Chapter 1 #2
We reach the side door; a glass storm door rattles as he opens it and props it open with his backside while entering the code into a digital keypad set into the main door.
A deadbolt hums as it withdraws, and Riley pushes the door open.
We enter a dark kitchen: white cabinets, dark, wide-plank floors, quartz counters, and white-and-gold high-end appliances.
"Your home is lovely," I say, as he flicks on a light switch.
The side door opens to a small landing; to the right is a large laundry room—more white with black and gold accents—and a mudroom, the appliances on the left and a bank of floor-to-ceiling cubbies with built-in seats on the right, and a door to the backyard at the rear.
Straight ahead from the side entrance takes you down to the basement—pitch black, so I cannot see whether it is finished or not. Left takes you to the kitchen.
He gives me another dazzling smile. "Thanks. It's been a labor of love, but she's almost done."
I absorb his statement and examine the various possible interpretations. "By labor of love, do you mean that you have performed the labor yourself, out of love? And by she, you refer to the home?"
He looks at me for a moment; likely, he is attempting to figure out why I am so strange. "Yeah, yeah. I'm not as good at this shit as my brother Felix, but I do okay. I think it's turned out alright."
"I do not follow your meaning."
This causes him to frown. “I…um. What?"
"You claim to not be as good at this…stuff…as your brother, but I do not know what stuff you are referring to."
"Oh, uhhh, this." He waves a hand at the kitchen.
"Home renovations. Building. My brother Felix is the master at this shit.
Walk into one of his houses and you'll get your hair knocked back, they're that fuckin' pimp.
Like, just sleek and…" he waves a hand, shaking his head. "All professional and shit."
There is much to his statement I do not quite follow, but I can piece his intent through the utilization of context clues.
"If your brother is better than you at home building and renovation, then he must be quite talented indeed.
You have done a wonderful job, if you did all the work and design yourself. "
He grins—I could be mistaken, and probably am, but it seems like an embarrassed grin. "Eh, it's alright. Thanks, though. It's nice to hear."
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, and cannot hide the wince of pain as I do so.
Riley is observant and notices my discomfort.
"Your feet hurt like a bitch, huh?" He presses his big, hot hand to the small of my back and nudges me out of the kitchen and into the living room, around the corner; there is a small, round, oak dining table with four chairs in the corner between the kitchen and the living room.
"C'mon, sweetheart. Sit. Relax. Lemme see what I've got as far as grub goes. "
I frown. "I…I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but I do not think grubs would sit well at the moment. They are rather dense, and far too rich for my system to process on an empty stomach."
Riley stops mid-step, partway back into the kitchen, pivots slowly, and stares at me. "Huh? No, Cadence, not—not actual grubs. Grub. Like food?" He blinks rapidly a few times. "And…have you…have you actually eaten grubs?"
"Of course I have," I say. "I spent several months providing medical care to tribes in central Africa, where bugs, including grubs, are a staple."
"No shit? What do they taste like?" he asks.
I tilt my head and look up and away, recalling. "Well, it depends on a variety of factors, including but not limited to the type of grub, how it's prepared, and what one pairs it with. My favorite ones are baked on hot stones and have a nutty flavor."
He laughs—amazement, perhaps? Or amusement, or bemusement; I am uncertain. "Well, I ain't got any grubs. One sec while I see what I do have."
He leaves me standing in the middle of the living room and returns to the kitchen; I hear the refrigerator opening and closing, cabinets rattling closed.
I look around the living room and find it as pleasing as the rest of the home.
The same dark, wide-plank floors carry throughout, with white drywall everywhere except a single accent wall behind the large black leather couch—the accent wall features narrow, horizontal shiplap painted a bold French blue.
The ceiling is vaulted and trimmed with dark wood to match the floors.
There is no television, only a large framed black-and-white photograph of cherry trees in full bloom opposite the accent wall over a long, thin table littered with decorative knick-knacks and a few framed photos of what I assume to be Riley's family and/or friends—the same handful of men are featured in most of the photographs: a large, muscular man with blond hair and facial features which strongly resemble Riley's—most noticeably the intensely pale blue eyes; another blond man, also very attractive, wearing the uniform of a law enforcement officer; there is another attractive man, this one with wild, shaggy, curly black hair, heavy, dark stubble, and dark eyes; last is a giant of a man with bright red hair and a beard so long it's braided, the end of the braid capped with a silver cuff.
