Page 11 of Our Long Days
The fire roars, yet I’m cold to the bone.
CHAPTER FOUR
florence
My feet poundon the floor, matching the erratic thumping in my chest.
I didn’t stop to think when I stormed in here; I just barreled through the door, desperate to escape the humiliation. Now, I’m pacing the length of the bedroom, praying for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
One more distraction.
Snatching a pillow off the neatly made bed, I smash my face into it, muffling my scream.
I’m possessed. It’s the only logical explanation as to why I was about to climb into Dex’s lap and beg him to help me forget the noise inside my head. The alcohol had me hallucinating, because I swear something sparked in his eyes.
The three seconds of hesitation were loud.
Before he could turn me down, likely citing a slew of excuses, including who my brother is, I left.
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” I smack the pillow onto the bed with each word—which is when I remember what I’m wearing. Fast as lightning, I unbutton the shirt and throw it across the room, leaving me in only my bra and panties.
He was being nice, kept me company, and didn’t make me feel like a spare part. I misread the signs epically.
My phone is somewhere in his living room, and without it, there’s no way out. This is where I’ll die from shame.
Here lies Florence Abigail Sadler. Daughter, sister, and desperate hussy.
After a few more laps, my breathing slows and my heart rate levels out. I take in my surroundings. It’s tidy and minimalistic. The rustic wood gives it character, and my fingers run over the dark maple colored walls, polished to perfection. It’s simple, with a matching sleigh bed and furniture.
I stop in front of the nightstand, admiring the intricate patterns carved into the wood and its brass handles. Beside a half-drunk glass of water sits a dog-eared book,Working with Hickorywritten along the spine.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “No, no, no, no.”
I spin, tearing open the wardrobe. A lumberjack’s wardrobe. Flannel, so much fucking flannel. Work boots, men’s belts, and tight black T-shirts that hug tattooed biceps perfectly.
This is not a guest room. It’s the main bedroom.
Dex’s bedroom.
A knock on the door has panic seizing my muscles.
“Florence?” a baritone voice calls.
I silently creep over and press my ear to the wood, listening to his heavy footsteps and heavier exhales.
Unraveling, I spin the ring on my pinky, rubbing at the skin. It happens in slow motion. The silver band slips free thanks to my clammy hands. The sound of it bouncing along the hardwood floor may as well be the chime of church bells.
His marching stops.
“Florence. Can you open the door?”
“She’s not home right now. Could you call back later?” I squeak.
Even with the stomach-churning awkwardness, he laughs.Too bad I’m moving far, far away after this. I’ll miss that deep chuckle. And his tattoos. And mustache.
“You can sleep in there, but if it’s okay, I’d like to talk first.” The seconds tick by, and then, “I want to apologize.”
The door flies open, my abrupt appearance startling him.
