Freedom (7 page)

Leo and I only got around to the necessities on his home, such as putting on a new roof, refinishing the wood floors, and installing all new windows. It was a lot of work, but we never got around to replacing the shabby old couch and putting a dining table in place of the antique billiards table. It looks like a bachelor dump, and there’s no excuse for that with two guys who make furniture for a living.

“So you have a little farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere? It’s so dark out here. I’ve never lived in a place without street lamps and houses in every direction.”

“Everything out here is in the middle of nowhere. And everything shuts down early, which is why there’s no tow service after dinner.” When I grab her tote and take her leather messenger bag from her, she follows me up the steps to the porch.

“What’s stopping Robert from coming here to see me?” she asks, amused.

“Me.”

I see her smirk in the dim glow of the single porch lamp.

“What?” I ask as I open the door and flip a light switch on.

I motion for her to walk in then stare at her perfect, little ass and get a little pissed thinking about her ex.

“Are you going to get out your shotgun and shoot him if he crosses the property line?” she asks as she chuckles and twirls around my living room like Tinkerbell.

She’s so businesslike and remote at work, yet here, she’s flirty.

“I don’t have a shotgun, but if I he knocks on the door, I’ll escort him out of town.”

“Oh, really? A few hours ago you were yelling at your brother for hiring me, and now you want to help me?” She puts her hands on her hips, and I am already onto that move of hers. That’s what she does when she’s serious, and in my case, doubtful.

“That wasn’t really about you.”
Yes, it was.
“I wasn’t pleased that Carson left me out of the hiring process, that’s all.”

I can’t really tell her that I’ve been off women and sex for five months, and although I work with a lot of women, I’m not attracted to a single one beyond friendship or work relationships. Until Emma. If it was just horniness caused by sex deprivation, then I would be all over every single woman in the county as well as all those pretty sales reps that I work with.

“And now you’re fine with the whole thing?” she asks, holding her arms out wide. “Just like that, you don’t mind working with me? In fact, you’re giving me a bedroom.”

When she says it like that, it does sound strange. It also reminds me of some of the spontaneous decisions I’ve made in the past that got me into heaps of trouble. Emma
should
be suspicious of my motives. I have no idea what I am doing.

Dr. Wang thinks I’m doing well and keeps encouraging me, saying it is time for me to step out of the cave I have put myself in and start spending time with people again. I reek of isolation, and most likely, loneliness. I try to cover it with an impenetrable exterior, nothing too harsh, however I have replaced the old, outgoing Dylan with a more reserved one. I don’t know how else to do this. I keep thinking of myself as two people; the guy who has to keep the past under lock and key, and the guy who used to live it up
too much
.

Whenever Dr. Wang brings up dating, I get a little hopeful, but I’m not sure he comprehends how terrified I am of regressing back into the manic Dylan. Dr. Wang is a brilliant doctor. I am beholden to him for bringing some semblance of structure to my thought process so that I don’t torture myself the way I used to, however I have convinced myself that being with any woman would be the tipping point that sends me over the edge again. So why am I inviting a woman into my house? Either, I’m trying to prove myself right that Manic Dylan never went away and I am about to sabotage my progress, or I really do like Emma.

“I am fine with you at work, and I’m good with you being here. I wouldn’t sleep at night knowing you’re down in that cottage surrounded by empty summer houses and a stalker on your tail.”

Jesus. I always take it too far.
I wouldn’t sleep at night?
My face heats from saying that to her, so I quickly busy myself with her two bags. “Let’s get these into the guest room upstairs.”

I make a beeline for the stairs and she jumps to follow.

“So you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night, huh?” she says softly behind me.

As I start taking the stairs two at a time, she huffs behind me, trying to keep up.

“Like I said, the room isn’t fancy. It’s clean and comfortable, though.” I walk down the hallway to the last bedroom.

We will have Leo’s bedroom between us, therefore I won’t have to listen to her gabbing on her phone or moving around her room at night. I flip on the light switch and am relieved to see that the room looks better than I imagined. It’s sparse but nice since this room has the good furniture from the Blackard workshop. It’s the room Leo has his relatives stay in when they visit.

