One look at his face shows my direct question has taken him by surprise. He moves the cart to one side of the aisle, allowing people to pass. “You want me to leave?”
Do I? “I’m kind of getting used to you being around, but I don’t know what you want. I’m not saying I’m not grateful you found and rescued me, but I don’t know why you stayed.” There. I’ve pushed it now. He’ll go.
He stares at me, then shrugs. “I needed answers from you. It was a dead end. You weren’t involved with Tiny’s plan.”
I’m suspicious he might think I’m withholding information that he still needs, but that doesn’t make sense. Once I gave him answers about Weston, he’d backed off. He can’t be stupid enough to think I was working with my cousin when he had left me for dead.
Or am I just feeling unsettled as I’ve a sexy-as-hell man living in my house, and to be honest, he’s playing havoc with my libido, while not coming close enough to touch.
Is he gay?
I snort quietly. No, it’s definitely not that. Unless my gaydar is very far out. “Why are you staying?” I ask again, then gesture at myself. “You clearly don’t want anything from me. You’ve made it plain you only want to be a friend, so why are you so intent on playing house?”
A myriad of expressions cross his face. First his eyes narrow, then his brow creases. His lips press together as he looks down into the cart, his gaze landing on the steaks he’d just picked up. That’s not all—there are his cookies, and the food I’ve selected is clearly for meals for the two of us.
Now his eyes widen, as if he hadn’t noticed before.
“Fuck,” he says softly. His hand hovers over the steaks as though he’s going to put them back on the shelf.
No, I cry internally. Why did I have to open my mouth? I like him, perhaps a little too much. The last thing I wanted was to chase him away. I’d be lonely if he went, scared in case Weston returned—unlikely as I suspect he’s dead—but it could be one of his friends. But it’s not just a body I want living with me for protection. It’s him. That ride on his bike today with my arms wrapped around him had made me feel things, need things I have no business wanting.
It’s been growing on me for days—me fighting an attraction that it would be useless and embarrassing if I were to show it. But I’ve shown my cards. I harden myself, preparing to hear him dismiss me.
Suddenly his empty hand rises from the cart and wraps into my hair. He pushes me back against the shelves. Cans rattle as I scrabble for balance.
“You want my cock?” he hisses, getting right up into my face. “You want me to take you home, thrust into you and show you what a real man feels like? You want some biker loving, babe?”
He rides a bike. Is he a biker? He’s not wearing one of those vest type things they wear on the television program I sometimes watch. But perhaps it just needs that engine throbbing between your thighs to be a performance enhancer of some sort. Biker or not, an inner sense tells me he wouldn’t disappoint.
My mouth falls open, and I don’t know how to respond. One way makes me sound needy, or worse, a slut. If I say no, I’m lying to myself.
“Do you want my cock, Cat?”
“Damn woman. If you don’t, I do.” A woman winks as she walks past, pretending to fan herself.
The reminder this conversation is happening in a totally inappropriate place has my cheeks flaring red, especially when another shopper rushes her two small children past, with a muttered, “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Using his momentary distraction, I push him away, take the handle of the cart and start pushing my way down the aisle. No longer focused on shopping—if I’ve forgotten anything it will remain forgotten—I make my way toward the checkout, not bothering to see whether he’s behind me. I’m a mess. Half of my brain is on the sudden change in him. Does he want a place to stay so badly that he’ll sacrifice himself and do the country girl? Or, have I awoken a beast that was already mine for the taking? Last, but not least, have I got enough money in my account to pay for everything in the cart. I should have left the steaks.
My turn comes. Jeremiah pushes past me and starts bagging everything up. I can’t, won’t, meet his eyes. When it’s time to pay, he pushes my hand holding my wallet away.
“I got this.”
“No.”
“Don’t argue, Cat. Half of that stuff I’ll eat anyway.”
If you stay.
Having already been embarrassed today, I don’t want a fight at the till. I bite my tongue and wait until we’re outside. My temper grows until I can’t hold it back. As he’s loading the bags into the back of the truck, I grab hold of his arm.
“I’m no whore,” I hiss.
“Whoa!” He holds up his hands. “Where did that come from?”
I’m not even sure, but my finger pokes his chest anyway. “You said you’d fuck, but you bought that stuff. It was as if I was getting paid.”
His eyes shutter. “Fuck.” He brushes his hands through his hair. “We need to talk, Cat.”
He doesn’t want me. I suppose I’ve ended up with a mountain of food that will keep me going for a while. Not to mention the repaired fence and the hundreds of other little jobs he’s done. Damn it. Feeling tears prick in my eyes, I start to turn away, realising how much I’ve gotten used to him just being there.
Why did I push? Why couldn’t I have left things alone?
He opens the passenger door for me, and gestures inside. “Get in the truck. We’ll talk at home.”
My home, not his. Without argument, I climb up, fasten my seatbelt, and stare out of the window as he drives. Surreptitiously, I wipe a tear away, knowing it’s just one more person who’s going to leave. I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I don’t like it. Instead, I try to make plans. I can’t afford to stay in the house, it’s time to move on. The reason I stay is for the ghosts, and now there will be one more. While I don’t want to be disrespectful to my parents, I think it’s him I might miss the most.
He might only have been here a couple of weeks, but I’ve gotten used to him being around. What did I expect? A man like him is hardly likely to fall for my limited charms.
He offered to give me a pity fuck. That’s all it was. He didn’t seem particularly enthused about it. If that’s the price I’d have to pay to keep him around, then he can go. I’ve more respect for myself than that.
I force myself to analyse my life, accepting I’m a pitiful mess. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a man. For the past year I’ve had no life of my own. I’ve been existing when I should have moved on. I’ll sell the house and go back to the city. It shouldn’t take me long to get a new position, good nurses are always in demand. Perhaps, I’ll try internet dating, I’ve been on my own far too long.
Positive thoughts, but ones with no joy. It will destroy me to leave my childhood home, the house that’s been in my family for almost a century now.
Intellectually I know, bricks and mortar don’t mean anything, it’s the memories that are important to me. But it’s still hard. It feels as though I’m turning my back on my family’s legacy. If I was looking forward to a new start it would be easier, but I know I’m leaving behind everything I’ve ever known.