20. Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Rina
This is a terrible idea.
I haven’t seen Arlo since last week when he brought me coffee, but my head sure as hell has been stuck on him.
The dichotomy of our conversation that day haunts all my free time. The serious stuff needed to be said, but the sexual? I have no clue why I couldn’t keep my thoughts to myself, but I haven’t been able to think of much else since. What’s stuck the most was his reaction to it.
So, here I am, loading up a dining room set into my truck carefully while I wait for him to show up.
I called him yesterday and asked if he wanted to help me with a delivery. Because I missed him. And being stuck in the truck with him for an hour and a half round trip doesn’t sound like a terrible decision in the making at all.
I just need to keep my libido in check. We’re working on our friendship, and we certainly don’t need me muddling everything with sex again.
I’m wrapping the chairs with some moving blankets when I hear his truck pull up. I glance his way as he jumps out, and my head tips back toward the heavens .
Of fucking course he’s wearing a baseball hat and a threadbare Marines T-shirt, and jeans that wrap around his muscled thighs too perfectly.
Have mercy on a woman, damn. How the fuck am I supposed to focus with him looking like a literal piece of meat I want to nibble on?
“Here, let me help.” I hear him jog up next to me, and I take a deep breath to calm myself down. It’s going to be a long-ass day if I can’t keep my shit locked down.
I straighten and turn to tell him all that’s left is to load it into the truck, but I hit his hard chest instead.
His hands grab my upper arms to keep me steady, and the jolt it sends down my spine is bad news. He’s just touching my arms; I cannot turn every touch into something sexual.
Maybe I just need to start having regular orgasms. It could combat this insane reaction to him. Of course, I’d have to work less in order not to collapse into bed every night with barely another thought to make that happen.
Shaking my head, disrupting my thoughts, I pull away with a muttered, “Thanks.”
Together, we get the truck loaded up in no time, and it’s glaringly obvious that I need to start hiring people to help me. Loading and delivering is the bane of my existence lately, and having Arlo’s help shows me how much time I could really be saving myself. I tuck that away to work on later.
For now, I have to focus on keeping my cool for the next forty minutes.
We end up talking about everything under the sun but nothing of actual substance. Maybe we’re both tiptoeing around each other, but I’m thankful for the bit of reprieve.
We’re about five minutes out from the house when Arlo points out the window.
“That’s where my doctor is for my back.”
“How’s that going? Do you feel like it’s helping?” I don’t really know the ins and outs of his treatment, but if he’s feeling relief from the pain, that’s a win in my book.
“I do, actually. I’ve only had the one injection so far, but the pain has already lessened. The next injection, they’ll do another scan and see if there is any regeneration, and go from there. I assume I’ll need a few to get to a good place, whatever that means.”
“Do they hurt?” I ask, heart already aching that these injections could be causing him even more pain, regardless of whether they are helping in the long run.
“Like a bitch.” He chuckles, but my heart clenches. “They offered to numb everything up, but I declined.”
“You’re such a stubborn ass. Why wouldn’t you get it numbed if it hurts?” I’m not one to lecture on being stubborn because Lord knows I’m the worst of the bunch, but hearing he’s in any more pain is something I’m not okay with.
“Aww, Marina, are you worried about me?” he teases .
“Well, let’s see… You go off on crazy missions that I’m not privy to thanks to reasons I won’t bring up, end up smashing your back and hip, and have surgery on both without telling anyone. Then, you fuck it up again by being a hero to my brother, which lands you in more pain. Forgive me if I don’t particularly think you’re a good judge of injury decisions.” I roll my eyes. What I said registers in my head, and I realize I may have given away more of my feelings about him than I wanted to.
I do worry about him all the damn time. Usually, it’s a fleeting thought, but ever since Tennison, I realize this small-town sheriff job isn’t all that much safer than being in the damn Marines.
And it scares me to think about. Because I don’t want to be worried about him. I don’t want him to burrow deeper into my head and heart than he has been for years. It feels like the last fifteen years of anger are non-existent half the time, and my stubborn little heart just wants to hold on with both hands.
I’m not ready to let the hurt go; the anger maybe, but not the hurt.
The conflicting emotions have been exhausting me for weeks.
“I know. I’m trying,” he says softly. I glance over at him and see a somber look on his face.
