Chapter 4
Dom
Well, fuck.
If my parents saw me inside this house instead of checking on her injuries, they would disown me, but if I stayed close to her and her intoxicating scent for one more second, I was going to lose my composure. So instead, I’m here, making sure her cabin does not burn down.
It won’t. The oven is off, the alarm stopped beeping, and the smoke will clear out. I’ll come back and pick up the food later, but for now, I have to go check on her.
Riley.
The woman in the bright orange Jeep who looked way too out of place not to stop and check on.
The woman with the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, who stole my breath away when her dazzling smile and relief-filled breath charged the space between us.
The same woman whose jeans hugged her ass in all the right places and showcased strong legs underneath them.
A woman who is now my neighbor, and whom I cannot, for any reason, think of as more than what she is—my neighbor.
But then, she sounded like she was in pain, and walking in to see her red foot and her even redder hand, in contrast with her wet, golden skin, it was impossible not to notice the way her body looked with tiny beads of water everywhere.
I had to shake myself out of her trance. There’s no other way to describe it.
That, or the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in years. I’ve been so focused on making this work, I haven’t even looked at a woman twice.
Fuckin’ A, man.
I rush outside, praying she hasn’t moved, which she has. She’s moved, alright. She’s pacing, awkwardly so, biting a piece of the towel as she shakes her hand. If she grabbed that cast iron with her hands, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s blistered.
“Oh, there you are. Is it okay in there? Do I need to call 911? The alarm stopped, though. Are you okay? Is there a fire?” She continues pacing, spitting out questions as if this were an interrogation. I step forward and clasp her arm.
“Still,” I whisper, and she does. “Everything is fine in there. Are you alright?”
“Yes,” she whispers, tears filling her eyes. “No,” she adds.
Um, don’t cry. I don’t know what to do if she cries.
“Everything is ruined. My foot and my hand hurt. There’s smoke everywhere, Lilly is going to kill me, and I ruined my dinner.”
“Do you have allergies?” I ask. The one thing I know I can fix right this second.
“What?”
“Do you have allergies?”
“No.”
“Can you, um, cover your butt for me?” I grunt. Cover your butt? Cover your butt?
There’s a question behind her eyes.
“I’m going to pick you up and take you to my cabin. I have clothes you can wear there, and I can take a look at your injuries. Your cabin is full of smoke, and I don’t think you should stay there, at least not for now.”
She nods, filling me with instant relief. She pulls her towel tighter around her and murmurs, “I can walk.”
I shake my head and point to her foot. I don’t need to say anything for her to know what I mean. She stares at the space between her cabin and mine, lets out a heavy sigh, and nods ever so slightly.
“I’m gonna pick you up now, okay?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I hold the hand that isn’t burned and lift her off the ground, the towel touching my arm instead of her bare ass like before. I’m so focused on not touching her anywhere inappropriate, I miss when her expression shifts from sad and worried to amused, but she’s smiling now.
“Something funny?” I ask, not daring to look at her again. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m afraid I might get lost in those pretty blues of hers, or get caught staring at the single freckle adorning her cheek.
“Laugh not to cry, my dad would say, so I’m trying.”
I nod, stepping through my front door, past the small rocking chair in the foyer, and set her down on the worn, coffee-colored couch in the living room. I walk away, or try to, at least. “Wait!”
“Yes?” I turn to face her.
“Where are you going?” She looks frail and young. How did I not notice before how young she looks? Oh, because you were too preoccupied with noticing everything else about her, that’s why.
“To get you clothes.”
Her eyes drift downward, startled at the expanse of her bare skin, as if for the first time, she realizes she’s naked. A red heat begins at the base of her throat, climbing swiftly until it paints her cheeks. “Yeah, go ahead,” she adds.
I live here on my couch, the one I dragged with me from Florida, the only thing I kept from the house I built with the woman I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with.
The woman I abandoned in the name of career ladder-climbing, who left me for a man who could give her all the things I couldn’t.
