Page 36 of A Not So Merry Rescue
Perhaps the holiday spirit is getting to me this year.
I hug her until she pulls away. “If it’s too much crazy, I’ll understand.”
“If what’s too much crazy?” I ask, needing clarification.
Her left shoulder raises. “Me.” Her fingers rub her earlobe, a quirk I find incredibly endearing.
“Two older sisters and a niece, remember? They cornered the market on crazy.” A half-truth at best, but I can’t let her know I’m not usually good with crazy, yet I can’t get enough of her brand.
Maybe I’ve been drinking too much spiked eggnog and it’s me who’s crazy.
An air of a disheartening yule consumes our ride home. Willa seems less sad, but she’s quiet, her usual sparkdiminished. When I try to engage, she shuts me down with one or two-word answers.
Back at the cabin, she’s quick to grab the groceries, emptying the contents of the bags onto the table. “Tell me what you need for tonight, and I’ll put away the rest.”
“Do you have more work to do today?”
“No.” Her response is immediate.
“Keep me company in the kitchen while I cook?” I sound needy. The mood’s changed, but I wonder if there’s still a part of her that’s turned on. Or has that gone away, too?
“Sure. Just need to take out my contacts so gouging out my eyes isn’t on today’s agenda.”
I can’t help being intrigued by how she delivers these quips in such a monotone voice. I debate if it’s intentional. Either way, it’s the exact catharsis we need to break the tension, and my loud guffaw shakes the cabin.
“Let’s keep the blood splatter to a minimum. At least until after we eat.”
She cocks her head to the right, examining me. “Your brand of humor contrasts so much of what I know about you.”
“According to my mother, I’ve been her biggest conundrum in life.”
She allows the comment to sink in and permeate. Quick as her thinking is, she’s also a ponderer when the situation calls for it. I admire that about her.
“Great word choice. I’d love to use it in my books, but my readers tend to not understand the big words. I’d have to use ‘puzzle,’ but your mom is spot-on about you. It’s like she knows you well or something.”
“Or something.” She stands rooted in place, her arms crossed over her chest. “Go forth and remove your contacts. We’ve got work to do.” I don’t intend for it to sound so commanding, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she fought me on it, telling me she doesn’t have to listen to me or I’m not the boss of her. Except it’s forherbenefit. I’m merely encouraging her.
“Right. Be back in a jiff.” She turns on her heel, and my eyes glue to her backside, watching her saunter to my bedroom. Only when she disappears do I shake out of the stupor she has me in and set to work on making dinner.
I prop the iPad on the stand and pull up the recipe for a pan-seared steak I’ve been wanting to try. Taking what I need from the table, I turn on some music, keeping it to non-seasonal tunes for her sake. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of a knife wound.
“I’m back, reporting for duty. What do you require me to do?”
So much innuendo in her question, so many ways I could respond.
Thankfully, I’m faced toward the counter and away from her so she can’t see the way my cock takes notice. Although, if I move my hand to adjust myself, no way she’ll miss that.
Over my shoulder, I call out, “You can put away the groceries in the fridge and pantry. Anywhere you can find room.”
She calls me out with a humph. “Anywhere?”
“Anywhere your little heart desires, Bundy.”
Could the nickname be any less appropriate? Yet, I’m not going to stop. It’s extremely fitting for her. For us.
Man, I’m in trouble.
Forty-eight hours with her, and I’m creating new neural pathways in my brain to accommodate her and make exceptions for how I live.
