Page 4 of Rescuing the Writer

No, my problem was six-foot-two or so of solid muscle with the cutest baby face ever, the bluest of blue eyes, and, as extra sauce on top, that deeply ingrained niceness and kindness. I thought men like that were extinct, gone the way of the dodos or vanished with the dinosaurs, but Waylon had proven me wrong.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hug him or jump into bed with him. Maybe both?

Not that I was convinced Waylon was into men, though he had been checking me out. Or had that been his professional thoroughness, wanting to be able to give a good description of me if needed? Who the fuck knew at this point? The smartest course of action was to not say or do anything, which wouldn’t be easy. When nervous, I tended to ramble. A lot.

ADHD, the gift that kept on giving. Even at my age.

“Home sweet home,” Waylon said as we pulled up to the cutest little cottage on a quiet street. Light blue with dark blue shutters, it looked like a picture from a garden magazine with the abundance of flowers in the front yard in all colors of the rainbow. Zinnias, daisies, bee balm, some lavender and salvia, and in the back, towering sunflowers about to bloom.

“You have a green thumb,” I said after we’d gotten out.

Sadness washed over his face. “That was my mom. She sowed and planted everything this spring…but sadly, she didn’t make it to see it bloom.”

Hug. I definitely wanted to hug him. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” He let out a sigh that seemed to come from deep inside him. “It’s only been six weeks, so it’s still fresh, you know?”

“Was she sick?”

“Cancer. It went fast, which was a blessing and a curse. I would’ve loved more time with her, but I’m glad she didn’t suffer for long. I was able to take care of her.”

How had this man survived with such a big, soft heart? How had the world not chewed him up and spit him out? “I’m glad you got to spend those last moments with her.”

“Me too.”

He opened the front door, and I followed him inside. His movements were precise, efficient, opening the front door to reveal an interior as tidy as the exterior promised. I’d always associated homey with clutter and mess, but this house proved me wrong. Not a speck of dust in sight, not a crumb on the floor, everything neat as a pin, yet it felt cozy and warm.

Colorful rugs adorned a shiny hardwood floor and comfortable couches and chairs were stacked with countless pillows. Two IKEA Billy bookcases held an assortment of books, and I immediately spotted my own, all hardbacks, neatly grouped together. The kitchen was open, transitioning into a dining area with a table and four chairs, the living room on the other side. It was small but perfect.

“Make yourself at home,” Waylon said, gesturing toward the living room.

That wouldn’t be hard here. The challenge would be to remember to clean up after myself, not let my usual sloppiness invade his pristine world. “Thank you.”

“I’ll show you the guest room. Just need to change the sheets real quick.”

I followed him down the hallway, where he opened the second door on the right. The first was his room, I assumed. The guest room was spare but immaculate, with every piece of furniture in its rightful place, creating an almost sacred geometry. The bed was pristine, the corners of the sheets folded with such precision they could be used as a ruler.

“Here we are,” he said, surveying the room with a quick, critical eye.

“Those sheets don’t look like they need to be changed.”

He shook his head, a slight smile on his lips. “They’re not fresh. It’ll only take a minute.”

Before I could protest further, Waylon was already stripping the bed. His movements were practiced, each motion deliberate as he peeled away the sheets.

“Jeez, you do that with some kind of military precision,” I remarked, leaning against the doorframe, unable to tear my eyes away from his fluid choreography.

“I did serve in the Army for four years, but I’ve always been disciplined and tidy, just like my mom. We’re both neat freaks.” He halted for a moment. “She was a neat freak.”

Clearly, he hadn’t grown fully accustomed to speaking of her in the past tense, and for a moment, his pain hung heavy in the air. Then he caught himself and continued with his domestic activity.

Competence was sexy. I’d never looked at it that way before, but watching Waylon unfold the fresh sheets with a snap that sent them billowing like sails in the wind was hot as fuck. Who knew? Underneath that structured exterior lay something beautifully human—a need to care for others, even when they didn’t ask for it. Waylon was a caretaker, a fixer of broken things, and then there was me, someone perpetually on the verge of falling apart. And damn if that didn’t stir something inside me.

“There, all done,” he said, tucking in the last corner. “The bathroom is right across the hall, and you can find towels there as well.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I’m going to grab a drink and a snack, and then I have to head out again.”

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