“I have milk but no cream.”
“Black is fine.”
“Not going for fine.” He levels a lingering gaze at me that reminds me of every delicious thing we did Friday night. Then he walks to the fridge and returns, tipping the half-full gallon of milk until a healthy splash lands in my coffee. It’s the perfect tan hue. Just the way I take it.
“Sugar?”
“Yes, dear?” I quip, and the air electrifies between us. I clear my throat and quietly amend, “No, thanks. This is perfect.”
He leans forward and I smell the spicy, earthy fragrance of his aftershave or soap or cologne. “That’s what I was going for.”
Dax
I can tell Becca’s uncomfortable. Which is counter to the way she was on our first night together. She wasn’t shy or awkward, but now... I watch her as she stands rigidly at the sliding glass door and looks out at the trees in the back.
Definitely uncomfortable.
I’m not.
My comfort level has been tested and retested over the last year. Once you’re holding the worst hand life can deal you, you have a certain resolute spirit about the rest.
I consider what I know about the blonde in my cabin. She’s lived in a lot of places; her brother and she have a challenging relationship. She showed up at my door with enough supplies to last the week but then tried to escape come morning.
She’s a runner.
I recognize the trait because I used to be one. When I was in my early twenties and I didn’t know how to handle women or sex or relationships. That shit’s behind me and has been for a decade. My thirties, even though I’m only in my third year, have brought perspective.
It’s been a hell of a trio of years.
“How old are you, Princess?” I wash my mug and turn it upside down on a dry dish towel. I turn to face her, watching as her eyebrows climb until they disappear beneath her hair.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that a lady never reveals her age?”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. Just figured I’m older than you.”
“Not by much.” She assesses me as if she’s never considered how old I am, purses her lips, then says, “You’re, what? Twenty-eight?”
I offer a wry smile.
“Thirty?”
I hold up my thumb and gesture that she needs to go higher.
“Thirty-tw...” she hesitates and I hoist my thumb higher. “Thirty-three?”
“You said ‘thirty-three’ like it’s geriatric.”
“You look younger. That’s all. Six years isn’t that big of a gap.” She rolls her pretty eyes.
Six years makes her twenty-seven. That’s about what I’d have guessed.
“Your brother’s older,” I say.
“Doesn’t his bossiness presume that?”
“Absolutely.”
She’s been walking toward me as she talks. Her swagger’s back. That easy, smooth gait hinting that she’s good on her feet. She’s in a tight pair of dark blue jeans with a few rips at the thighs. They elongate her already long legs.
“And what of your siblings, Dax?”
I shake my head.
“Parents?”
“They live in Ohio too.” My brow crinkles as I realize what I said. “My mom lives in Ohio,” I correct. “Dad passed recently.”
Her entire face changes. Her pale eyebrows angle to show her concern, her mouth softens, and her eyes broadcast the words before she speaks them. “I’m so sorry.”
She closes the gap between us and rests her palm on my chest, and it’s not a rehearsed move.
Becca means it. She’s looking up at me with so much care, her small hand warm against my shirt, that my throat thickens with grief.
My biggest concern when my dad became sick was making sure my mom was going to be okay. After he passed, my focus was on guiding her to the next stage of her life—a life without him. I became so preoccupied with my mom’s okayness that I haven’t given enough (any?) thought or attention to my own.
I manage a silent nod of thanks to Becca.
“My parents drive me crazy,” she confesses easily, “but I would miss them very much if they were gone.”
I nod again. I miss him a ton.
She stops touching me, and only then do I suck in a breath and narrowly avoid doing something really manly...like tear up. I clear my throat to dislodge the lump there.
“Did your brother give you the day off?” I ask, mostly to change the subject.
“Tad texted me frantic that I’m not at the office. He has no reason to worry. Last night I stuffed the office laptop into my overnight bag.”
“So you could’ve worked remotely the entire time.” I narrow my eyelids and reroute my gaze to her bag, still sitting on the barstool. She has the decency to look chagrined. Nose wrinkled and teeth bared, she gives me an exaggerated wince.
“I didn’t mean to run away this morning,” she says. “I just... I don’t know what I expected.”
“A weekend filled with sex?” I venture.
She lets out a surprised “Ha!” And we’re back. The vibe in the air isn’t quite the white heat of Friday night, but it isn’t far off.
“Maybe. Yeah. I don’t usually do this.”
“One-night stands? Me neither.”
“Um...no. I don’t usually do more than one night.” She squeezes one eye shut like she’s expecting a blow of judgment. She won’t get it. I don’t make a habit of judging anyone. Too time-consuming.
“I changed your mind?”
“Well.” She finishes off her coffee and sets the mug down. I take it to the sink. “Keep in mind I was choosing between holing up with Dominic and coming here, where there’s plenty of space, an indoor gym, and a hot tub. Plus, you have a shower.”
Despite her joking tone, I feel a frown transform my face.
“Dominic?” A bite of jealously lurks in my response.
“I didn’t mean we literally would have holed up together. He was stuck at the office too.”
“He likes you, Princess.”
“Ew!”
“Gorgeous women usually know when they hold the cards. Know how to use it against us.”
She overlooks my compliment and goes with “Ooh, spoken like a man who has been at the whim of a gorgeous woman.”
Shit. Walked into that one. I press my lips together.
“Let’s agree not to talk about your past relationships.” She holds up a hand like a stop sign.
“Or yours?”
“That seems fair.”
She leans against the counter, training her foxy little smile on me.
White-hot.
It’s back.
“We can play this weekend by ear,” she suggests.
“Princess.” I straighten, folding my arms over my chest. “You’re going to be in my bed again and we both know it.”
Her mouth drops open like she’s alarmed, but there’s no denying the spark of interest in her eyes. “Easy, there, mister. We had one good night, but it doesn’t mean you’ll woo me into another.”
“I don’t woo, babe.” I stand over her, lowering my lips to her ear to whisper, “You’ll come to me. And when you do, I’ll give as good as I gave Friday night.”