Page 6 of Dad Bod's Daring December

Deep down, a part of me hopes he finds a reason to return, not as a neighbor watching out for trouble, but as something more. It’s a dangerous hope, kindled by his steady presence and the undeniable attraction that pulls at me. He’s the embodiment of duty and responsibility, the kind of standup guy I’ve always admired from afar. And now, he’s right next door, making it all the harder to remember why being attracted to him is such a bad idea.

Chapter 4

Henry

The smell of sawdust lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of fresh paint and the hearty aroma wafting from the kitchen. I swipe a hand across my forehead, leaving a streak of white amidst the grime.

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since The Demons growled up to Ember’s place, their bikes snarling like chained beasts. I’ve barely let my guard down since. I half-watch the door, half-focus on the next coat of paint we’re planning to add, all the while reminding myself that my purpose here is to keep her safe—not to get too comfortable.

“Careful, you’ll turn into a ghost before we even get to the painting,” Ember teases, her voice a soothing balm against the rawness of my thoughts.

I can’t help the grin that tugs at my lips. She has this way of breaking through my defenses, of making me think things could be good again. Like I could have a life that’s more than cattle and fences and guarding against danger.

I force out a chuckle, setting the sander aside. “Guess that would make me a poor excuse for a guardian angel.”

She doesn’t know how seriously I take that self-appointed role. Since the day those leather-clad messengers of chaos turned up to terrorize her, I’ve found every excuse under the sun to hover near her borders. It’s become a compulsion, this need to keep her safe from any and all danger, to be her silent protector, even if it means putting my sanity at risk.

“Speaking of poor excuses,” she says, her tone light but eyes clouded as she hands me a plate of food, “someone decided to give my mailbox a makeover with fire.”

We sit at her pine table, its surface shiny from the stain we applied yesterday. The simple meal she prepared—a casserole of some sort, comforting and warm—sits between us, steaming softly in the quiet of her kitchen. We eat in companionable silence, though the unspoken weight of the recent harassment simmers between us.

“It’s childish,” she continues, stabbing at a piece of broccoli. “But I guess it’s better than them going after the house.” Her words are casual, but her tone tells me she’s trying to downplay the anxiety gnawing at her.

“Ember…” I start, but what can I say? That I’ll watch over her property like it’s my flesh and blood? That my cattle can fend for themselves better than she can against men who don’t fear the law? Instead, I reach for my fork, letting the metal clink against the ceramic as a fill-in for the words that won’t come.

“Hey, it’s okay, Edward.” She gives me a soft smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “I know you’re doing your best. Plus, I’mgetting pretty handy with the shotgun with the help of your lessons.”

“Doesn’t mean you should have to,” I murmur, my appetite waning despite the delicious flavors. This isn’t about fixing up an old farmhouse or guarding against vandals. It’s about safety, about peace. About the creeping realization that my reasons for being here are starting to blur the line between duty and desire.

“Let’s enjoy dinner,” she suggests, but the tension hangs between us, unspoken and as heavy as the evening shadows stretching across her lawn.

And so we eat, exchanging small talk that doesn’t entirely mask the concern in her gaze or the resolve in mine. After all, when you live next door to someone whose life has become a game for dangerous men, neighborly duties take on a whole new level of commitment, even if it means painting walls by day and watching windows by night.

But there’s more to it than that. Each time her eyes meet mine, she pulls me in. The attraction is overwhelming. Unsettling. Irresistible. She’s all softness and warmth, yet she has a strength that calls to something buried deep within me, something I haven’t let surface in years.

My cock knows it too. I’ve had a two-week erection that jacking off in the shower has done nothing to diminish. It’s a visceral thing, this need for Ember. It goes beyond anything I felt for Rebecca. And that scares the shit out of me.

I stare at my half-empty plate, the food barely registering on my taste buds. “I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with a way to keep The Demons at bay,” I confess, glancing across the pine table at Ember. Shadows play across her face, cast bythe dim kitchen light, emphasizing the worry that’s become too familiar in her eyes.

“Have you thought of anything?” Her voice is hopeful, but it’s a hope tempered with reality.

“Nothing that doesn’t involve more trouble.” My hand tightens around the fork as frustration simmers beneath my calm exterior. I can handle cattle and mend fences, but this—this is a different beast entirely.

“Thanks for trying, Edward. It means a lot to me.” She gives me a faint smile, and I force myself to return it.

“Of course,” I say, though what I don’t tell her is how every night I watch over her from my bedroom window, ensuring she’s safe. I’m not there to catch another glimpse of her slipping out of those yoga pants that hug her curves a little too well. Not there to salivate over her smooth skin and lush breasts.

Yeah, right.

But as the nights grow colder and longer, so does my yearning for her warmth, her laughter, and the way she looks at me like I’m more than the stoic farmer next door. Desire coils within me, an uninvited guest that refuses to leave.

But something lurks behind her eyes tonight, a shadow she can’t quite hide. It’s been there before, but now it feels closer, more present. I know the look. I’ve seen it enough in the mirror—she’s holding something back.

“Why’d you leave Vegas?”

Her fork stills on her plate, and for a second, I regret asking. But then she sets it down and meets my gaze, her expression soft but guarded. Whatever she’s about to say, it isn’t easy for her. Ilean back in my chair, giving her the space she needs to find her words.

“My neighbor,” she begins, her voice quiet. “He was always a bit of a mystery. Coming and going at odd hours, never saying much. I didn’t think much of it at first.”

---