Page 116 of Our Long Days
Patrick followsme back to the cabin and it’s after midnight by the time he leaves. Unable to help myself, I sneak over to the A-frame and check the locks before returning to the main cabin.
After a fitful sleep, I woke before dawn to meet her in the office. If she shows.
I grip the edge of the desk, body rigid as I wait for her to storm in here and slap her letter of resignation in my face.
Her appearing in the doorway to my office, two cups of coffee in hand, is a shock.
“It’s decaf.” Hearing her voice is harmonic.
She’s here.
All I can do is stare, drinking her in, from her scuffedChucks to the jaw cracking butter-yellow dress all the way to the smattering of freckles I’ve memorized. There’s color in her cheeks, and though she looks tired, the panic I witnessed yesterday is nowhere to be found.
She also wears a mask of surprise.
“Dex, what the heck have you done?” Eyes the size of saucers, she takes in the room and places the cups on the desk.
She’s here. She’s still mine.
Playing it cool, I grab my keys from the desk. “Keep the windows open, and don’t touch the walls. And for the love of god, keep the goats out.”
“Where are you going?” Her feet are glued to the floor as she watches me fasten my work belt around my hips.
“I’ve got some site visits. It’s all in the calendar.” I nod at the laptop. “Then, I’ll be in my workshop building you that bookshelf, so don’t come in or you’ll ruin the surprise.”
She gapes at me.
“I’ll see you later.” I stalk past her, holding my breath. If I get a whiff of coconut, I’ll be forced to kiss her senseless.
She grabs my wrist, stopping me. I turn to face her.
“Are we not going to discuss the fact your office is pink?” she asks in disbelief.
“No.” I smile. “Because it’s your office.”
With her stunned silent, I retreat to the door.
“One more thing. When you clock off, am I allowed to tell you how beautiful you are and that I love you?”
She swallows, averting her gaze, but there’s no missing the content pull of her lips. “I think that would be okay.”
“See you at five then. Behave.”
There areblisters on my hands, I’m in dire need of a chiropractor, and wearing ear protectors for a prolonged period leaves me discombobulated. Absolutely worth it.
It’s 4:57 p.m., and I rush to place the last tool on the wall, switch off the lights, and lock up the workshop just in time to meet Florence outside the goat pen.
She spins around at the sound of my boots stomping over the gravel.
“Hey, how was yo?—”
“You’re beautiful and I love you. Sleep well and don’t forget to lock your door.”
Her eyes widen, and before she can respond, I bound over to my cabin.
My girl is braving the storm.
She doesn’t need me to see her through it.
