I shake my head. “No, I like that you’re here. It feels safer.”
He studies my mouth like he wants to kiss me, and I desperately wish that he would. I know it bothers him that he’s so much older than me, but I honestly don’t see the problem. I want him to want me, and I suspect that he does.
“Just so you know,” I say, “I wasn’t flirting with you because I needed a place to stay.”
His brow arches. “Oh yeah?”
“I was flirting because, even though you’re a grumpy bastard, I like you.” Even as he smirks, I can feel his gaze boring into me. He’s so controlled, but little by little, I can sense his resolve slipping. His hands curl into fists like he’s fighting to stop himself from using them. I want him to use them on me.
Eventually, his control wins out over his desire.
Folding his arms across his chest, he takes a step back and clears this throat.
“The bathroom sink’s leaking,” he says, definitively changing the subject. “Where’d your dad keep his toolbox?”
“There’s a workshop out in the garage. If you need any help fixing up the place, I’ve been told I’m pretty good with a hammer.”
Silas heads for the door. Just when I think he’s chosen not to dignify my bad joke with a response, he fires back with, “When I find some wood that needs nailing, I’ll call you.”
Chapter Seven
Silas
“Go fish,” Norah says.
I draw a card from the pile on the wooden table between us. “That’s four queens.” I set aside the small stack of royals. “Your turn.”
Her eyes narrow as she studies the cards in her hand. I’ve come to learn that in addition to biting her lip, she sometimes closes her left eye when she’s trying to focus. Her dad used to do the same thing.
“Got any sixes?” she asks.
I sigh and toss her the three sixes I’ve been saving. She grins.
“Looks like I’m going to win.” She gathers the sixes and adds them to the pile of fours-of-a-kind stacked next to her.
“You sure you’re not cheating?”
“Asked the sore loser.” She shakes her head. “Pitiful. Got any Jacks?”
“Go fish.” I rearrange the cards in my hand, fighting back a smile. I’ve been doing that more often than usual lately. Smiling, laughing, cracking jokes. She brings it out of me. She’s pretty quick herself, always keeping me on my toes. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Norah Benson is a pistol without a safety.
It’s been four days since I offered her a ride. That’s four days living with a girl half my age. Eating together, doing chores together, watching the sunset, and roasting marshmallows by the fire. There are moments when I forget the reason she’s here, when the why and how of what she’s lost and what she’s running from falls away, and it’s just the two of us camping under the stars.
Then I recall the pain her eyes as she described the things her ex-boyfriend had done to her, and my blood starts to simmer. That fucker had better pray he never meets me, because if I ever get my hands on him, he’s dead. No questions. No mercy.
“Time to cough up those threes,” I say.
A cool breeze ruffles Norah’s hair. She pouts. “How’d you know?”
“I warned you when we started that you were playing with a Go Fish champion.” I take her threes and make a stack. “Your dad and I used to play, and nine times out of ten, I always beat him.”
“You gonna brag some more or can we keep on playing?”
“Someone’s eager to lose.” I snicker. If you’d asked me a week ago if I’d ever be caught dead playing cards on this porch again, I’d have said you were dreaming. I had forgotten how much I loved being up here, on the mountain. And the improvements Jack made to the cabin are truly remarkable.
But even with the updates, there were still hinges that needed oiling, shutters that needed nailing, and a few planks on the porch were starting to rot. And as it turns out, Norah hadn’t been lying; she really is good with a hammer. We set out to fix the things we could, made a list of the supplies we needed, all while eating our weight in s’mores and peanut-butter sandwiches.
Yesterday afternoon, I stopped into town to pick up hardware supplies and groceries. When I got back, Norah wasn’t in the cabin. I called for her outside, but she didn’t answer. I checked the garage. No sign.
Panic wrapped its cold fingers around my throat. Was she out for a walk? Or, had she gotten bored of mountain life and decided to hitchhike home?
I searched the woods, and eventually found her by the brook, sitting on a rock overlooking a small pool. She wasn’t naked, but she was damn near close, and she’d obviously already jumped in to cool off. Dappled sunlight glinted off the droplets on her legs. I knew what the water would taste like if I licked it off her thighs. Fresh. Clean. Cold.
My cock—already at half mast from being around her the past few days—was two throbs away from bursting through my zipper. For one brief moment of insanity, I asked myself what would be so wrong with giving her what she wants. She hasn’t stop flirting with me since the night I picked her up. I’d been chalking it up to loneliness or a rebound crush. But if all she really wants is to forget about her shitty life for a few hours, what would be so wrong about granting her the reprieve? About granting it to each other?
I couldn’t remember ever wanting anything so much. But I also couldn’t shake the feeling that this girl was dropped into my lap for a reason.
Against my better judgment, I’m starting to care about Norah—about her happiness, and what she needs. She needs someone she can rely on to be there when the going gets rough. She isn’t a fast fuck, or a pit stop. She’s a girl on the run who just lost her father, and as badly as I want to put my hands on her, I know the second I cross that line, I won’t be the man she needs anymore.
I’ll just be the old guy who picked her up in his truck, brought her back to his cabin, and fucked her.
A gust of wind blows the playing cards off the table. Norah drops to her knees to collect the deck before it’s lost. I join her, stuffing the cards in the box as I grab them.
“Cold front’s moving in. I’ll go split some wood.” I hand her the box of cards and then run around back to fetch the axe. Beneath the awning off the garage sits a pile of logs protected from the elements by a blue tarp.
I grab an armful of logs and take them to the chopping block. I bust through half a dozen before I feel like I’m being watched. When I turn, I find Norah standing there, watching me.
“Enjoying the show?” I grab a fresh log. She shivers as if shaking off a trance.
“I’ll start bringing these in.” She fills her arms with wood and then runs off, returning just as the first drop of rain hits the back of my neck. I break up the last log and help her gather the remaining pieces. We’re halfway to the house when the sky opens up, dumping frigid water down on top of us.
“Better make a run for it,” I yell.
We sprint toward the house. Norah reaches the porch before I do, dumping her pile on the porch with the first load so she can open the door. I rush inside, drop my wood by the fireplace, then hurry back to help her with the rest.