Chapter ten
Willow
“Who on earth could that be?”
The next day, I hear the doorbell ring from downstairs as I’m getting ready for work in the master bathroom.
I’m finishing my makeup before I hop on a conference call with my firm.
These Zoom calls have taught me the critical importance of decent makeup and strategic lighting—without them, I'd resemble a troll that has crawled out from under a bridge.
I finish the last coat of my mascara and then cinch the tie around the waist of my white silk robe, hoping maybe it was just a package being dropped off on the doorstep.
Online shopping has been a godsend for finding products that the stores in this small town don’t carry.
It’s given me a much broader selection of choices when it comes to home décor and essentials as well, compared to the hardware store that I seem to know like the back of my hand now.
As I tread lightly down the stairs, I cast my eyes over my home that looks fairly put-together considering the construction going on around me.
My home.
The more I utter those words out loud and to myself, the more that reality sets in.
Living in an apartment for most of my adult life and then moving into a house has made me realize that the walls I’ve called home in D.C.
don’t hold as much sentiment as this house does in even one square inch.
These walls have character, the floor holds secrets, and the windows offer breathtaking views of the ocean just a few hundred feet away.
The desired feeling of belonging and finding roots is starting to take shape, which only adds to the conundrum I’ve found myself in—my desire to sell this place dwindling with each project Penn and I complete on the house, turning it into a place I could actually see myself living in.
I push my hair from my face, knowing that by now the person that rang the doorbell has to be long gone, so I pull open the door—with my new, non-sticking doorknob installed just yesterday—expecting to see a box on the porch.
And there is a box.
But it’s in Dallas’s hands.
“Dallas?” I gasp, clutching at the neck of my robe, cursing the fact that the instant I see him my nipples get hard, which are glaringly easy to detect through the thin silk.
I see his eyes widen, drop down to my offending chest, and then glance back up just as fast, clearing his throat as he finds his words and averts his eyes. “Good morning.”
“Uh, good morning. What are you doing here?” My grip on my robe grows tighter.
“I, um, came by to give you something.” He stares at me as I wait for him to continue, but it takes us both a minute to process what’s going on here.
“Okay?”
He finally blinks. “Can I come in?”
“Um.” I glance down at my robe, feeling borderline naked the longer I stand here.
“It will just take a minute.”
“Sure.” I open the door wide, allowing his large frame to walk through, watching him wander toward the kitchen where he deposits the box on the counter.
“I was cleaning out a closet at the bar and found this box of painting stuff.” He motions toward the cardboard as I step closer, still holding my robe together.
Cool air hits the underside of my thighs while I make sure to keep my back to him so he doesn’t get a show.
The only thing I have on under this flimsy piece of fabric is a light pink thong.
“Okay…”
“It’s from when we remodeled the place last year. There are brushes, brand new paint rollers, and gloves. I think there’s half a can of navy blue paint in there too, which is probably still good.” He finally meets my eyes. “I don’t know. I just figured you could probably use this more than I can.”
“Oh.” The racing beat of my heart is both from surprise and skepticism. He came all the way out here to bring me painting supplies—basic things, really, that I can easily grab from the store. It's thoughtful, sure, but why go to the effort?
“It’s the little things that mean the most sometimes.”
Astrid’s words from weeks ago jump back into my mind, and one of the walls I built up toward this man slowly crumbles as we stand there.
“Thank you. That was—this was really thoughtful of you.”
He waves his hand dismissively, trying to play off my gratitude. “It’s nothing. Hell, I wrestled with myself about even bringing it by. But I just thought…”
Without contemplation, I step around the counter and gently lay my hand on his chest, letting my robe go in the process but holding his stare. “I appreciate it. No one has ever done anything like this for me before.”
I watch his throat bob as he swallows roughly. “No one has brought you painting supplies?”
I grin, shaking my head slowly. “Nope. And no one has brought me a scarecrow before, or built me a rocking chair either.”
His gaze holds me captive as his response comes out low and gruff. “Well, I’m glad I got to be the first then.”
We stand there, our eyes bouncing back and forth between each other, deciphering the air around us and feeling the ground beneath us shift all at the same time.
What the hell is going on here?
