4. Mila
Mila
Idid not leave the house. Instead, I spent the day sleeping on Jude’s couch, petting his dog, and flipping through his books. The shelves in the spare room were meticulously organized, and I found all sorts of gems, including an entire shelf of poetry. That one had been a pleasant surprise.
I’d raided the kitchen as well. Like the rest of the house, it was well-organized. But sadly, the only foods I found worth consuming were dried mango and lentil chips. Ripley followed me around, probably confused by my presence.
All day, try as I might, I couldn’t stop memories of the last time I was in this house from bubbling up. Filled with grief and scrambling to make sense of what had happened to Hugo, I’d lost all sense of self-control.
I’d never been good at denying myself the things I wanted, and when I’d looked at Jude standing on that stage with his guitar, there was no doubt in my mind that, in that moment, what I wanted was him.
He was at once both powerful and gentle. Feral and tame.
We’d gone back to his house, this little place up on the side of the mountain, hidden by a dense canopy of trees, and we’d spent a magical night together.
There had been plenty of fucking, yes.
But that was only one facet of what made the encounter so incredible. We’d lain in his bed, naked, gazing out the picture window at the sea of stars above. Downeast, the stars didn’t shine this bright. The city lights drowned them all out.
Eventually, we’d bundled up and taken his dog for a late-night walk, listening to the hoots of the barn owls and the songs of the insects.
He’d made chocolate chip pancakes for me, then he’d eaten me for dessert.
When I snuck out, just as the sun was rising, it took all the strength I had not to lean down and kiss him again or wrap my arms around him and thank him for giving me such a precious memory.
For providing such pure fun, a connection unlike anything I’d ever experienced, a desire I’d never known was possible.
But I couldn’t.
So I tiptoed out, hopped into my rental car, and took off.
I didn’t have time to get swept up by the sensitive lumberjack. Not then. And not now.
I’d thought of him so many times over the past year. Every time, I’d smile, wondering if he enjoyed the sexy memories as much as I did.
But then I had to go and show up here like a wounded animal and ruin it all. Now I was lingering. A helpless, unwanted guest.
Great job, Mila.
Every muscle ached, and my skin itched. What was worse, though, was the boredom. I was restless, desperate to search for my phone. To listen to recordings, do research, and feel useful. I’d been going so fast for so long, and now, the compulsion to be productive was overwhelming.
My all-day nap had shown me that I was in worse shape than I’d realized. If I left the house and was discovered, I had no hope of getting away. The exhaustion, and then the wild hunger, had kept me here. Warm and safe. I hated being weak like this, but even I knew my limits.
I was seconds away from entertaining myself by counting the fibers in the carpet when the low rumble of an engine caught my attention.
Ripley happily trotted over to the door, instantly assuaging the panic that had flared at the sound. If she was at ease, then it had to be Jude. As the sound grew louder, I considered lying down and pretending to be asleep to avoid him but dismissed the idea quickly. That would be weird.
I was in his house, alone, looking at his stuff and eating his food. I felt guilty and awkward for being here, for allowing him to take care of me.
What was wrong with me? I’d never experienced this kind of self-loathing.
I was Mila Barrett. I’d hidden in a foxhole while bombs went off. I’d trekked across deserts and negotiated border crossings with no passport.
And I was panicking because a nice guy was walking into his own house?
Ridiculous.
I pushed the instinct to hide from him down and sat on the couch, pretending to serenely read a book of Emily Dickinson poems. Balancing a hardcover book in my lap and turning the pages with one hand was a bit awkward, but at least I had something to look at.
Otherwise, I’d probably appear as expectant as his dog, who was panting at the door.
When Jude stepped inside, he was loaded down with several large shopping bags. With a silent nod to me, he hung his coat and keys on the rack by the door, then toed off his work boots.
When his hands were free, he sank to his knees and scratched Ripley’s ears. She returned the affection by licking his face.
“Hey, girl,” he said in that deep, husky voice. “Did you do a good job today? Did you protect the house?”
Ripley’s large tail thumped against the floor loudly. She was totally in love with him.
I tried my best to stare blankly at the poetry in front of me rather than at the hot guy showing affection to an animal.
The effort was in vain.
He stood, pushing his glasses up his nose, and focused on me. “Hi. How are you feeling?”
I gave him a tense smile. “Okay. I slept a lot. Helped myself to some food. Is that okay?”
