Page 77 of Home Field Advantage
“You want to start a fire for me?”
He smirks. “There’s a lot I want to do, but it’s a start.”
I’ve never been the type of girl who is good at asking for or accepting help of any kind. It’s the part of me that likes control over how things are done. I wouldn’t say I’m a controlling person, because that’s not who I am. But there’s a certain way I like things done that works for me.
This is only starting a fire, though.
“The firewood is in the garage, to the right of the door,” I tell him.
Dallas smiles, ripping off his jacket and placing it neatly over the back corner of the couch before making his way to the garage.
I shrug off my jacket, placing it where I took it out moments ago, lining it up neatly with the others. I don’t tend to be crazy over people coming over and where they put things for their short time here, but with my current state of mind, I would feel better without his jacket resting on the back of the couch. Picking it up, the earthy smell of his cologne hits my senses, and I find myself inhaling it to memory as I drape it over the back of the high-top chair sitting at my kitchen island.
Dallas comes back with a towel that he must have found in the garage, tucked under four wooden logs in his arms. The sleeves of his solid black flannel shirt are rolled up, exposing his forearms. The muscles protrude, and damn, he’s hot. There’s no other word for Dallas Westbrook. I mean, there’s probably a lot more words if I had time to think them through, but that happens to be the only one that comes to mind.
Moving quickly in front of him, I move the fireplace screen out of the way for him. He places the four logs, resting on top of the towel, on the ground, being careful not to get any wood on the carpet. My heart races at how much care he’s putting into ensuring things remain neat. Kneeling beside the fireplace, he tucks his head in to look inside. While he examines it, I grab a lighter from the end table next to the couch for him to use.
“Have you ever used this thing?”
“No,” I admit, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
“But you have wood, and know how to start the fireplace up?”
My cheeks turn fire engine red as I shake my head again. “Griffin drops the wood off for me. To be completely honest, I have no idea how to use this thing. I wasn’t even sure it was a functioning fireplace. It’s mostly decoration for me.”
He laughs, picking up a log and placing it inside the fireplace.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
He keeps stacking the logs in perfect formation before brushing his hands over the top of them to remove the dirt.Anxiety churns in my gut waiting for his response, and then he turns to face me.
“Why not?”
“I mean, is this just you being a friendly neighbor?”
“A friendly neighbor.” He raises an eyebrow, and it sounds more like a statement than a question. Then he shrugs. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
I stand there, stunned. I have no clue what to think about the way he just said that. It makes me think there’s more to this. Do I want there to be more to this thing happening between us that neither of us is acknowledging? Yes. Considering the state of my brain a few minutes ago, this is a crazy revelation.
“I’m a friendly neighbor, Poppy,” he continues when I don’t reply. He stands from his spot on the ground, erasing some of the space I put between us, but also keeping a safe amount of distance for both of us. “But that doesn’t mean I want to be friends.”
“Dallas,” I breathe out.
“You know…to be completely honest and all.” He winks before reaching down and grabbing the lighter that was still in my hand.
If there’s one thing about Dallas, it’s his confidence in the way he talks to me. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get it.
It terrifies me.
I wonder if I told him all the parts of me I keep hidden, if he would run.
Would he stay?
Would he still act the way he is now?
There’s nothing more horrifying than saying “Here I am. This is the real me. Please don’t turn and walk away.”
“Dallas,” I say, just above a whisper, and he snaps his head around to face me. “I’m not like other women you’ve dated or been with before,” I repeat my words from the last time I said this so he remembers.