We’re being nice to each other. He’s showing me that he listens when I speak, he’s not as bad of a guy as I initially thought, and…
And why am I desperate to kiss him right now?
I feel my lips fall open as I suck in a breath, desperate for oxygen to pull me out of this haze.
And when I do, I watch Dallas’s eyes drop to my mouth, studying my lips before dipping lower to the opening of my robe which I’m sure is parted enough at this moment to give him a perfect view of my cleavage.
“Your hair is down,” he whispers, moving his hand to my hip as I pull in a sharp breath again.
“Yeah.”
“You never wear it down.”
“I—I was going to put it in a bun.”
“Don’t.” One word. One command, and my body relents to his order instantly.
“Okay.”
Dallas’s face moves only an inch closer to mine as he leans forward, and I swear the world stops spinning while I anticipate his next move.
Is he going to kiss me?
Are those full lips I’ve been admiring way too much going to press against mine?
Will I finally know what that beard is going to feel like against my skin?
Inch by inch he moves closer until I swear a spark fires between us…
And my phone rings.
We both jump apart as we’re jolted back to reality. I smooth my hair from my face as I move away from him and his eyes widen, processing what almost happened.
“Uh…” I clear my throat “I need to get that. And I have a call…”
Glancing behind me at the clock on the microwave, I note the time and curse the fact that I need to log in to my meeting in less than ten minutes.
“No, yeah. I understand. Shit, I’m sorry I bothered you.” He turns to walk away, running a hand through his hair and nearly runs into the couch while he finds his footing.
I follow him to the door, not wanting to leave things like this—not wanting him to leave at all.
What the hell is that about?
And were we seriously about to kiss?
“It was no bother. Thank you again, Dallas. I mean it.”
“No problem, Willow. Hope your call goes well.” As he shuts the door behind him, the ringing from my phone continues to echo from upstairs.
Cursing the timing of it all, I huff up the stairs to my room, answering the phone without trying to sound angry and frustrated, and finish getting ready for work.
And as I log in to my meeting, I fight my subconscious for the next hour with trying not to think about what would have happened if Dallas would have kissed me. And if maybe I should wear my hair down more often.
***
“I can’t believe you convinced me to come here,” I whisper, leaning over the counter so Astrid can hear me.
“You needed to come out. You can’t hide in that house of yours and be scared of seeing Dallas after your little almost kiss.” She waves her hand at me while she fills up her tray with drinks.
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you about that,” I grate out, slinking back in my chair and taking a large sip from my martini as she smirks at me from her side of the counter.
It’s been five days since Dallas showed up on my front doorstep and, like the strong, independent woman I am, I’ve been avoiding him ever since.
After our almost kiss and his front-row seat to my nipples beneath thin silk, I felt like keeping some space from him would help remind myself that no matter how badly I want to know what he’s like in bed, no good can come from crossing that line.
If only my libido would get the message.
“But you did. And now it’s my job as your friend to torture you about it.”
“I’m not sure that’s how friendship is supposed to work.”
“That’s how good friendships work,” she counters, depositing two fishbowl margaritas on her tray. “We support each other, talk about our feelings, and then give each other shit when the other one is acting like a chicken.”
“I am not acting like a chicken.”
“Who’s acting like a chicken?” Dallas’s question pulls both of our attention to where he stands behind the bar, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.
“No one,” I answer before Astrid can get another word in. My eyes dance appreciatively down his torso and the denim that encases his thick thighs, but then I return them to his face as quickly as I can before he notices.
“Hey, Dallas. Willow’s drink is almost empty. Why don’t you give her a refill?” Astrid suggests as she lifts up her tray and waltzes off, leaving the two of us alone.
And despite my desire to ebb my growing attraction toward him by staying away, the second he stands directly in front of me, my entire body comes alive.
Guess five days with no contact wasn’t long enough.
“You ready for a refill?” Dallas asks as he clears a few empty glasses from the bar.
“Uh, sure. Thanks.”
“No problem. You must have been busy this week. Haven’t seen you out and about much…”
Did he notice I was avoiding going out in public so we wouldn’t run into each other?
Or more importantly, was he looking for me?
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been busy.”