Page 102 of We Redeemed the Rain

Many times, I’d wondered what brought me here, wondered why I’d made such a rash decision. But right here, taking off Tag’s boots, I knew the universe orchestrated this.

What a terrifying, wonderful thought.

I joined him on the swing again and lifted my hands to untie the bandana around his neck.

He whispered, his voice hoarse. “Bea?—”

“Hush.”

He dutifully obeyed, silently watching me as I untied the knot. My knuckles gently scraped against his scruffy chin a couple times.

“Can you lift your arms?”

“Not really.”

“Let me help you get this shirt off.”

He sat forward as I helped him peel the soaked shirt over his head. He groaned twice. Probably couldn’t help it. His arms smacked down on his thighs like they were heavy weights, and I tossed his shirt to the ground.

My goodness.

I knew he must have some nice muscles under there, but my imagination was—clearly—conservative. He was lean and defined. His skin rippled and glistened with moisture, twitching from exertion. Tanned, too, like he frequently went shirtless.

The guys I’d dated had cush jobs and rich parents. The last guy, David, was strong and ripped—but likeelite gym membershipandprotein powderstrong. Tag was strong because every day he went out and gave his all. And he, in his sweaty, mud-crusted glory, was the sexiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. Heat pooled low in my belly as I imagined his dirty hands gripping me by the elbows and pulling me into his bare chest—how willingly I would go and how my palms would slip over his skin and clasp behind his neck.

My breathing shallowed, and I tore my eyes away, the heat climbing into my cheeks. I shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like that. Especially while he was watching me. He had a front row seat to me ogling him. I hoped I wasn’t doing anything weird with my face.

A moment of panic overtook me and I abruptly stood, smoothing down my soft t-shirt.

I attempted a joke. “Need me to take off your pants?”

He laughed. The sound was run-down, barely audible, but still a laugh. “Nah. I’ll find a way.”

“Once you get in the shower, I’ll put your plate somewhere in your room. That way you can just eat then flop in bed.”

“Sounds perfect.”

I hurried inside and kept my back turned so he could lumber through the kitchen and down the hallway. Once I heard the shower running, I grabbed a fresh bottle of water, his dinner, and a bottle of painkillers.

I hadn’t been in his room before. A thrill ran through me as I approached his cracked door. Pushing it open, the first thingthat grabbed my attention was the bed. Made to perfection. Not a single wrinkle on the bedspread.

I allowed my eyes to scan the features around his bedroom. The antique dresser, the navy blue quilt, the small picture frame on the wall, his cowboy hat hung on the post of the bed frame. A writing table with a wooden chair sat in the corner. A large framed mirror hung against an empty wall.

His granny probably decorated this room back in the day, but he obviously cared for his belongings meticulously. I was learning him bit by bit; he liked order, but some things fell beyond his realm of ability—like the paperwork or keeping up with fine details. It was clear he valued environmental calm, even if it meant shoving papers into random files, just to get them out of sight and mind.

I’d heard clutter could negatively affect people. Especially if they already struggled with anxiety. It made sense to me that he kept things neat. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the few personal touches, I’d doubt this bedroom was inhabited by someone.

I set his plate on the nightstand and stepped close to the picture frame. It was of him and Tillie. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He had one arm around her neck and clutched a blue prize ribbon in the other hand. He was beaming. Tag was tall even then, lanky and thin. His hat was sideways on his head, like in his excitement, he may have knocked it loose.

I imagined that boy sitting at the desk, head down and arm painfully curled around a piece of college-ruled paper, writing me a letter.

Me.Bea Thompson. Of all people.

My heart thumped as my awareness grew. I needed to listen for the water cutting off. Looking at things in plain sight could hardly be considered snooping, but I still didn’t want to be caught.

I moved to his dresser. The items—a bottle of cologne, deodorant, and chapstick—sat just like his Dollar General offering on the console of the semi our first morning together. Labels forward-facing, in a perfect row, even spaces between them.

I held my breath. Once I confirmed the water wasstill running, I snatched the cologne and pulled the cap. My eyes rolled back in my head when I gave it a sniff test. I definitely hadn’t been around when he was wearing this—would’ve noticed. Carefully, I placed it back.

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