Chapter seven #3
He twists to face me, crossing his arms over his chest yet again. I don’t know if he does it to put off a commanding presence, or because he knows how good it makes his entire upper body look.
His lips turn up on one side. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and find out, won’t you?”
“You’re not helping your case right now, Dallas,” I tease, stepping around him to break our eye contact and to get my heart to slow the furious pace at which it’s pumping. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a chair to put together.”
“Do you even have tools?”
Defeat pulls my shoulders down as I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. “No.”
“So how are you planning on putting this together?”
“Through telepathy?” I wince, turning around to face him.
He laughs. “Right. You know, I happen to have a few tools in my truck. I could…help you…if you want.” His offer isn’t solid, more like unsure, waiting on my reaction.
But I feel like there must be an ulterior motive because this man can’t possibly just be that nice, especially given our interactions so far. “You don’t have to help me, Dallas. I can figure this out.”
He steps forward, closing the distance between us, forcing me to lean my head back so I can meet his eyes. Sweat mixed with the spice of his deodorant or cologne has me drawing in a deep breath, soaking in his smell.
Damn. He smells good—like a man that isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.
And you don’t find a lot of those where I live.
“Contrary to what you think you know about me, I help those in need.” His voice is solid now.
“It’s ingrained in me. Twelve years in the Marines will do that to you.
And despite our irritation-fueled conversations so far, a part of me is hoping that you’ll change your mind about the house if you see I’m not a complete asshole. ”
“At least you’re being honest.”
I watch his eyes dip down to my lips briefly, but then he takes a step back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m always honest, Willow. And that goes for my offer. I can put the chair together for you…if you want. Or I can leave. It’s your call.”
With no other options, I accept his offer. It definitely has nothing to do with the way his ass looks in those jeans. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
With a quick nod, he heads downstairs and I hear the door open and shut. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I run into my bathroom to check my appearance. Smoothing down any flyaway hairs from my bun, I spritz hairspray over my head and then put some clear gloss over my lips.
Everything seems to be put in place on the outside, but inside? I’m squirming. My heart is racing. My body is humming with nerves at the thought of being around this man for a significant length of time.
Who knew that lust and hate could feel so very similar?
I can’t like him. I can’t want him. Getting involved with someone to that degree—especially a man who has openly admitted he’s being nice to me because he wants me to sell him my house—is not a rational decision.
But I know damn well that Shauna would approve.
She’d push me into him and hope my face falls on his penis.
Sighing out loud and muttering to myself about what an idiot I am, I completely miss the sound of Dallas coming back up the stairs.
“Talking to yourself?”
I spin on my heels, clutching my hand to my chest with surprise. “Jesus Christ. Warn a person, will you? Did you pick up that skill from your brother?”
“I thought that’s what I was doing.” He steps further into the room and wields a pocket knife from his jeans as he sets a bag of tools down on the carpet. “And when did Penn scare you?”
Slicing open the cardboard, he extracts the pieces of the rocking chair from the box as I take a seat on the edge of my bed, grateful I had one delivered while I was back in D.C. “At the hardware store last week.”
“So how long are you staying?” Dallas asks as he gets comfortable on the floor and starts reading the instructions.
For a man to do such a thing—I’m impressed.
“Two months as of right now. Potentially three. Your brother seems to think that will be enough time.”
He nods. “With a new roof, flooring, fixtures…that sounds about right.”
“How did you—” I stop talking once I realize he probably spoke with him. “He told you?”
He nods again. “Yup. I was curious in case I could convince you to let me take the place off your hands.”
An uncomfortable silence falls between us. I’ve already made it clear to him that I don’t plan on selling right now. But each time he brings it up, it makes me more uneasy.
“So you’ve lived here your entire life?” I ask, changing the subject while I watch his forearms flex each time he tightens a screw, assembling yet another piece of the chair.
“Except for my time in the Marines, yes.”
“The Marines, huh? That must have been interesting.”
He scoffs. “Interesting is one way of putting it.”
“Why do you say that?”
Shaking his head, he grabs another tool and keeps putting pieces together.
“War isn’t interesting, Willow. It’s violent.
Risky. There are days when you don’t know if the sunrise will be the last one you ever see.
” His words falter, but I hang on to each one of them as they dredge up emotions I’ve been fighting to keep at bay.
I wonder if my parents ever thought the same thing while they were overseas.
“I take it you were in Iraq then?”
