaz?”
“Yeah, Diaz. Bailey. I mean, sorry. My name is Bailey Diaz,” I say. “I promise I know how to talk to people, contrary to everything you are seeing right now.”
The comment seems to catch her off guard, and she snorts a laugh. I swear to god, the sound makes me go weak in the knees. In that moment, I make it my personal mission to make sure that I hear it again, even if it’s at my own expense.
Trying to break my trance, I rub my hands together and ask, “All righty, so what’s the plan?”
“Well.” Palmer turns to face the boxes, hands on her hips, and answers, “This is all the shit Clay left behind, so I guess we need to pack it up and take it to him.”
Maintaining concentration on her words is a monumental task.
Although my ears are trained on her voice, my eyes don’t miss the slit up the side of her shorts and how the hem barely meets the bottom of the ample curve of her ass.
My mind begins to wander, and I wonder if the skin covered by the denim is as soft as her hand.
Palmer faces me. “Sound good?”
Not sure what she asked, I simply nod and give her a thumbs up.
“Okay, great.” She sets a box on the floor and kicks it toward me. “We can just put them in the back seat of my car. I think they’ll fit.”
“Why don’t we just use my truck?” I offer. “We can put the boxes in the bed, so we won’t have to do a bunch of resituating or anything.”
Her eyes light up. “That would be great! Truth be told, I wasn’t super sure if everything was going fit in my car easily, and I was worried we’d have to make more than one trip.” She gestures toward the box at my feet. “If you’ll take that one, I’ll grab another and follow you out.”
I bend to pick up the first box and grunt. “Jesus, what’s in here?”
Palmer’s face flushes when she answers, “Dirty plates.”
Between the two of us, we make quick work of the boxes. I carry out the last one, and she locks the door behind us, then trails me to the truck. After closing the tailgate, I step to the passenger side and hit the unlock button on my remote. I open the door and gesture for her to get in.
Her jaw drops, and she starts to argue. “Thank you, but I’m capable of opening my own door."
“I know you are.” I hold out a hand to help her in and step toward her. “But I was taught a lady shouldn’t have to.”
Palmer looks between my face and my hand, a look of confusion furrowing her brow.
Taking her hand in mine, I say, “I know what you’ve been through, Palmer. Maybe not all of it, but enough. You deserve to be treated so much better than you have been. Just”—I guide her toward the running board—“let me treat you a bit today.”
“Okay,” she says softly then steps up. As she reaches for the handle, her foot slips, but I’m right behind her and grasp her hips until she gets her footing again.
My voice is gravelly when I ask if she’s good. Her back rests against my chest, and the smell of her perfume engulfs my senses. She’s stiff, her soft body against the hard edges of mine, and her breathing is shallow, but she doesn’t move forward.
“I… yeah. I’m good. Thank you.”
I nod then pry my hands off her. Palmer slides into the passenger seat, and I close the door behind her. It’s impossible to miss the flush in her face and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
I take my time walking to the driver’s side and adjust the erection tenting my pants.
“Focus, Diaz,” I mutter, trying to focus on anything other than how good her body had felt against mine and how much better it would’ve felt if there hadn’t been any fabric between us.
With one last big exhale, I open the driver’s side door and climb in.