She had everything she wanted, except the one thing she needed—me.
So, when the divorce was finalized, and she wanted to keep the house, I just kept that couch.
It was my parents’ first purchase when they moved to the States, and they gave it to me when I moved out.
So, I kept it. If I’m not sleeping or working, I’m on it. I love it.
I hand her a pair of sweat pants and a shirt I’m sure she’ll swim in. “There’s a bath—”
“Over there. I know. I grew up here, remember?”
I nod. I forgot who she is for a split second, and that’s something I can’t afford to do. She limps away from me, disappearing into the guest bathroom, and I get busy fixing her a plate. I wasn’t expecting company tonight, or any night for that matter, so I hope she likes sandwiches.
The door creaks open, showing a very upbeat Riley, who’s smiling as if she’s not in pain, even though we both know that’s not true.
“Thanks for the clothes. I’ll return them soon. I can go back. You don’t have to—” Her words die in her throat when she sees me pressing a sandwich. “Is that a sandwich?”
I nod.
“You made me a sandwich?”
I lean inward, applying more pressure on the grill press and simultaneously offering her a smile.
“Is this what you do?”
“What?”
“Give gas to strangers, carry heavy boxes into cabins, and save clueless women from a fire, and then make them a sandwich.”
My throat lets a scoff free. “All those things happened just with you. It’s been a very uneventful ten months, living here.”
“Ten months?” she asks. “You’ve been working here for ten months, and nobody told me?”
She may be talking at me, but not to me—she’s looking around for answers I don’t have, speaking her mind out loud.
“Does your sister always tell you the decisions she makes for the farm? It was my understanding she was running things here.”
She leans against the counter. “No, not really. I’ve been away at college for a while, and then I traveled some, which she doesn’t know, so don’t tell her.
” Her mouth is running a mile a minute. “She said she wanted me to experience things without worrying about the ranch. Except it’s turned into me being disconnected from the place I call home, even if it doesn’t feel like one anymore. ”
I remove the sandwich from the press, bouncing her words in my head. College? Like a master’s, right? Not like a twenty-one-year-old college student.
“College?” I ask. I have to, as I slide the plate in front of her. She twists her hair behind her head into one of those hard-to-explain things women do to keep their hair away from their faces.
She grabs the sandwich with both hands; before I can warn her, she drops it and shouts, “Mother of fuck, that’s hot.”
I chuckle, earning me a sullen look. “Sorry,” I murmur. I pull the first aid kit from under the sink, walking around the butcher’s top kitchen island to her. I offer my beat-up hand to her, which she eyes suspiciously. I lift the first aid kit.
“You don’t have to. It’s fine, look.” She shows her hands and flinches at the sight.
Her fingers look glossy over an angry red color, clearly burned.
I inspect her hand and realize I don’t have anything here to help, but I do in the bathroom.
My mom always says the best thing for burns is either the hospital or toothpaste.
If it’s bad enough, I fear it will get infected; it's a trip to the hospital.
If not, toothpaste works. So, I grab that and bring it back out to her.
“Does my breath stink?” she asks as soon as she sees the toothpaste in my hand, making me chuckle again. “I’m so glad I’m providing comedic relief with my naked body, burned body parts, and bad breath.” She hops off the barstool. “I’m going home.”
I hold her forearm, digging my fingertips into it, though not on purpose, so I let go. She stops regardless. “No, it’s not for your breath. Please stay.”
“Then what’s it for?” She’s ashamed, clear as day.
“Sit down, please.”
She does, making my dick twitch with how quick she followed my directions. Fuck. We cannot like this girl. She’s technically my boss, and she never answered my question about college, but it makes me wonder if she’s as young as I think she is. Fuck me.
I take her hand, looking at the contrast of how rough mine looks next to her delicate fingers, but I don’t pay too much attention so as to make it awkward. I clear my throat. “This is a Dominican remedy.”
“What is?” she asks.
