Page 2 of Light Up The Night
Flushed with mortification at my clumsiness, I find it hard to breathe. More so than ever because he once again does not let go of me; instead, his hand slides down my arm and his fingers wrap around mine.
He is holding my hand.
Again.
My pulse slams in my chest and in my ears. My skin burns and tingles.
Yet, I find myself unable to open my hand and release his. This is an extreme oddity. Physical contact—with men in particular—is something I fastidiously avoid.
Riley glares at the crack that tripped me. "Been meanin' to fix that fuckin' crack for months, I just never seem to find the time. Sorry about that. You good?"
I nod once. "Yes. I am unharmed. Only embarrassed."
He gives another of those soft laughs; I wish I could be sure whether he is laughing at me. "Don't be embarrassed, Gorgeous. If anyone should be, it's me. You tripped onmycrack."
I cannot find a suitable answer for this, so I say nothing.
We reach the side door; a glass storm door rattles as he opens it and props it open with his backside while entering the code into a digital keypad set into the main door. A deadbolt hums as it withdraws, and Riley pushes the door open. We enter a dark kitchen: white cabinets, dark, wide-plank floors, quartz counters, and white-and-gold high-end appliances.
"Your home is lovely," I say, as he flicks on a light switch.
The side door opens to a small landing; to the right is a large laundry room—more white with black and gold accents—and a mudroom, the appliances on the left and a bank of floor-to-ceiling cubbies with built-in seats on the right, and a door to the backyard at the rear. Straight ahead from the side entrance takes you down to the basement—pitch black, so I cannot see whether it is finished or not. Left takes you to the kitchen.
He gives me another dazzling smile. "Thanks. It's been a labor of love, but she's almost done."
I absorb his statement and examine the various possible interpretations. "By labor of love, do you mean that you have performed the labor yourself, out of love? And by she, you refer to the home?"
He looks at me for a moment; likely, he is attempting to figure out why I am so strange. "Yeah, yeah. I'm not as good at this shit as my brother Felix, but I do okay. I think it's turned out alright."
"I do not follow your meaning."
This causes him to frown. “I…um. What?"
"You claim to not be as good at this…stuff…as your brother, but I do not know what stuff you are referring to."
"Oh, uhhh, this." He waves a hand at the kitchen. "Home renovations. Building. My brother Felix is the master at this shit. Walk into one of his houses and you'll get your hair knocked back, they're that fuckin' pimp. Like, just sleek and…" he waves a hand, shaking his head. "All professional and shit."
There is much to his statement I do not quite follow, but I can piece his intent through the utilization of context clues. "If your brother is better than you at home building and renovation, then he must be quite talented indeed. You have done a wonderful job, if you did all the work and design yourself."
He grins—I could be mistaken, and probably am, but it seems like an embarrassed grin. "Eh, it's alright. Thanks, though. It's nice to hear."
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, and cannot hide the wince of pain as I do so. Riley is observant and notices my discomfort. "Your feet hurt like a bitch, huh?" He presses his big, hot hand to the small of my back and nudges me out of the kitchen and into the living room, around the corner; there is a small, round, oak dining table with four chairs in the cornerbetween the kitchen and the living room. "C'mon, sweetheart. Sit. Relax. Lemme see what I've got as far as grub goes."
I frown. "I…I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but I do not think grubs would sit well at the moment. They are rather dense, and far too rich for my system to process on an empty stomach."
Riley stops mid-step, partway back into the kitchen, pivots slowly, and stares at me. "Huh? No, Cadence, not—notactualgrubs. Grub. Like food?" He blinks rapidly a few times. "And…have you…have you actuallyeatengrubs?"
"Of course I have," I say. "I spent several months providing medical care to tribes in central Africa, where bugs, including grubs, are a staple."
"No shit? What do they taste like?" he asks.
I tilt my head and look up and away, recalling. "Well, it depends on a variety of factors, including but not limited to the type of grub, how it's prepared, and what one pairs it with. My favorite ones are baked on hot stones and have a nutty flavor."
He laughs—amazement, perhaps? Or amusement, or bemusement; I am uncertain. "Well, I ain't got any grubs. One sec while I see what Idohave."
He leaves me standing in the middle of the living room and returns to the kitchen; I hear the refrigerator opening and closing, cabinets rattling closed. I look around the living room and find it as pleasing as the rest of the home. The same dark, wide-plank floors carry throughout, with white drywall everywhere except a single accent wall behind the large black leather couch—the accent wall features narrow, horizontal shiplap painted a bold French blue. The ceiling is vaulted and trimmed with dark wood to match the floors. There is no television, only a large framed black-and-white photograph of cherry trees in full bloom opposite the accent wall over a long, thin table littered with decorative knick-knacks and a few framed photos of what I assume to be Riley's family and/orfriends—the same handful of men are featured in most of the photographs: a large, muscular man with blond hair and facial features which strongly resemble Riley's—most noticeably the intensely pale blue eyes; another blond man, also very attractive, wearing the uniform of a law enforcement officer; there is another attractive man, this one with wild, shaggy, curly black hair, heavy, dark stubble, and dark eyes; last is a giant of a man with bright red hair and a beard so long it's braided, the end of the braid capped with a silver cuff.
"You were supposed to sit down," Riley says behind me, startling me so badly I jump, gasping. Laughing, Riley settles his hands on my shoulders, once again making my pulse hammer crazily. "Whoa, whoa. Sorry, sweetness, didn't mean to scare you. C'mon, take a seat." He guides me to the couch, turns me around, and gently but firmly forces me to sit. He presses a button on the outside of the armrest, and a foot support extends and lifts up under my feet. "Better?"
