Page 1 of Cautious

Callie

“Thank you, sweet baby, Jesus,” I mutter as the sign for Tempest finally comes into view. It feels like I’ve been on the road forever, so much so that my left butt cheek has fallen asleep.

I grab the map off the passenger seat, double-checking that I’m heading the right way. After my GPS got me lost in no-man’s land one too many times, I picked up a paper map from a gas station in one of the smaller towns I passed through. I’m not sure I remember seeing paper maps in the large gas stations back home, but I guess smaller towns do things differently. Here’s hoping anyway.

It’s getting dark, and it started raining twenty minutes ago with no let-up in sight. I forgo checking out the sights and head straight to the house I’m renting for the foreseeable future.

If someone had told me a year ago I’d be moving here, effectively running away with my tail between my legs, I’d have laughed at them. I was so sure of my fairy-tale ending that I never saw the plot twist coming.

Anxiety stabs at me, poking holes in the bubble of denial I’ve built around myself, making all the courage I’d shored up begin to leak out. One day, I’ll figure out how to make myself unbreakable. Until then, I ignore the cracks in my psyche andfocus on moving forward. If I stop and give in to the feelings of despair and heartbreak, I’ll sink so damn fast you’d think I was standing in quicksand.

I keep my eyes on the road as the wipers fight against the onslaught of rain. When I finally find the address of the house that’s going to be mine while I lick my wounds, I feel a bolt of panic hit me. I grip the wheel, my foot pressing the gas for a second as I battle the urge to keep driving.

It’s only the knowledge that I can’t outrun my own thoughts that stops me. It doesn’t matter if I stay here or keep driving. At some point, I’m going to break. I’d rather do it with a blanket and a bottle of wine than stuck on the freeway listening to Celine Dion’s “All By Myself” like some tragic book heroine.

I pull into the driveway and shut the engine off, wishing it was as easy to shut off my thoughts. Unclipping my belt, I lean over to the glove box and fish out the brown envelope containing the copy of my signed rental agreement and the keys the landlord mailed to me.

Sliding the paperwork out, I take in the photo of the property. The house is one of the smaller ones on the quiet street. It’s a pretty two-bedroom, painted in a pale blue with white shutters and flower-filled window boxes. The front yard is low maintenance. Gray paving slabs lead to the road, and the sides are covered with an array of pebbles, meaning I don’t have to worry about mowing grass. A few flowerpots to tend to is more than enough for me. Three steps lead up to a decked porch that is just big enough for a chair on either side of the door and perfect as a lazy reading spot. Looking through the windshield, the house doesn’t look as majestic through the sheets of rain, but it’s the inside that matters most.

I shove the door open and climb out, using the envelope to cover my head as I glance at the boxes covering the back seat. With a sigh, I slam the door closed before opening therear door and grabbing the first box I lay my hands on. If I don’t start grabbing things now, I’ll put it off, hoping the rain will stop. By then, it will likely be too dark to see anything. That’s when I’ll start mumbling to myself about being the queen of procrastination. I’m already two steps away from crazy for embarking on this journey without adding talking to myself into the mix.

Having an inner monologue about arguing with myself isn’t doing me any favors either, but as long as I keep the crazy on the inside, it’s all good.

I tuck the box against my chest and close the door with my hip before making a mad dash up the pathway to the covered porch. Unfortunately, I don’t think about the wet steps until my sneakers slip on the second to top step, and I go ass over teakettle.

“Motherfucking, cocksucking asshole,” I curse as I reach out to catch myself on the railing, and the box slips from my hands. Naturally, the box flips over, spilling the contents over the thankfully dry porch decking.

I straighten up with a groan just as a voice speaks up from behind me. “That’s quite the mouth you have on you.”

I shriek, spinning around so fast I lose my footing and end up in a heap on the porch next to my belongings. “Balls,” I mumble, embarrassed. I’m going to have a bruised tailbone tomorrow.

I attempt to climb to my feet gracefully, which is impossible. The stupid steps are still wet, and I’ve just proven I don’t do graceful.

“Here, let me help,” the deep voice that sounds like it’s been dipped in honey and rolled in sex offers.

I lift my head and connect with a hard jaw, making us both groan.

“Ouch. I’m so sorry, are you okay?” I ask, getting my first good look at my would-be white knight.Woah.

Drinking this man in, it becomes clear where the saying ‘tall glass of water’ comes from as I’m all of a sudden feeling parched. Licking my lips, I stare at the muscular man towering over me in ripped black jeans and a wet khaki-green T-shirt that’s plastered to his skin, showing all the dips and grooves of his sculpted physique. I freeze with my mouth open.Speaking of things that are wet––holy shit.All other coherent thought goes out the window when he smiles, revealing a dimple in each cheek. I manage to hold back a whimper as vaginas around the world weep with appreciation.

Thick, dark honey blond-colored hair that curls a little at the ends falls around a face that belongs on the cover of a magazine.The really dirty, top-shelf kind of magazine. Navy blue eyes as dark as midnight, framed with lashes I instantly find myself jealous of, draw my attention from his full lips that are curved slightly at my blatant appraisal of him.

“You okay?” His amused, deep voice rumbles over my skin, and I’m pretty sure I have a mini orgasm right there and then on the front doorstep of my new house.

Answer him, Callie.

“Erm…”

Use more words.

“Yes?”

Wow. Nailed it.

“Are you sure?” he asks, amusement still present in his voice as he squats next to me and reaches out his hand.

I stare at the hand, then back to his face, and conclude that I must have banged my head when I fell. This isn’t a movie. Hot guys don’t turn up on random women’s doorsteps in the middle of a rainstorm. Unless I’m in a coma, and my subconscious thinks I’m in a Hallmark movie.

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