“I know you are. That was a dick move from me. I’m sorry,” I say as I pull into my client’s driveway. I’m glad I need to work because this line of conversation will show him too much.
I park and see the husband-and-wife duo stepping onto their front porch, and I throw a little wave.
Climbing out of my truck, I hear Arlo follow my lead.
“Good morning. You guys ready to see it?” I say in my best Price Is Right voice .
“We’re so excited!”
Unloading is just as easy, and Arlo helps me set it up too. The couple obsesses over the dining set, and I swear—as much as I hate delivering things—this is the best part. Seeing their reactions in person to something I poured so much time and love into is simply the best. Pride hits my chest as I accept their appreciation before leaving just as fast as we came.
Wordlessly, we walk to the truck before climbing in.
“That looked fucking perfect in their house,” Arlo says in awe as soon as his door is shut.
“It really did.”
“You are so ridiculously talented,” he says, not allowing me to brush off his praise.
Listen, I know I do awesome work. Arrogant or not, I’ve busted my ass at my craft, and the number of commissions I get tells me it’s all paid off. But there’s something to be said about Arlo recognizing it and not letting me shove things down. That’s what I’m trying to work on, after all.
“Thank you. While not one of my favorite pieces, it did look really good with their style.”
I put the truck in reverse and start driving back to Bluebell Falls. Being away from anyone that could “catch us” feels dangerous. Like I could just get my taste of him without consequences. It’s complete bullshit, but my body doesn’t get the message. It’s pleasantly warm from his admiration, and the libido I tried to shove down is peeking its head out, seeing if the coast is clear.
We’re on the road for about ten minutes before the silence between us is broken .
“I’ve always wanted one of your pieces,” he says like he’s talking about what he wants for dinner.
I’ve never been shy about building furniture for the people in my life. I’ve built half of the shit in Ainsley and Ledger’s house. Lennox has a couple of things he really wanted, and there’s a smattering of my work throughout the entire town.
If he had asked, I’d have made him something in a heartbeat.
That’s not true. You would have told him to fuck off if it was before a couple of months ago.
Yeah, bitch of reason, you might have a point.
“What would you want?” I ask instead of the logical response of “send me a commission inquiry”. We’re just friends, and barely at that. I should be trying to keep it that way.
“I honestly have no clue. It’s not like my tiny house is something I’ve put a lot of thought into. If I had one of your pieces, I’d want it to be a focal point in my house, you know? Build the whole damn thing around it.”
“The whole house?” I ask, thinking surely not. It’s just a piece of furniture. I could see decorating a room around a custom piece, but not a whole-ass house.
“Oh yeah. I wouldn’t even know how to narrow it down to one piece,” he muses, completely unaware of what his words are doing to me.
Vulnerable.
I’m torn between changing the subject entirely, fleeing before I get any deeper, and leaning into this feeling. Letting the desire to be something to him again take over .
My thoughts are all over the place, confused as hell and wondering how I can even be thinking about anything other than friendship with the man who broke my heart.
Yes, remember what he did and steel yourself against it.
But that’s a problem in and of itself, isn’t it? I said I don’t forgive him completely yet, but that I wanted to grow our relationship. If that’s truly what I meant, then I need to stop holding our past over his head, even if it’s only in my thoughts.
It’s not healthy and doesn’t actually help me grow as a person like I’m trying really hard to do.
“Hey.” His deep voice startles me as much as his hand on my thigh does. “I’m sorry. If I took that too far, I apologize.”
“No, no, it’s absolutely not you. I … overthought the shit out of your statement.” I let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m a bit of a mess. I’m sorry. I keep thinking about taking things slow and working on our friendship again, but then you say things like that and I just…”
“Just what, Emmerdeur?”
That nickname gets me every single time.
“Just want to say fuck it all and jump into the free fall.”
His hand squeezes my leg, and I realize I’ve been so lost in our conversation that we’re almost back to my house.
He says nothing as I pull into the driveway in front of my barn, hand still on my thigh.
I turn to face him, trying desperately to think of something to say, or hell, a direction to go with him.
His eyes, that gorgeous brown like a perfectly stained piece of walnut, heat as they trail over every inch of my face.
Desire spikes in my veins .
I don’t know who moves first, but it doesn’t matter anyway. All that matters is our lips touching as his hand slides into my hair, holding me to him.
All that matters is that his kiss silences the loudness in my head, giving me a clarity I haven’t had since he left.