Page 8 of My Favorite Temptation

“I can cook,” I say, already standing, overwhelmed by the need to take care of her. “I used to be pretty good in the kitchen.”

The smile Bella gives me makes something feral and possessive flare in my chest. I don’t want that look aimed at anyone but me. This gorgeous, innocent little thing is mine to provide for and protect.

“I’d really like that,” she says after a moment. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” I say firmly, my voice more forceful than friendly – I need her to understand that she should expect this kind of treatment, that she deserves nothing less. “I want to do this.”

“Okay,” she says, accepting my words as a pretty pink blush tints her cheeks.

I stand halfway between her and the kitchen, hesitating because I don’t want to let her out of my sight, not after the anxiety she caused me by coming home so late. Bella seems to sense it, but she doesn’t say anything, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Keep me company,” I say, gesturing for her to follow. Then, even though I ‘m still pissed at her fucking client for keeping her away from me for so long, I add, “I want to hear about your day.”

That was the right thing to say. Her face lights up and she tosses her phone onto the couch. I wait until she’s at my side, then I grab her hand and pull her out of the room.

Chapter 6

Bella

Work is a drag. With the recent crisis handled, I’m back to preparing pamphlets and other public health materials. My favorite days are ones that I get to interact directly with the community – like last week, when my team passed out Narcan to some of the homeless population, those most likely to overdose on hard drugs.

This boring stuff is part of that process, though. We have to educate drug users on the resources available to them if we really want to make an impact.

Getting into this line of work was a no-brainer for me. After living with my dad, who often took his anger out on my mom thanks to his struggles with drugs, and my correspondence with Walker, who was put away for distributing them, I wanted to help people that were struggling. The pay isn’t great, and sometimes the hours are unpredictable, but I know I’m making a difference.

I’m distracted today, though. All I can think about is Walker. Part of me hoped he would come back to my room last night, but he didn’t. When I woke up alone, I couldn’t help but feel abandoned and used. It feels like my fears were right – that he only wanted me because I was the first available woman.

He could tell something was off this morning, pestering me with questions about my wellbeing before I left. My problems aren’t his to fix, though.

I should have known better. I work with vulnerable people, people who go through rough patches. At any point I could have shut things down, I could have said no. He has no emotional obligation to me, and it isn’t his fault that I want him so badly.

I sigh, shaking my head at myself. I need to get out of this funk before I go home. The sex I had with him was incredible, and that’s all that was. It was just two adults having sex. There’s no reason for him to come and sleep in my bed if we’re not in a relationship.

But for the first time in my life, I think I want to be in one.

On the drive home, I try to strengthen my resolve. I remind myself that I’m helping him out for a few weeks while he gets his feet back on the ground, and I remind myself that I’m lucky someone as attractive as him wanted to have sex with me in the first place, regardless of the reason why.

When I walk into the house, I find Walker on the couch staring at the ceiling, his new phone lying on his chest. He lifts his head, his eyes raking over my body in a way that makes me feel hot all over. He sits up, patting the cushion beside him.

I cross the room without hesitation, sitting next to him, but not too close. He huffs, hooking an arm around my waist to pull me in closer. An undignified squeak comes out of my mouth, but a pleasant warmth fills my body. Maybe I thought wrong earlier; maybe he does actually want me.

“I missed you while I was at the shop today,” he murmurs, squeezing my thigh. Then, when I don’t respond, he asks, “Did you miss me?”

“I did,” I say honestly, leaning into his warmth.

We sit quietly for a few minutes, Walker rubbing comforting, possessive circles into my skin. Eventually, he breaks the silence, his voice no more than a whisper when he says, “I’m so paranoid at work.”

“What do you mean?” I ask gently.

He shakes his head, his mouth set like he didn’t mean to say that. I wait for him to elaborate, my heart pounding in my chest. He stays quiet, though.

“You can tell me,” I say after a few more minutes of resolute silence.

“Some people think I’m dangerous,” he says, making me even more confused, my pulse quickening at the darkness in his voice.

“They’re wrong,” I reply. “They –”

“They’re right,” he says fiercely, cutting me off. “I am dangerous. I’ve done bad things.”

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