Page 17 of Stowaway Whirlwind
Davis sighs, and I wish I could read his mind. Is he annoyed that he’s still stuck with me? He’s done more than any other sane person would do in his situation. What will I do when he gets tired of taking care of me—of us?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again and try to pull my hand away.
He doesn’t let me. “Like I said, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
“But now it feels like you’re stuck with me until I figure out what to do. I mean, you don’t have to be. You can just drop us off at…at a shelter or something.” I reach for my backpack to get my phone so I can look up women’s shelters. “There’s got to be something like that where you live, right?” My breath is coming fast and choppy as I fumble with my phone one-handed, in the beginning stages of a panic attack.
“Honey, stop. Take a deep breath,” he commands calmly.
I drop my phone on the seat next to me and do what he says, taking deep breaths in through my nose and letting them out through my mouth right along with him until I can get my breathing under control.
“Good girl,” he says, his praise making my cheeks grow warm with pleasure. “Listen, I know I said it in the heat of the moment—that I was yourDaddynow.” He clears his throat. “I should apologize for that,” he finishes under his breath. I wait a beat and raise my brows when he doesn’t follow it up. Davis shifts in his seat uncomfortably and moves my hand off his lap onto minebut doesn’t let go of it. “I’m not taking y’all to a shelter. Even if I knew where one was, I wouldn’t just drop you off.” He lets that statement hang in the air for a few seconds before sighing again. “Here’s the deal—you can say ‘no’, but I hope you won’t. I want y’all to stay at my house.”
“Your house?”
“Yeah. Technically, it’s my childhood home, though I moved back in permanently to take care of my dad after his first stroke, and I can’t bring myself to move out and sell it now that he’s gone. Since I’m on the road for weeks at a time, you’ll have the whole place to yourself.”
My heart beats faster, processing his offer. “You’re saying you’re going to let us live there while you’re gone? Why would you do that? I mean, that’s super generous and so, so kind of you, but—”
“But nothing. Like I told you the other day—you need help, and I’m in the position to help you. So yeah, you can live there. For free. The only thing I ask—and it’s kind of a big thing, but I hope you don’t mind doing it—is that you’re there when I get back home.” His attention flicks to me and back to the road, where orange construction barrels force traffic to slow down as the two lanes merge into one.
My mouth drops open. “That’s it?”Jesus,why did my mind go to such a dirty place when he saidbig thing? What is wrong with me? I mean, he’s incredibly attractive and so sweet with Lily and me, but still…
The eighteen-wheeler in front flashes its hazards twice in thanks after Davis lets it merge ahead of us.
“Yes. I need to know that you and Lily are safe when I’m not there. That you’re not going back to your dad’s, especially on your own.”
A house all to myself where I won’t have to worry about drunks and scary men and filth. There’s no question. “Wow, that’s…yeah, I can do that.”
“Yeah?” He squeezes my hand.
“Yes,” I say with meaning. I probably shouldn’t be so quick to agree after knowing the man for such a short time. But at least this way, I’ll have time to recover and figure out how to get on my feet while he’s on the road.
“Good. Then that’s settled.”
I guess it is.
* * *
We pass through a smallish town that Davis says he’ll give us a tour of soon since it’s fully dark out now after crawling through more construction zones. We take a winding two-lane country road for about ten minutes past the town. The tall, dense woods behind the ditches on either side of the road block most of the moonlight, leaving me little to look at except Davis’s shadowed, strong side profile. It’s not a bad view.
Davis slows the truck when there’s a break in the line of trees on the left, and he turns onto a long paved driveway that leads to a clearing. There aren’t any street lights out here, but automatic flood lights bolted into the two front corners of the light-brown brick ranch-style house flick on, illuminating it and the overgrown lawn in need of mowing.
Davis parks next to a silver Buick Lucerne in front of an attached two-door garage on the left side of the house and then helps me out of the truck. The house itself looks slightly dated, built sometime around the eighties or nineties, but it’s well tended. No peeling paint on the red shutters, broken concrete, or any trash in the yard. A wide cement patio to the right ofthe garage extends just past the middle of the house, with two wooden rocking chairs set to the left of the red front door.
It’s like those chairs are calling my name, enticing me tosit and stay awhile. I can picture myself rocking Lily out here in the middle of the day, enjoying the peace and quiet since the road won’t see nearly as much traffic as the middle of town.
When I finally turn around to get Lily from her car seat, Davis already has her unbuckled and cradled in his arms. I can’t do much more than stare in awe of him. This is how it should have been with Colton—him bringing us home from the hospital. Yet, for some reason, the image of him in Davis’s place won’t fully form in my mind. It doesn’t feel right to do so.
I snap out of my thoughts when Davis tips his head toward the house. I grab my backpack and phone and follow him up the two steps onto the porch. He unlocks the door and steps inside to turn off the soft beeping from the alarm pad on the wall to the right, then gestures for me to follow him inside before closing the door behind me and flipping on the overhead light in the entryway.
Like Dad’s apartment, the front door leads directly into the living room, but one that is much larger and, most importantly, looks tidy and smells clean. Homey. Comfortable. I’d love nothing more than to sink into the well-loved brown leather recliner to the left or sprawl out on the matching leather couch, wrapped up in one of the vintage crochet afghans—the kind that Aunt Lydia used to make—thrown over the back of it, which faces the massive entertainment center displaying all kinds of sports memorabilia.
Instead of exploring the room, with it being so late, Davis leads us deeper into the house, flicking on more overhead lights in the open kitchen on the backside of the house. Front and center is an unexpectedly large island and past that is a picture window above the white porcelain farmhouse sink, topped witha short red gingham curtain that looks out toward the pitch black backyard. Davis pulls two bottles of cold water from the stainless steel double-door refrigerator, then tips his head again to the right side of the house down a dark hallway.
He stops at the first door on the right and pushes it open with his hip, then flicks on that light, too. It’s a modest-sized room painted a muted, cool-toned gray, with a massive oak bed under the large window facing the front lawn. If I thought his living room furniture looked inviting, it’s got nothing on the bed covered in a thick blue and gray plaid comforter with four plump pillows.
“You sure are fond of plaid,” I tease.
