Chapter 15 Shannon
Shannon
Rat a tat, tat. Is he going to leave me standing on the doorstep all night or actually answer the door?
I’ve been out here five minutes knocking.
Yes, I’m late, by two hours, but what was I meant to do?
Hang up the phone on the poor man who had been crying for the past hour and a half?
I did feel sorry for him, though. He’d been caught up in one of those crash for cash scams, but luckily, he had a dash cam, and the road traffic cameras on the motorway caught it too.
I told him, “You’re all right, that’s the main thing.
” I winced down the phone when I saw his insurance premium.
“I’m here to help.” Once the call was done, he proceeded to tell me his life story, including he was single and definitely ready to mingle.
In the end I had to make up some cock and bull story about meeting my husband for dinner because the usual brush off is: “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.” I really didn’t want him to think I was lying to him.
Now here I am still knocking on Wesley’s door, contemplating turning around and going back home.
I give the door one more loud thump, tempted to shout: “Police, open up,” through the letter box, but I don’t know how Wesley would react. Besides, there’s pie on the other side of this door with my name on it and a very hot builder who gave me the sweetest apology.
Finally, the door swings open, followed by a very gruff “Fuck.” My eyes land on the man standing in front of me, and all my fantasies have suddenly turned into realities. It’s way better than pie.
He’s shirtless, looking thoroughly dishevelled, messy hair like he’s been running his fingers through it. But it’s the way his jeans split at the front that has me biting my lip, a wicked pulse of heat hits me deep between the thighs.
Fuck the pie, I wouldn’t mind a slice of Wesley.
His belt dangles loosely, buttons undone, denim draping low on his hips enough to reveal the ruffled waistband of his black boxers.
Yeah, it doesn’t take a genius to work out Mr Wesley Parker wasn’t sleeping.
I interrupted a moment, caught him in the middle, or maybe just after.
He’s beautiful - chest hair glistening with sweat as it trails down, thinning before disappearing into the waistband of his boxers.
He’s carved and inked beneath golden skin.
His gaze follows my path, watching the way I look him over. As my eyes slowly drag up to his throat, he swallows, a faint blush dusting his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“I… I… shit, I’m sorry, Shannon.” His hand grips the back of his neck, eyes darting around the room, looking everywhere but me. I could tell him it doesn’t matter, act like I haven’t a clue what he’s been doing.
But where’s the fun in that? I like this side of him, completely flustered, fumbling.
Caught off guard.
Yes, Mr Parker, I know what you’ve been up to.
“I erm… fell asleep.” So that’s his excuse, he might very well have fallen asleep but not because he was tired. “I was just about to jump in the shower.”
Then he looks down at his watch, and realisation hits.
“Fuck, come in. Sorry.” Oh, give the poor bloke a break, Shannon.
“No, it’s fine. Work ran over; it’s my fault I’m late.
” I smile, as I step inside and close the door behind me.
Taking in my surroundings, Wesley has a nice place with reclaimed parquet flooring, little grooves and indents etched into the grain of the wood, scatter rugs next to a large open fire.
I imagine what it’s like in the winter, flames roaring up the chimney during the cold months, I’d happily soak up the warmth while sipping a pint of lager and lime or a glass of Jam Shed Malbec, a six-pound special.
“Make yourself at home. Give me ten minutes to shower. I’ll be quick.”
I wave him off as he saunters down the hallway, his broad shoulders shifting with the swing of his arms. He should come with a warning label, possibly hazard lights.
Who’d have thought watching him walk away could look so smoking hot? Thinking about smoke, is something burning?
“Erm, Wesley, I don’t want to alarm you, but is something burning?” I look towards the kitchen, a similar layout to mine, only his place is so much bigger, his kitchen is to die for.
“For fuck’s sake,” he yells, then comes running back in and heads towards the kitchen. He throws open the oven door, and smoke billows out, filling the room. I run around and open a small window, wafting it away with a dinner tray.
“I’m so sorry, Shannon.” I don’t know who’s more pissed off, me or the pie.
“Go and get in your shower, I’ll deal with it.” He pulls on an oven glove, ignoring me and lifts what used to be pie out the oven. Wesley looks at me whilst shaking his head.
