I’m not some self-deprecating sap. I know my assets. I’m dedicated to a fault and loyal despite everything. I’m openhearted, and that shit gets me in trouble too often.
I will not be falling in love with Scarlett.
It’d be easy to do and stupid of me. I’ve learned my lesson. Then again, I’ve had some time to reflect on my past mistakes and learn how each one of them wasn’t love. At least, not the long-lasting kind of love I wanted to have like my grandparents and parents did. I’m a love fast, learn later, kind of guy, and it has bit me in the ass too many times. It won’t happen again.
Scarlett heads to her car for a laptop bag and her purse. Then I point the way forward and follow her as she walks up the short path to the porch. The lights are on in my house, welcoming us home.
Could Scarlett see this place as a permanent home for her?
I can’t consider the thought. I didn’t live here with my wife, then I practically moved in with the next girl. And by my third turn, I’d learned some things about practicality, location, and romance.
Never bring home a woman who isn’t going to be a permanent fixture in your family.
I’m already breaking my own rules.
“There are three rooms upstairs,” I say, leading us in the direction of the staircase. “I use one as an office. Then there’s my room and a guest room.” I walk directly to the guest room and set the suitcases on the floor.
If Scarlett would prefer to be in my room, in my bed, she doesn’t mention it, so I leave her things where we are. Roommates, it is. I sit on the edge of the bed as Scarlett sets down her laptop case and scans the room. It’s light-colored and stark like the other rooms in my home. The furnishings are simple with a double bed and a wrought-iron headboard plus a maple wood dresser with a matching mirror over it.
“I’m surprised,” she admits, checking out the clean but sparse space.
“Too bachelor-ish?” I tease.
“Homey,” she says, surprising me.
“I want you to think of this as your home.”
“I really want to thank you again for this. It’s more than generous . . .” Her voice drifts, and I pat the space next to me, suggesting she sit.
“Wow,” she mutters. Still standing, she faces me, but she’s looking over my shoulder at the view out the window above the headboard. It’s a vision of slight hills and rolling fields. Twisting to look in that direction, I agree with her assessment as the early evening sunset casts a golden glow over everything.
“It’s probably not going to be enough for you,” I admit. She is from Boston. She lived in the busy city. Her suitcases alone suggest she was well off, and farm living isn’t for everyone.
“It’s perfect,” Scarlett says. She collapses next to me, our thighs brushing as we sit on the edge of the bed. Those dark eyes of hers look like freshly tilled soil, reminding me of earth and land, and how those objects make me feel. Home. Happy. Heart. “I’m so sorry again—”
My fingers slip into her hair, stopping her apology. Leaning toward her, I hesitate just above her lips, fighting the urge to kiss her. I want to lay her back on this bed, bury myself within her, and fill her again with my seed. The thought makes me smile. She could already be full from me.
God, please let it be mine.
Scarlett takes a short breath, and the air whispers over my lips like a soft caress. My mouth waters as my thumb strokes the side of her neck. Her skin is warm but delicate, and she smells floral, like a combination of meadow flowers.
“I think we should . . . keep our distance until we know something for sure,” she says although her hooded eyes say the opposite. “We shouldn’t be together . . . until we know more about . . .”
The baby.
She doesn’t want to be involved with me if it’s not mine, and I should agree. I do agree. I shouldn’t want to be mixed up with a woman pregnant by another man. Only, everything in me says this baby is mine. It has to be. Sitting here, stroking her skin, she feels like she belongs here. She belongs with me.
Still, I tip up my chin and try to tamper my eager dick. Slipping my hand free from her neck, I suggest I make dinner.
“You are going to spoil me,” she says thirty minutes later as we share a meal of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and a salad of spring veggies.
“I normally eat at the main house but figured tonight it’d be best to eat here.”
“Who lives up there?”
“My dad. This is his farm. Five generations of Eatons. Then there are my younger brothers Canyon and Blade, who you might remember from the bar.”
“I wasn’t exactly looking at other men,” she admits, and my chest swells at the confession. My grin matches hers.
“Canyon is three years younger than me, so thirty-nine. He has a child who is thirteen and lives with him. Then there’s my baby brother Blade, who is thirty-six.”
“And which one is which again?”
She’s referring to their creative talents. “Canyon writes songs and plays guitar. Blade fights but loves poetry.”
Scarlett smiles. “And what’s your specialty?”
“I milk the cows.”
She snorts. “I don’t think that’s it, and that’s definitely not what I meant.” She looks around the rooms open for viewing from the dining table where we sit. “I’d say working with your hands is your specialty.” She winks at me, and I fight the goofy grin creeping higher on my lips. I’d like to show her my special talent, but I don’t want to push. Tonight is about acclimating, getting to know one another in more than the biblical sense. Despite my disappointment she chose to stay in the guest room and stopped our kiss, I’m still excited to learn all I can about her.
“So what about you? What’s your specialty?”
She shrugs, looking off toward the double doors leading out to a small patio area. “I don’t really have a talent.”
“Of course, you do,” I say. “Everyone does.”
“According to my parents, I don’t. I wasn’t exactly the journalist they’d hoped I’d be after journalism school, nor was I the society wife they thought I’d grow accustomed to being with the good doctor. This is just one more thing I’ll have fricked up with them.” I ignore the mention of her husband as Scarlett rubs a hand over her belly where there isn’t a trace of her condition. She lowers her head.
“I don’t really see how being a mother is a frick up.” I chuckle at the term.
“It’s the way it might have happened.” Her eyes drift. “Either I slept with my husband after he impregnated another woman, or I got pregnant from a one-night stand. I haven’t told them about my condition yet.”
One-night stand does sound like a dirty deed at this point, and I reach across the table for her hand. “Scarlett, let’s count this as night two then.”
She looks over at my outstretched palm and slowly lifts her hand for mine.
“Night two,” she whispers.
“To many more,” I say, lifting my water glass, and her smile cautiously returns.
“Many more.”
When we finally arrive at bedtime, we circle one another as the only bathroom upstairs is outside my room. Scarlett is good at this, and it’s evident she’s recently been living with another man. We work around each other brushing teeth and finalizing bedtime rituals, but something is unsettling about it. We’re ships passing in the night, and I want to moor her to me. I want us to move in the same direction, toward my bedroom, toward my bed.