Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
BAYLOR
Emily leans against her door, wearing nothing but a pair of short cutoff shorts and a tank top, no bra. Her blond hair is piled up on top of her head in some kind of messy knot, her face without a stitch of fucking makeup.
Perfection.
She looks younger than thirty-five. Hell, she looks younger than twenty-five right now. Forcing myself to walk past her, I step into her space. I’ve known where Emily Brown has lived for years, but I’ve never actually been inside.
It’s not what I expected. Although I’m not really sure what I expected, either.
She’s got a few pieces of furniture, not much, and they’re clearly well used but also of quality.
Without a doubt, she hunted for these pieces because it’s not like people in Granite Falls are switching out their house shit every day.
There are also a lot of blankets, shit on the walls, and just little touches that make it clear to me that Emily enjoys a comfortable, cozy home, and she’s created just that for herself.
“Nice place, Em,” I call out before I turn around to face her.
She is closing the door, her body shifting until her gaze finds mine and her brows snap together. “It’s a craphole,” she mutters.
I snort. “Well, the actual apartment is, yeah, but the way you have it decorated, all your shit in here”—I wave my hand around—“it’s nice.”
She presses her lips together and rolls them a few times. “Thanks,” she murmurs. And there she is—my shy girl.
“Bathroom?” I ask.
“You really don’t have to,” she says.
What she doesn’t do is show me where the bathroom is. “Yes, I do,” I state. “And I want to.”
Her gaze searches mine. She doesn’t say anything immediately, but she also doesn’t move to show me the damn bathroom. Arching a brow, I lift the plastic bag again and gently swing it side to side as a gentle reminder that I am here for a purpose.
“Let me fix your shit, Em.”
She rolls her eyes to the ceiling, no doubt annoyed by my persistence, then finally walks past me.
The place is small: a two-bed, one-bath.
I cringe thinking about her not having a bathroom sink for two days.
I should have been here sooner, but I was trying to get my own water situation under control.
Which is assuredly not under control at all. I’m going to have to replace the entire kitchen floor, the subfloor, and the goddamn fucking drywall, too. This house is turning into a fucking money pit.
“It’s this faucet, but please don’t feel obligated. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this,” she murmurs.
I ignore her, walking past her and into the small bathroom. Sinking to my knees, I get to work. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. I should have just paid the plumber to come and do this for me. It would have been easier, and my cock wouldn’t be aching nearly as bad.
Emily excuses herself and then is back a few moments later, trying to feed me. I take the snacks eagerly. I’m fucking starving, and I don’t know what she’s got here, but it’s fucking great.
“It’s Brie,” she murmurs.
“What the fuck is Brie?” I ask as I dive back into the job, chewing on a cracker that was smothered in some gooey cheese.
“It’s cheese,” she murmurs. “French cheese, but it goes on sale sometimes, and that’s when I buy it.”
French cheese.
That’s fucking cute as shit. I don’t look behind me because if I do, I’m going to forget about this faucet and focus on her—on making her come, on tasting her, on worshiping her beautiful body.
Because that’s all I want to do right now. Coming here, being in her space, it was probably a big fucking mistake. But I’m not sure I care. I’ve been thinking about her for months, and I can’t seem to shake her or the memory of her. I want more.
So much more.