“Of course. Sorry I was gone for so long. After the meetings, I picked a few things up for you. But if I shopped in town, people would talk, so I went to Bangor.”
He held up the white plastic bags with the red Target logo.
“You went all the way to Bangor?”
“It’s only forty minutes.” He lifted a shoulder. “And I figured you could use some clothes and toiletries and stuff.”
He set the bags down on the coffee table, the plastic rustling, and I peeked inside.
There were a couple of pairs of what looked like black leggings and several T-shirts. An oversized fleece jacket and thick socks and—
Snapping back, I cringed. “You bought underwear for me?”
His cheeks turned the most adorable shade of pink.
Dammit. Why did he have to be so endearing?
“I called Willa. She gave me a list and guessed your sizes. If any of it doesn’t fit, I’ll take it back.” He held his hands up in surrender.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You did good,” I said as I pulled out a set of PJs and a package of tank tops with built-in bras. Under it was a soft cotton bra, as well.
“She said to buy those because they would be easier to put on than a regular bra for now,” he explained.
“Thank you.”
The next bag was filled to the brim with toiletries. Moisturizer, a hairbrush, and a box of tampons.
“Willa gave me a list,” he said. Again. He was careful to avoid eye contact as he explained this time.
I was impressed. I didn’t know many men who willingly bought tampons, especially for a woman he barely knew.
As that thought hit me, so did another. One that knocked the wind out of me.
I was alone.
And I was helpless. Forced to rely on the kindness of strangers. Unable to care for myself and failing at my one mission.
I couldn’t hold back the tears. Head bowed, clinging to the package of underwear, I gave into them.
One after another, they dripped onto the plastic still in my lap, plopping audibly. I was trying to sniff them back, determined to wipe them away, when Jude appeared at my side.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “If I fucked up, I’m so sorry. I’ll go back tomorrow.”
“No.” I shook my head and instantly regretted it when a sharp pain shot through my shoulder and down my arm. “No,” I whispered. “I’m grateful, I promise. This is too kind. It’s too much.”
“Mila, no.” He tentatively rested a hand on my back. “It’s only a couple of things from Target. That’s all.”
“But I’m such a failure,” I cried, cupping my face with my good hand. “Look at me. I can’t even shake my head. I’m literally hiding out in your house, and I’ve got dried blood and rotting leaves in my hair. I’ve fucked up so badly.”
“You haven’t fucked up,” he urged, scooting a fraction closer. “You’re hurt. And while I don’t know what you’ve been up to for the past year, I have a feeling that if you filled me in, I’d be impressed by your bravery and annoyed by your recklessness.”
Sniffling, I staunchly avoided his eye. I didn’t usually subscribe to defeatist tendencies.
In fact, I’d been accused of being overconfident on many occasions.
But at this moment, every aspect of my life was crumbling.
I’d backed myself into a corner, and the hot guy giving me pitying looks was not helping me regain my composure.
“How can I help right now?” He sat back, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his forearm muscles bulging and a deep kindness in his eyes. There was no use fighting it. I needed his help.
Closing my eyes, I sighed. “For now, I just want a shower. I feel so gross.”
He nodded. “I’ll get towels. Redid the shower last year, installed a rainhead and the works. The water pressure is excellent.”
I gave him a faint smile, my vision still blurred with tears. “Good water pressure is underrated.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” He stood and offered his hand.
Too tired to fight the urge to handle everything myself, I took it and let him help me up.
“Thank you,” I whispered as I found my balance.
He swiped the rough pad of his thumb across my cheek, wiping away a tear. “Anytime, Trouble.”
I’d visited the bathroom a couple of times today. Like the rest of the house, it was clean. The walls of the shower were white subway tile, and the space was separated from the rest of the room by one of those fancy glass doors instead of a shower curtain.
He hung giant white towels on the rack and set my new clothes on the vanity, then turned, hands in his pockets. “Anything else you need?”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Can you help me get the sling off?”
Slowly, he removed it, the screech of the Velcro deafening in the small room.
While he worked, I assessed the shower. It was beautiful. Had he tiled it himself? He mentioned a few times that he’d done a lot of the work on this house.
He eased the sling down carefully, being sure not to jostle my arm. It had been hours since I’d taken the painkillers, but I wasn’t feeling all that much pain yet.