“Toothpaste on burns.” I spread some on her hand, holding it between both of mine and gently massaging the paste across her palm and onto each finger. She’s holding her breath, which makes me fight harder to slow mine. In an attempt to do so, I say, “Your sandwich is good to eat now.”
I fall to my knees, grabbing her foot and continuing with the toothpaste where the pot hit her. She’s ticklish and flinches every time I try to grab her foot to inspect it. I don’t comment and just smile internally. It should be fine now.
“Sleep with it on and wipe it off tomorrow. My mom swears by it, so I hope it helps.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, as if she’s so used to pushing through discomfort, or even pain, to appease others. She takes another bite of her sandwich.
“Beer? Water? Juice?” I ask. Jesus, is she old enough to drink?
“Anything stronger?”
I guess so. I’m not risking it, though. “How old are you?”
“Take a girl out first before you start asking invasive questions, sir.”
“I wasn’t. I—” I clear my throat. “I jus—”
“Relax. I’m just joking. I’m twenty-two, perfectly legal to drink, and tequila sounds about perfect right now.”
Damn, tequila. “I don’t have any. Sorry.”
“You look like you’re gonna throw up. Relax. It’s fine. I’ll go into town tomorrow and grab some. Can I have water then? I’m not a beer girly.”
I open the fridge, grabbing a bottle to hand her. Twenty-two years old—you hear that, dick? Stay put. Too young, your boss, and now your neighbor? Nope.
I need to find a way to keep my distance, though, because erasing the image of her perfect body will be hard enough; add her floral scent to that, and her blue eyes that look sad beyond measure, and I’m fucked.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the water.
She finishes the rest of her sandwich in silence.
Most people might not be comfortable with it, but I don’t mind.
After working in a fast-paced environment where everyone was always talking or yelling, where there was always something that needed done, moving out here has been good for my soul.
It took time to get adjusted to the slow pace, but after I found the peace that comes with it, there was no going back.
“Do you like it out here?” she asks.
“I do.”
“Do you like working with Arnie?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes open wider, a slight tint kissing her cheeks. “No ma’am, please. Just Riley.”
“Yes, ma— I mean, yes.” I clear my throat again. Fuck. I’m not going there. Not going there. Not. Going. There.
She narrows her eyes, hopping down from the chair with a wince, and takes the plate to the sink. I grab it from her before she has a chance to attempt to clean it. “I got it.”
“You saved me and made me dinner. It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s not a problem. And you shouldn’t get that hand wet tonight.” I point to her hand covered in toothpaste.
She lifts it. “Yup, makes sense. Well, it’s getting late.”
“It is,” I reply.
“I'd better get going.”
My nod is the only answer she needs.
“Alright! Have a good night,” she shouts, limping to the door. She didn’t bring shoes here. What am I thinking?
“Let me carry you home.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Your foot is covered in toothpaste, and you have no shoes.”
“So?”
“So, respectfully, I’m picking you up.” I do. In one swoop, she’s in my arms, and I carry her back to her place. No words are shared between us, but again, the silence feels comfortable, as if we’ve known each other for a long time.
I place her down on her front step. The smoke has cleared up from her cabin, even if the smell hasn’t. The temperature has dropped, making it perfect for her to leave windows open, which should help with the smell.
“You should leave the windows open.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that. The smell will stay if not. Old wood and all.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She holds the door open, her blonde hair spilling over my shirt, making my body react in ways I haven’t allowed it to in a while.
“Thanks for tonight.” She lets out a giggle. “And last night, for that matter. Let’s hope this isn’t a recurring thing between us.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Thanks.” Her soft smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Even though I haven’t known her for long, it’s clear that, underneath all the light she’s shown me in a few interactions, she’s hiding some hurt.
“See you around?” she asks as I’m turning on my heels to get back to my cabin.
“I’m sure we will,” I reply and head back to my place. A place that didn’t feel empty before, but now, without her here, only the wet towel left behind on the floor, it feels like the party’s over, and I’m all alone again.