“Wow. It’s lovely,” Emma says, entering and circling the queen-sized platform bed. She touches the plain white, down comforter—part of the Belgian linens that Leo has purchased. I put her bags on the bench at the foot of the bed while she runs her finger appreciatively over the dresser. “Your furniture looks wonderful in here, and the simplicity of the room and the décor is beautiful.” She points to a clay vase as she speaks.

I shrug, wishing I could take credit for this room. I’d like to be the one to impress her rather than Leo.

“Thanks,” I mumble. “Ah, there’s only one full bathroom. It’s across the hall, and we have towels in the linen closet.

“Okay.” She beams at me widely, and I want to take the four steps between us and kiss her.

That’s what the old Dylan would do.

Instead, I am partially paralyzed as she removes her coat and then a fitted workout jacket that matches her yoga pants. Her skimpy t-shirt that’s stretched across her chest and baring her belly button is speaking lulling words to my dick. I feel my groin getting excited again, so I make an escape for the door.

“Hey! Are you going to make me dinner?” She is several feet behind me. I hear the patter of her quick steps and her little breathy puffs as she tries to keep up.

“Oh, I’m making dinner. Absolutely,” I call out as I jog down the stairs. I head for the kitchen, figuring she’ll find me soon enough.

“Oh, my God!” she shouts from the dining room. “I can’t believe you guys don’t have any furniture down here. A pool table?”

I pull food out of the fridge and lump everything on the counter next to the griddle on the stove.

“Honestly,” Emma says, coming into the kitchen. “All you have in the living room is a giant flat screen TV and that pitiful couch that looks like it’s from a frat house. And a pool table in the dining room? You guys make gorgeous furniture for a living. Why the heck is it only upstairs?”

“We haven’t gotten around to it. Besides, it’s Leo’s house. He fixed the important things first. You know, like plumbing and the leaky roof?”

She scoffs and then hops up on the counter with her ass next to the butcher block. Great. I get to chop vegetables and admire her ass at the same time.

“So, Dylan.”

“Yes, Emma?” I respond as I slice some apples.

She grabs my wrist and turns it over to look at the word tattooed on the inside of my arm an inch down from my hand:
Freedom
. As she whispers it to herself and then studies it in silence for a moment, I find myself hoping she doesn’t ask me about it. Not yet.

She puts my hand back on the butcher block.

“What’s your story?” She chooses an apple slice and starts nibbling on it.

Her and her goddamn nibbling. She knows how to get a guy to zoom in on her mouth.

I put my head down and focus on chopping. “There is no story. At least, nothing interesting. What’s yours? How did you end up dating a scumbag? And how long did it take for you to realize you’re too good for a guy like that? Did he cheat on you?”

I sure let it rip. I let it all out.

She stops chewing, swallows, and frowns. “Well, you certainly said a mouthful. No, Robert didn’t cheat on me. Why do you care? Are you speaking from experience?”

“What did Lauren tell you about me?” I put my knife down and lean against the counter. “And don’t bother denying it; I know Lauren very well. She talks about everyone and everything.”

“Yes, she does. She said you had to go into a treatment place for a while because you are—”

“Bipolar. Yeah. I went to the funny farm a few months ago.” She looks a little stunned at my choice of words. “What else?”

“Lauren said you were a ho in college,” she whispers apologetically. “Her words, not mine.”

“Shit.” I laugh in spite of the unflattering label. “I guess I deserve that.”

I shake off that weighted voice that keeps trying to pull me down. The one that constantly reminds me that I’ve blazed a trail of fuck-ups, and they don’t disappear just because I think I’m on the straight and narrow. I get back to the business of food and feeding my vegetarian houseguest. I slap together sliced apples, onions, Gruyere, mustard, and some butter on rye, and press the sandwiches on the griddle with the back of a spatula.

“Even if you were a womanizing, sexist pig, that sandwich looks good, and it smells divine.”

“Did Lauren say I’m a sexist pig?” I ask, astounded.

Holy crap. I still have that shitty reputation, and I’m not getting any action whatsoever.

“No, I added that part for fun.” She tilts her head and laughs. “Gotcha.” This ability of hers to let go and laugh uninhibitedly, her whole body shaking with delight, is pretty cute and too captivating for me.

“Nice. Real nice,” I say, plating her sandwich and handing it to her.

