by Nell Iris
“Shut up, imp,” I grumble.
He shoots me a cheeky grin. “Okay…Daddy.” He bursts out laughing.
I shudder. Dave wasn’t the first one who wanted me to be his daddy. I guess looks really are deceiving in my case. Because who can believe that a tall guy with shoulders as wide as a football field, tattoos covering fifty percent of his skin, enough body hair to rival a bear, and a lumberjack beard, is actually a big softie? No, everyone takes one look at me and assumes I want to spank them and ram my tree-trunk-dick up their asses and boss them around.
That couldn’t be further from the truth. All I want is someone I can take care of. Someone who sees who I really am, someone who’ll love the real me.
I avert my eyes.
“Hey, I’m sorry.” Pippin brushes his knuckles over the back of my hand. “I was just kidding, you know that, right?”
“Yeah, all right,” I mumble.
“It’s so weird to me that someone who really knows you would think that’s who you are.”
I frown. “Whaddaya mean?”
“You’re nothing but a big old softie, Ashley Buchanan.” The words could have been my ma’s; she always used to tell me the same thing. But I didn’t expect him to notice.
“Don’t I know it,” I mutter.
My grumbling brings a smile to his face, and thankfully he changes the subject. “What brought you to this fine establishment?”
“I was out for a drive. When I got back to town, I ended up here.” I groan inside. I just blurt out stuff around him. Usually, I’m a man of few words, but around him, I can’t seem to shut up.
But he doesn’t comment on my words. Instead, he asks about my plans for the weekend, and when I tell him about the pile of sandpaper and the buckets of paint waiting for me at home, he offers to help.
“You don’t hafta do that,” I say.
“I know. But I want to do something for you. You’ve helped me so much. I don’t have a lot of experience, but I’m a fast learner.”
That’s how we both end up spending a Friday night stripping old wallpaper, sharing a six pack of Budweiser, and singing along to my eighties hard rock playlist on Spotify. I haven’t had such a great evening in a long time.
Chapter 4
I love having Pippin in my house. We don’t see each other all that often, considering I work third shift and he has two daytime jobs, but his presence in the house is obvious. There’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom. And a disposable razor, a deodorant, and some kind of cream he puts on his face. I cleared out a shelf in the closet for him where he keeps a few items of clothing. My modest book collection has mysteriously grown; I’ve noticed the addition of that vampire book he was reading, and a couple other paperbacks I haven’t put there.
Then there’re the mornings. He’s always awake when I get off work, and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate wait for us both on the breakfast bar when I walk through the door. Some days we enjoy each other’s company in silence; sometimes we chat.
We talk about everything and nothing. He tells me about the book he’s reading or something funny that happened at the coffee shop. I tell him about my trials and tribulations at work and my niece’s huge eyes and ecstatic smile when I brought her the picture books.
One morning, I ask him about college.
“I don’t really know what I want to do with my life,” he says. “I just want to do something. I don’t want to end up like…” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to wake up one day when I’m fifty and be bitter because I didn’t try.”
“I understand.”
“I know.”
Warmth and satisfaction unfurl in my stomach at his words of absolute trust. “No clue to what you wanna do?”
“Well…” He squirms on his stool and his gaze dances away.
“You don’t hafta tell me.”
“I’ve, uh…” He taps his lower lip with his finger and my gaze zeroes in on it. “I’ve always been interested in law. But I don’t want to be a lawyer. I could never defend a guilty person. Never!” The last word he says with vehemence and a wrinkled nose.
“Oh, darlin’, I know.” The endearment just slips out and I’m about to apologize. But his face breaks out in a wide, happy smile and pink spots appear on his cheeks, making him look so adorable, it’s impossible for me to take it back.
“I like reading and researching, so I thought…” He sighs. “Promise not to laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Uh. Mom does. ‘No Olander has ever gone to college,’ she says and laughs.”
Fury flashes in my chest and I clench my teeth. Just when I thought she couldn’t do anything worse to rile me up! What kind of mother laughs at her child’s dreams and ambitions? What kind of person, full stop?
My anger must have been written in neon Sharpie all over my face, because he hurries to explain. “It’s not her intention to be mean. But ambition is foreign to Olanders. Maybe I take after my dad.” He shrugs.
His defense of her snuffs out my anger more effectively than a fire extinguisher would have killed a raging inferno. Don’t forget about his loyalty, Buck, I berate myself silently. I draw fresh oxygen into my lungs. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re your own person.”
His eyes light up. “I like that! You really think so?”
I nod and smile. “What’s so ambitious, the Olanders would faint if they knew?”
“I found this online paralegal program. It’s just an associate degree, but it would mean I don’t have to save up forever. I can even start classes right away if I want to. And it sounds really interesting.”