“I can’t lie to you now, can I?” he says, a small blush covers his cheeks. “I can’t cook for shit.” We both look at the sorry state of the well overdone pie, burnt to a crisp, smoking at the corners.
“I’m not going to lie, but if I came home from a night out and saw this pie—” I point to the burnt pie, “—I’d still eat it.”
Wesley bursts out laughing. “If you weren’t coming to dinner, I’d have still eaten it,” he says behind a laugh.
I tap him on the shoulder. “Check us out, we’ve already got something in common.” We both pause, holding each other’s stare, his eyes search mine, but I break the spell.
“You know what? I can’t let a good pie go to waste,” he says, grabbing a fork from the draining board. For some reason, my respect for him just went up a notch. He shoves his fork through the blackened, crispy top and holds it there. Steam bursts out, and he pauses, looking down at me.
“Go on then,” I urge, grinning widely at him.
“Only if you have a taste too?” My cheeks flush as I try to play his comment down, because he’s clearly talking about the pie and not me.
“Alright, you go first though.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “How do I know you’re not fibbing me?”
“Something you should know about me, Mr Parker.” I point to the burnt pie.
“When it comes to food, I never lie.” He holds my stare for a moment, deciding if I’m to be trusted or not, but he must believe me.
He scoops up the heaped forkful, blowing on it before popping it into his mouth.
I watch, waiting, looking for any sign he might spit it out.
So what if it’s burnt to a bloody crisp? The filling looks delicious.
“Jesus Christ.” He chokes the words out, then slaps a hand over his mouth. He turns, grabbing a bit of kitchen roll, and spits it out. He looks disgusted. I’m dying to laugh.
“It’s like chewing on fucking gristle.” Wesley fills a glass to the brim with water and knocks it back.
“Your turn.” He nudges me and passes the fork.
“You’re joking? After you’ve just spat it out?”
He laughs, pressing the fork firmly between my fingers. “We made a deal, you can’t back out now.”
I’m not one to back out on my word. I scoop up an even bigger amount than he did and shove it in my mouth.
There’s no way I’m spitting it out. I chew it like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
He’s right, though, it’s fucking disgusting, but I still think after a night out and a few drinks, I would have eaten the whole thing and more than likely, licked the dish.
“That’s the best pie I’ve ever had,” I manage to say while holding back a retch. He watches me, lips twitching before bursting into laughter.
“You know what, I can promise you I’m a better cook,” I reassure him. “Go shower, and leave it to me.”
I already have a plan, taking note of the fresh tiger loaf he has on the kitchen side.
Whilst Wesley was in the shower, I popped back to my house to fetch the casserole Mum had made me in the slow cooker.
It’s a little warm to eat a casserole in the summer, but it’s the best I can offer until I get around to shopping.
There’s enough for both of us and leftovers for the next day.
I pour half into a large saucepan and let it warm through whilst I toss the burnt pie I’d been looking forward to, along with whatever the mess in the roasting dish was, straight into the bin.
I then slice two doorstep slices of crusty bread.
Once I’ve done and the smoke has started to clear, I look around Wesley’s home.
I’ve always been a little nosy, eavesdropping on my parents’ conversations and other people’s. Talia reckons I’ve got a knack for lip-reading, and I can tell her exactly what people are talking about. She calls it intuition.
I call it what it is—nosiness.
The sound of running water shutting off sends my thoughts straight to Wesley, or, to be more precise, his naked body. If the way he looked earlier is anything to go by, the man’s a walking temptation.
Oh God, Talia’s right. I really do need a man.
Pushing the thoughts away, I walk over to the small vintage table tucked away in the corner.
By the looks of the skew whiff papers scattered across it, this is where he does his paperwork.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat, and I picture him sitting here on an evening, jotting down his notes, fingers threading through his thick hair as he concentrates.
But it’s the little doodles scrawled in the margins. “What is that?” I whisper to myself as I pick the paper up for a closer look.
Peaches? I bet he’d love my peach crumble.
Setting the sheet back down on the pile.
Moving towards the sideboard next to it, I take in the row of framed photos.
They must be his parents. One in particular catches my eye, Wesley, and an older man who I presume is his dad, sitting in what looks like his back garden, each with a pint in hand.
Wesley’s smile stretches wide, his father’s eyes almost identical to his. He looks like a kind man.
It’s a nice picture, one that speaks of love and good memories.