“Afghanistan, mostly.” He searches on the floor around him before finally looking up at me. And his eyes are darker somehow, but with pain laced in the edges of his irises. “Can you hand me the hammer in my bag, please?”
I stand from the bed and reach down, shuffling through his bag before locating the hammer and handing it to him. But when I look up, I see his eyes trained on my chest, the sliver of my boobs displayed through the opening of the neckline that fell when I bent over.
He clears his throat, realizing he’s been caught as I settle back down on the bed.
“Well, you must have made your family proud by serving your country. It’s a noble thing to do.”
He scoffs, shaking his head as he hammers a rod in place. “Not all parents support such a decision.”
“What do you—"
“So where are you from, Willow?” he asks, changing the subject and cutting me off.
The question lingers in my brain, but his next words are full of sarcasm and divert my attention.
“I obviously know it’s not here. We’ve pinpointed that detail the first night we met.
” His cocky grin is back along with my urge to twist his nipple.
“Virginia originally. Washington, D.C. for the last eight years.”
“And what do you do there?”
Ah, the burning question I find myself hating to answer the longer I’m here. “I work in advertising,” I reply, stretching the truth a bit.
“Impressive. Do you enjoy it?”
“I’m good at it.”
He glares up at me. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes. I enjoy it,” I reply, but something about my tone doesn’t settle well with either of us.
“I don’t believe you.”
“What do you want me to say? I make good money. I live a good life.” He shakes his head at me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What happened to you’ll always be honest with me?”
That draws his attention back to me, determination in his eyes and voice. “Fine. You want the truth?” I raise my brow at him. “You don’t sound happy. In fact, the first night I met you all I could see was a woman who was unhappy, unfulfilled, and lost.” My heart is pounding. “But what do I know?”
Standing from the bed, I walk toward the window, needing to look anywhere but at him.
How could he get all of that from that brief interaction? From a moment when two strangers simply exchanged a few words, and not nice ones at that?
For someone who prides myself on being closed off and holding my emotions close to the vest, this man sure dialed me in within moments of meeting me.
“You’re not entirely wrong, but I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”
“Consider it dropped.” I hear him shifting against the ground, and when I turn around, I see the makings of the chair standing before me. “Just a few more pieces.”
“I’ll be downstairs.” I walk past him, needing space, needing to reset my frame of mind.
Having this man in my house is making me question too many things. And I know that’s what I came here to do—work through my shit, get some space from the life I’ve been living for the past twelve years. I just didn’t anticipate a complete stranger calling me out on it.
Ten minutes later, Dallas comes down the stairs with his tool bag in hand. “All done. I put it outside for you. It looks good out there.”
“Thank you.” I force down the lump in my throat and then we stand there, staring at each other.
“You know, Carrington Cove is a good place to get lost in, Willow.” His words are soft, but the meaning behind them is not.
His brow pinches and then his hand moves toward me, inching closer to my face before he catches himself and retracts it.
Breaking our stare, his eyes shift to the ground. “I guess I’ll see you around…”
Nerves race through me, but all I can manage to say is, “More like stalk me, right?” Thankfully, he lightly smiles at that.
“Sure, Willow. Whatever you say.” He pauses before he grabs the doorknob. “Just do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
He points down at the floors. “Don’t rip up the hardwood. It just needs a good polish. The original wood is part of what makes this house special.”
I tilt my head at him, fighting a smile. “That was the plan. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not going to completely rip the house apart. It’s too special to do that.”
“At least you have half a brain in there.”
I roll my eyes playfully. “There you go insulting me again.”
His head drops, eyes closing. “Fuck, Willow. I didn’t mean it like that.”
I hold my palm up. “I’m just kidding, Dallas. But good to know you at least have half a heart in there.” I move forward to poke his chest jokingly, but that proves to be a big mistake.
Solid muscle barely gives way under the press of my finger against his pec. And getting close to him again allows me to see deeper into those dark chocolate pools of sadness and spite he has for eyes.
I may be dealing with some issues, but it seems to me that Dallas is probably battling his own, too. And as much as I enjoy sparring with the man, perhaps it would serve me best to remember that every person we cross is fighting battles we know nothing about.
“Have a good rest of your day, Willow,” he finally says, a crack in his voice, retreating from our close proximity and moving for the door again.
“You too. And thanks again for your help. There’s one problem gone off a long list of others.”
“I’m sure you’ll solve them soon enough.” And with those parting words, he opens and shuts the door behind him, leaving me trailing him with my eyes through the windows on the side of the house until I can no longer see him.
And my heart lurches at the reality of being alone once again.