Page 33 of Finding Silence
What used to be Savvy’s room is now my home office and admittedly a bit of a disaster, and the former spare room has become storage space for boxes of Marie’s stuff I’m keeping for our daughter. So effectively, there is one bed in the house and that is mine. I don’t want to presume anything, so Phil can sleep there and I’ll grab the couch or the recliner in the office.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I tell her. “There’s juice and iced tea in the fridge, I think there may be a couple of beers, grab whatever you like. The remote for the TV is on the table. I’m just going to run your bag upstairs.”
She nods, uncharacteristically quiet, and wanders into the kitchen. I carry her bag upstairs and toss it on the chair in my bedroom. Then I quickly strip my bed, throw those sheets on the recliner in my office, and dig out the extra set and some clean towels from the linen closet. Then I remake my bed in record time and use a T-shirt I tossed on the floor yesterday to wipe the layer of dust from the nightstands and the dresser. Next, I do some damage control in the bathroom, making sure it can pass muster before I join Phil downstairs.
She’s in the kitchen, standing in front of the window, looking out at the stable. I walk up behind her and put my hands on her shoulders.
“How are you doing?”
By way of response, she swings around and drops her forehead against my chest. I slide my hand under her curls and find the nape of her neck, gently massaging it when I find it tight with tension.
“I’m never gonna get that stench out of the house, I can still smell it now,” she mumbles.
“Yeah, we’ll get the stench out,” I assure her. “And why don’t you grab a quick shower? Not that you smell, but I know from experience the steam helps to clear nasty odors clinging to your nose.”
She lifts her head and awards me with a little smile.
“I think I might do that.”
“Left at the top of the stairs. Doors to the bedroom and bathroom are open.”
Her mouth is tempting, but I resist and opt to press a kiss to her forehead instead. This is probably not the time, because once I have her taste on my lips, I already know my control will be out the window, and I doubt that’s what she needs from me right now.
“Don’t let me keep you up,” she says as she moves to the stairs.
“You’re not.”
For twenty agonizing minutes, filled with mental images of Phil in my shower, I’ve been trying to focus on some news show on TV with limited success, but the moment I hear her coming down the stairs, my head turns on a swivel.
The first thing I notice is she’s barefoot, and for some reason the sight of her purple-tipped toes on my wooden floors feels very intimate. It only takes me a fraction of a second to decide I like it.
Next, I notice she’s wearing a pair of oat-colored lounge pants, they look soft, just like her oversized top of the same color. The outfit is loose on her body, but somehow is more enticing than anything I’ve seen her in.
Finally, I notice the bottle of Bruichladdich whiskey in her hands. I recognize the distinct shape.
“I packed this. I was saving this for a special occasion,” she explains with a sheepish grin on her face. “I figured now is probably as good a time as any. Can I tempt you?”
I almost laugh out loud. For a guy who’s all but sworn off alcohol, I can’t believe I’m even considering a second drink today.
Can she tempt me? Hell, she doesn’t even have to try.
“I’ll grab us some glasses.”
“Can we sit outside?” she asks. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“Of course. Grab that blanket.” I point at the throw folded over the arm of the couch. “It may be a little chilly.”
A few minutes later, when I carry the glasses outside, she’s already sitting on the love seat that is part of the outdoor set Savvy got me for my retirement. I think this is only the second or third time it’s been used, but I have a feeling that may change. Phil has made herself comfortable, her feet tucked under her, as she pats the seat beside her.
I grab the bottle, noticing Phil has already broken the seal, and pour us two fingers each. No ice or water to dilute the flavor, I hand her a tumbler and pick up my own, tapping her glass lightly.
“Cheers.”
We each take a sip; this is the kind of whiskey to be savored, not gulped.
Immediately, Phil takes the glass from my hand and sets both of them down on the table before turning to me with a predatory smile on her face.
“Now, where were we?”
