Chapter 15 #2
“That’s amazing,” I say, and his eyes widen in surprise at my change of attitude.
Little does he know I’ve just run the gamut from reluctantly polite to annoyed, to panicked, which then took an abrupt turn into weakening willpower and full-blown fire-in-my-loins turned on.
Now I’m feeling nostalgic and even a little excited for him.
It’s exhausting, and I’m pretty sure it all spanned little more than ten seconds, for he hadn’t even seemed to notice my blatant perusal.
For a moment, we stare at each other, and I know he, too, is remembering those once-shared dreams. His eyes are shiny when he asks, “Do you have one?”
“One?”
“A dog. A … pet.”
I shake my head, tearing my gaze from the emotion I see reflected in those silver-grey beauties.
“I’m surprised. You love dogs. Or at least, you used to …” he trails off, clearing his throat, and my eyes drop to his Adam’s apple.
Ugh, it’s attractive too. Why is that a thing?
Don’t get sidetracked again, Steph.
“My husband was allergic. And once he was gone, I had my hands full enough without adding more responsibility and another mouth to feed,” I say, and instantly regret my honesty.
He doesn’t need to know anything about my ex or my struggles, though I’m sure he’s heard enough around town to know things haven’t always been so great for me.
Riley’s jaw clenches, I assume at the mention of my ex, but …
what right does he have? The thought has anger flaring back to life inside me.
He doesn’t give me a chance to latch onto it, though, before he’s peppering me with more questions.
And I indulge him, not allowing myself to think too much about why.
About all the leeway I’ve given him this afternoon.
Because I’m actually kind of enjoying this interaction with a person who once meant so much to me.
I can admit I’ve missed him—the old him, the one before he went away to college—and I guess maybe this little bit of nostalgia could be a good thing.
I’ll never forgive him for what he did. How he hurt me back then, but … maybe with time we can learn to co-exist in this town. Since it seems he might be here to stay, it would probably be a good idea if we could learn to keep things civil between us, and this, today, could be the first step.
“Do you still volunteer at the shelter?” he asks, and I shake my head sadly.
“Not regularly. No time. I still do the run every October, though. Er, well, I mostly walk.”
“Huh, maybe I should check that out.”
“You should,” I say, and instantly regret that too. Civility is one thing, but I’d still rather keep my distance whenever possible.
Unfortunately, it seems he’s cottoned onto the idea. “Yeah. I think I will. Connor could do it with me …” but he trails off with a frown. “Scratch that, he wouldn’t like it.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “What dog wouldn’t like a run in the park by the water?”
Ugh. Again, why am I encouraging this?!
“Mine,” he says fondly. “He doesn’t really like people. Or other dogs.”
My eyebrows pop up in surprise. “Are you serious?”
“I found him out behind the dumpster at Aroma’s.” He shrugs. “The vet thinks he’s only about a year and a half old, but I’m guessing he’s lived a hard life so far.”
The poor baby.
“He likes some people,” Riley feels the need to assure me when my face falls. “He’s a big softie with my mom and me.”
“Well, that’s what’s important.”
He nods.
“Can I see the picture?”
“Oh! Yeah.” He takes two more steps, closing the remaining distance between us as he digs in his rear pocket for his phone.
And again, I allow it—invited it, even.
He opens to his camera roll and holds the phone out to me, leaning over to narrate what I’m seeing as I scroll through picture after picture of an adorable little scruffy white and black dog in various positions of relaxation.
There he is curled up in a cushy dog bed—his favorite of several, I’m told—then perched on Nora’s lap on the couch, where they apparently like to watch soaps together.
There’s one of him chewing a bone in the backyard—he prefers the rawhides from Pet Paradise.
And finally, there he is sprawled out on a human-sized mattress in what can only be Riley’s room.
The shot is cropped close, so I can’t see any of the surroundings, but I can visualize the trophy shelf, the captain’s jersey hung on the wall with ‘WALKER’ across the back.
Does it still look like that? It’s hard to imagine this large man standing before me, this ideal specimen of mature masculinity, sleeping in his childhood bedroom.
And why am I imagining him in a bedroom at all?
An image of Riley spread across the mattress, his naked chest exposed and displaying those enigmatic tattoos, pops into my head, and I give myself an internal smack.
You are not going there again.
He’s just so … big, though. So overwhelming.
Consuming, in the sexiest way, dammit. Even now, his presence seems to eat up all the space in the room, and I’m entirely too aware of his proximity to me, the heat radiating off his body.
I suck in a deep breath—and the intangible yet comforting scent of him that hasn’t changed.
Quit it, Steph!
“He’s adorable,” I murmur, searching for something to say to distract me from the lingering image of Riley in bed. “Looks like maybe there’s some terrier in him.”
“Definitely,” he agrees.
“What’s his name?”
“Connor.”
“Ohh, I love—”
“When animals have human names? I remember,” he says softly, watching me with so much emotion flickering in his eyes. Emotion I’m absolutely not prepared to deal with.
I blush and pass the phone back to him. Riley’s fingers graze against mine as he accepts it … and I get a physical shock yet again. My breath hitches. It’s just like when we’d touched—
But I cut off the thought.
It’s just static, I tell myself.
The room is dry.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I know it’s time to get out of here. I can’t have a repeat of the other night, no matter how civil we’re managing to be.
“I have to get back to work,” I say, moving to step around him.
“Wait, Steph,” he reaches out to halt my momentum, and I shrink back, unwilling to let him touch me once more.
He drops his hand with a reluctant sigh. “Please, can we just—” He rubs the back of his neck in frustration before trying again. “You didn’t answer me about meeting up to talk. Not tonight, I know that doesn’t work, but maybe—”
“We just talked.”
“But I have things I still need to say to you. About … back then.”
“I gave you plenty of opportunities to tell me what was going on at the time.”
“I know. I was an idiot. Young and stupid. I … wasn’t ready then.”
“Well, I’m not ready now.” I probably never will be, but I don’t say that. This conversation has gone surprisingly well despite the rough start, and I’d like to leave it on a good note. “I can’t go back there,” I finish. “Please respect that.”
He studies me for a long moment, his eyes moving intently across my face, then nods, backing away to let me pass.