Page 33 of Wild Side
But I’m too agitated to join them, too worried about irritating Rhys and the potential consequence of him taking Milo away just to spite me. I don’t want to rain on their parade, and it strikes me that keeping a lower profile might be my best course of action.
I feel emotional, and the beach always reminds me of Erika. Of swimming together as little kids. Of our dad burying us inthe sand until only our heads poked out. Of tanning together as teenagers, but ending up looking like lobsters. Of taking Milo for his very first swim and watching his eyes go comically wide when he hit the cold water.
Fond memories pummel me. I cherish all those memories of her, and especially her with Milo. We always had fun together there, and I miss that version of her.
“Why don’t the two of you go? Have some time together. I need to… uh… clean the house,” I say, nodding with an obnoxiously bright smile on my face.
Rhys’s brow furrows as he watches me, but Milo’s excited clapping draws his attention away.
Which is good. I find it hard to breathe when Rhys looks at me too closely.
I’ve gotten pretty adept at avoiding Rhys over the past few days. We don’t talk much. In fact, we’re a little like ships passing in the night. I’m just biding my time, hoping to fly under the radar until he leaves tomorrow.
And I only know he’s leaving because I overheard him telling Milo.
Back out of the country for work, he says. Whatever that means. All I know is he usually comes here on a Tuesday and leaves by Saturday. I also know that he works out a lot, which is great because it leaves Milo and me alone. And then when I’m at the restaurant, Rhys hangs out with Milo. Which keeps him out of my hair. Which is also great. And last night when he went bowling (after grumbling something about how he didn’t want to but had made a commitment), I was already up in my room by the time he got home.
Okay, maybe I sprinted up the stairs when I saw his truck pull up.
But I still left dinner out for him. In fact, ever since hearing his stomach that night, I make extra food and leave him a plate. And though we don’t talk about it, he always eats it.
Today, I might do something on my own and let Rhys take the morning with Milo, since they clearly enjoy spending time with each other. I hate to admit that having Rhys here makes everything so much easier… but it does.
And it’s perfect. We barely see each other, and Milo is happy. Really fucking happy. His nightmares don’t seem as bad as they were, but he still sleeps with me every night—something I know Rhys has noticed, though he hasn’t commented.
I’ve started making coffee extra early and retreating to the back deck to enjoy the peace and quiet of a summer morning in the valley.
But today I don’t get out of the house early enough. I’m in the kitchen, wearing a baby-blue lounge set—too-short shorts and a skimpy spaghetti-strap top—with the coffeepot in one hand and a mug in the other. Just as I’m mid-pour, a shirtless, chiseled Rhys appears in the doorway, prompting me to gawk and then spill piping hot coffee all over my hand.
“Fuck, fuuuck,” I hiss, setting the coffee on the counter. I shake my hand out, sending a smattering of droplets over my clothes.
“Shit, Tabby.” His voice is rough and heavy with sleep as he rushes forward and grabs my scalded red hand, turning it over gently for inspection like he’s a doctor and not a porn star. “Are you okay?” His tousled hair and the soft heat radiating from his skin speak of a man who just rolled out of bed.
“I’m fine.” He’s too close, his scent too alluring, like lemongrass with a hint of something smokier. I need to draw away, to create space between us, but his fingers clamp aroundmy forearm, and he grumbles as he marches me over to the deep farm sink.
He flicks on the cold water, testing the temperature with his free hand before giving a terse nod and gently lowering my stinging one beneath the cool stream.
I hiss when the water hits it and try to pull away from him—I’m perfectly capable of tending to my own burn. But his hand has an unyielding grip, not aggressive, but not forgiving either. He doesn’t let me go.
It’s only when I sigh and surrender to his hold that his thumb brushes against my skin.
Once. Twice. I shiver.
A third time. I soften.
I don’t know how long we stand there, him pressed flush against me. My only protection against him is a flimsy layer of fabric.
“There,” he says quietly, turning my hand over again to assess the damage, water streaming over the opposite side.
“I’ve had worse burns,” I mutter. And it’s true. Burns are a fact of life when you work in a kitchen.
Rhys doesn’t seem to care about my thoughts on the matter, though. He ignores me and carries on overreacting. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
“Under the sink. I can?—”
Before I can finish, he drops down at my bare feet and yanks the kitchen cupboard open. I can’t help but stare at the way his lips pop open on a breathy sigh as he rifles through the contents.
“Just fucking let me take care of you. Where is it?” He glances up at me, and my stomach bottoms out. All those dark features homed in onme.Him on his knees forme. Wanting to take care ofme.