I lean against the counter again and watch her take a bite. Not a nibble, a big, slobbering bite with butter drizzling down her chin. Old Dylan is telling me to lick it off her chin. Or maybe it’s New Dylan because he’s got a thing for Emma. He wants to screw her, too.

“Oh, my God, Dylan. This is heaven,” she says.

That’s exactly what I’d like to hear you say to me in bed.

Ah, man, I need willpower for this damsel in distress. And she’s hardly in distress; she seems to hold her own just fine. Maybe I did blow this out of proportion so I could play the rescuer for a change. But what kind of guy breaks into his former girlfriend’s house? A piece of shit I’d like to pummel, that’s who, and that’s all I need is to get into another fight.

“I’m glad you like it.” I start eating my sandwich, sensing her eyes on me. “Let me get you a drink.”

It’s merely a good excuse to open both the fridge and freezer doors to chill down my cock. I grab two cans of seltzer and seriously consider throwing some ice cubes in my briefs. I crack a can open and hand it to her then polish off the rest of my sandwich in three bites.

“This is great.” She takes a swig of her drink. “Do you cook like this every day?”

“I can,” I say, knowing damn well I am trying to impress her and give her another reason to stay here.

“We should probably discuss this set up.” She puts her empty plate down next to her and leans forward with her hands gripping the edge of the counter.

I stash the cutting board and pans in the sink for later and then return to my position of leaning against the counter approximately three inches from her small hand. “What do we need to discuss?”

“How long am I staying here? I have to get my car fixed. Plus, I have a lease on the cottage, so I have to move back sometime. Do I pay you rent while I’m here?” She rattles this off like it’s a business deal.

Emma is not a business deal to me, though. She’s already under my skin, embedded where the bad stuff used to dominate and still partially resides. I think she could knock that shit out of me.

“You can stay here as long as you need to. I’ll get your car towed and fixed; my friend owns a repair shop in the next town. We’ll get your lease cancelled; I know Joe, the man who owns those cottages, and he won’t have a problem when he hears that you’ve got some asshat ex breaking in whenever he feels like it. So you are not moving back to the cottage, and you’re not paying rent here. There, are we done with that?”

She crosses her ankles and swings her legs out, back and forth like a kid. “Why are you doing this? You’ve known me five days and most of that time you weren’t speaking much to me. I got the impression that you were rather aggravated having me in your space at work. When I overheard you with Carson, it pretty much confirmed what I thought. So why would you want me living here?”

“I told you why I was tearing into Carson. It’s not you. I’m glad he hired you, and since we’ll be working together, helping you settle in Hera is the least I can do.”

“Except I’m not settling. You just moved me out of my new home. I can’t settle in here; this home belongs to Leo.”

“He’s busy settling into Lauren’s house, and that belongs to Jess, so I guess, we’re all settling where we can.”

“I don’t think that’s the whole story,” she says with a sly smile. “I think you’re a nice guy. Although, it may be hard for you to admit it to yourself because it’s apparent you’ve been dealing with some tough personal issues for a long time.”

I close my eyes and hang my head with a sigh. That is exactly what I don’t want to hear; a woman I am attracted to feeling sympathy for me and attempting to reassure me like I’m her new friend. That’s a mood killer. I consider doing the dishes to top off my night when she places her hand on my arm.

“Thank you,” she says sweetly and leans in close, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

I am so still that all I hear is my own breathing. She’s lit the fuse. I want to kiss her. Hard. I don’t want to talk; I want to touch what I haven’t been able to touch for months.

She doesn’t move back; she hovers there next to my face with her lips a whisper away as her hand slides up my arm. I don’t wait for another sign; I move swiftly and cup her face with both hands. I’m so hungry for her that I collide into her mouth. I keep the kiss slow and firm. I am not going to woo her with soft kisses and tenderness when I have spent five days living like a raging bull, thinking of her.

As my tongue caresses hers, exploring every part of her soft mouth, she runs her fingers up my arms and over my shoulders. Her soft hands are all over me. She caresses my head and traces my scars while her other hand runs down the back of my neck. This touch—her hand stroking across my scalp—is different than all the women who have been touching my buzzed head for months. The other women felt like intruders; Emma doesn’t.