"You were supposed to sit down," Riley says behind me, startling me so badly I jump, gasping.
Laughing, Riley settles his hands on my shoulders, once again making my pulse hammer crazily.
"Whoa, whoa. Sorry, sweetness, didn't mean to scare you.
C'mon, take a seat." He guides me to the couch, turns me around, and gently but firmly forces me to sit.
He presses a button on the outside of the armrest, and a foot support extends and lifts up under my feet. "Better?"
I close my eyes in relief, sighing. "Yes, thank you." I open my eyes and look at him. "Would you be offended if I remove my shoes?"
"I'll do you one better." He drops to a knee at my feet and slides my shoes off of my feet; he hisses. "Jesus fucks a monkey, Cadence. What the hell is this shit?" He shows me my shoe, the inside of which is stained with blood from my blisters.
I blink at him. "That is an offensive statement."
He blinks back. "What is?"
"Your reference to Jesus…erm…fornicating…with a primate."
"You're a church-girl, huh?" he grimaces.
"My bad, sorry." He shows my shoe again.
"But for real, Cadence. You've just been standing around with your feet in this state?
How are you functioning?" With strong but gentle fingers, he lifts my bare foot and examines my heel.
"I mean, damn, girl. Your feet are shredded to hell. Wait here."
Not wishing to get blood on his nice leather couch, I place my bare feet on the cold wood of the floor and wait as instructed.
He returns from the hallway, which I assume leads to the bedrooms and bathrooms, a white metal tin bearing a red cross logo in his hands; he also has a packet of unscented baby wipes, strangely enough.
He perches on the edge of the couch beside me, turns to face me, and pats his knee. "Foot."
I take that to mean he wishes me to put my foot on his leg, and I, shaking with nerves and fear and confusion, do as I am instructed. When he takes my foot in his hand, I jerk at his touch, inhaling sharply.
"Hey, hey," he murmurs, his tone soothing. "I'll be gentle, I promise."
I do not know how to begin explaining my sensory issues, let alone my aversion to being touched, and he is overwhelming me with his enormous size, his intense attractiveness, and his mere proximity.
I force myself to breathe and to hold absolutely still, fixing my gaze resolutely on the couch between us so he cannot see—hopefully—that I am fighting an anxiety attack.
He does not seem to notice. He tugs a wipe free of the package, bringing several with it; he uses the baby wipe to clean the old, dried blood off my heel, and then wipes at my Achilles tendon and the bottom of my foot.
His touch is exquisitely gentle, despite the strength and roughness of his hands.
"It has never occurred to me to use baby wipes in this fashion," I say.
He rolls a shoulder. "Use 'em for everything. They're super versatile."
Once both of my feet are cleaned of blood, he opens the first aid kit, hunts for and finds Neosporin, and applies it liberally to my open blisters. Next, he expertly applies large square bandages to the back of each foot, adhered with medical tape.
"There," he says, gently settling my foot on the footrest. "Not as good as new, but hopefully a bit better. Best leave those shoes off, though."
I scrutinize his work with a professional eye. "You appear to have experience with minor injuries."
He chuckles. “Doin' the work I do, cuts and shit like that are par for the course. I always end up being the nurse on the job-site.” He glances at me, eyes widening.
"Oh, shit, you're, like, an actual doctor, aren't you?
" He dips his chin at me, which I, perhaps erroneously, interpret as a gesture at my foot, and his work.
"I do okay for you, Doc? You can be critical. I won't cry."
"You did quite well. I cannot find anything to criticize.” I frown. "If I were to criticize your performance, however, I would like to think I would be kind enough that you would not need to cry."
He shakes his head, snorting quietly in a way that seems to be laughter. "You're a literal sorta gal, ain'tcha, Cadence?"
I nod. "Yes, quite so."
He laughs yet again—he laughs rather frequently, I am noticing. "You must watch a lot of Downton Abbey or somethin'."
I frown. "I do not watch television."
"Whaddya know? Me either. Too ADHD to sit around staring at a damn screen."
I feel a frisson of excitement. "You have ADHD?"