Page 24 of Falling For Us Again

I glance out the window, watching Dylan as he methodically mows the overgrown grass. "I appreciate you checking in Marcy.I recently came back to town to check out the house myself, and I need a bit more time before I make a final decision."

"Of course, take all the time you need. Just let us know when you're ready."

"Thank you, Marcy. I'll be in touch soon."

We end the call, and I lean back in my chair, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on me. This house is more than just a property; it's a repository of my past, a link to my parents, and a place where so many significant moments of my life unfolded.

As much as I don't want any more reminders of those painful memories in this house, I also can't help but feel that there's something important I'm missing.

Something keeps telling me that I can't sell this property, at least not yet. I blame Aunt Mila. Even though I’ve tried to dismiss what she said, my curiosity won’t let me let it go.

Lost in thought, I'm startled by a knock on the door. I open the door to see Dylan standing there, with no shirt on, sweat coating his forehead before dripping down his muscular chest, down his tight stomach and making its way into his jeans.

"Hey, just wanted to let you know I'm done with the front yard," he says. “I’m about to start on the back, but can I get a glass of cold water?”

It’s as if time is suspended for a moment, there’s a buzzing in my ears, and all I can do is stare entranced at the picture of masculine perfection in front of me. I feel my pupils dilate and I can’t stop my traitorous eyes from following the trail of sweat.

"Jenna? Can I have some water?”

I shake my head to break the trance, heat creeping up my face.

"Of course, I’m sorry I should have brought you some. Come in.”

He steps inside, and that musky, manly smell, distinctive to him, tickles my nose. I inhale deeply as his proximity makes myheart race. I take a step back. Our eyes meet, and the air between us crackles with desire. I look away first, breaking the tension.

I clear my throat, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Uhm, I’ll get you that water.”

I turn to go to walk to the kitchen, and the hair standing at the nape of my neck lets me know his gaze is following my every movement.

Despite everything, there's a part of me, hard to ignore, that feels a deep connection to him and as much as I try to push it away, I can't deny the spark that still exists between us. It forms an ache in my heart because I know that history is bound to repeat itself if we try.

I return with his glass of water, and I swallow as he takes a big gulp, watching a drop make its way down his neck and chest. His muscles flex as he hands the glass back to me and heads back to finish the lawn. I try unsuccessfully to get some writing done.

Hours later, I admit defeat. Between my attraction, and the blaring noise of the lawnmower there was no way I was going to get anything done.

"Dylan, before you go, would you like to come in for lunch?” I find myself saying before I can stop myself. “It's the least I can do to thank you for your help."

That annoyingly smug look appears on his face as he folds his arms over his shirt. “You didn’t even want me here when I first offered, and now you want me to make me lunch? Interesting.”

He can be so irritating. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me with the lawn, but I should have known better.”

He relents, looking down at his dirt-streaked clothes and sweaty form. "Not going to lie, food sounds good, but I’m a mess right now. I wouldn't want to track dirt into your house."

I pause before I respond, my nails digging into my palms at what I was about to say.

"You’re welcome to take a shower. There are fresh towels in the guest bathroom, and I know you always keep a change of clothes in your truck."

He seems surprised that I remembered this.

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Alright then.”

While Dylan showers, I get busy preparing a simple but hearty meal. The sounds of the shower running fill the quiet house, and I find myself nervously anticipating the moment he emerges.

I set the table, placing steaming bowls of pasta and chicken for us.

When Dylan finally appears at the dining table, my breath hitches. His hair is damp and tousled, and he's wearing a clean T-shirt and jeans. Our gazes lock, and an undeniable electricity flares between us.

"Smells great," he says, breaking the spell as he walks over to the table.

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