An associate degree? His mom got her knickers in a twist over a two-year college degree? I resist the urge to growl. “I like it. You’d be great at it. Lord knows you have your nose buried in a book often enough.”
Those little words of encouragement make him grow ten feet. He stands, walks around the breakfast bar to my side, and winds his arms around my waist from behind. His body is flush with mine, his cheek pressed against the back of my head.
“Thank you, Ashley,” he whispers. “No one has ever supported me like you do.”
I grunt and blink, my eyes suddenly itchy. I will always support you. Always. I vow the words in my head, unable to say them out loud.
He doesn’t let go right away. Instead, he tightens his grip and presses his front even closer to my back. He smells of hot chocolate and sleep, and I let my eyes drift closed.
He’s a very handsy guy, taking every opportunity to touch me. Brushes a shoulder against mine. A quick caress on my hand or my arm. A hug like this when he’s happy or thankful for something.
And he watches me a lot. Intently. His gaze is always warm and happy whenever he lets it linger on me. Sometimes, I think he likes me, but I manage to talk myself out of such delusions. He’s just grateful, that’s all.
After a final squeeze, he lets go and retakes his place across from me. “What about you. Are you happy with your life?”
“Mmm.” I nod.
“Nothing missing?”
“Maybe…” That single word sounds wistful even to my own ears.
“Please tell me. I want to know about your dreams, too.”
So I tell him. How I’d like a homestead, preferably off-grid where I can live my life the way I want it. Enjoy my freedom and not be dependent on Uncle Sam. “I wanna grow my own food. Have a shop where I can putter around and build stuff. A flock of chickens—”
“Chickens?”
“Always loved ‘em.” I chuckle. “The idea of producin’ my own food is appealin’. To know what the chickens eat, that the eggs couldn’t be fresher. I would have chickens here if the zonin’ laws didn’t forbit it.”
“Huh,” he says, and I can see the wheels turning in his head, but we don’t have time to discuss it further; he’s off to work and I need my sleep.
* * * *
A few days later, on the weekend, we have breakfast together—real food, not just hot chocolate. I have
the day off, and I wanna make sure he eats properly before going to his second job. On weekends, he picks up shifts in a cleaning crew.
I’ve made eggs and bacon, and I’m happy to see him eat without putting up a fight first. He’s more or less accepted my need to feed him. Sometimes I see a flare of the old stubbornness in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything out loud anymore, and in return, I pretend I don’t notice when he contributes groceries. My stomach fills with satisfaction when he lets me fuss over him without objections.
“Did you know that some chickens lay blue eggs?” he asks between bites.
I chuckle. “You been researchin’ chickens?”
“Of course. You know me. And I’m practicing my research skills for paralegal school.” He grins. “So, did you know?”
“I did. Green, too.”
“Yes! I read that also. I’ve never seen any, though. Just the boring white or brown ones.”
“Same.”
“You should totally raise chickens that lay colored eggs.”
“I should?”
He nods. “Having rainbow eggs for breakfast would be amazing. I bet they taste much better than the regular ones.”
I’m pretty sure they taste the same, but I don’t tell him that. I don’t want to shatter his illusions. But I’m definitely gonna look into it. Unless the chickens cost a fortune, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have rainbow eggs for breakfast.
“In your dreams, do you live alone on your homestead? Except for the chickens?” he asks.
“Nah. I need a cat to keep the mice out of the house. And I’ve always wanted a dog. I figure that’s the right time to get one. I wanna adopt a mutt no one else wants from a shelter.”
“Awww, Ashley. You big softie.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble.
He’s quiet for a few minutes. I can see he wants to ask something, but I wait him out.
“No human companion on the homestead?” he asks eventually, keeping his gaze firmly on his food, but I can almost see him straining his ears so he won’t miss a word coming from my mouth.
“I…uh…” I run my fingers through my beard and shovel a forkful of eggs into my mouth to buy myself a few seconds. My instinct is to shut down the conversation like I do every time Aubrey asks me about my non-existent love life, but Pippin is so open and honest about himself, so I feel I owe him the truth. “It ain’t that easy.”
“Why not?” He gives up trying to pretend to be casual and focuses his attention on me.
“Can’t seem to find a good one. ‘M startin’ to think there’s somethin’ wrong with me.”
He huffs and rolls his eyes. “Please.”
I shrug.
“What are you looking for in a guy?”
“‘M not picky.”
“Tell me.”
I shove away my plate and rest my forearms on the bar, hands clutching the cup. “I want…someone who wants the same things in life I do. Stability. Mutual respect. A quiet life with love and companionship. And I want someone who’ll let me take care of him.” My cheeks heat when I reveal my secret, but I keep going. “I’ve always had this need to take care of people. Aubrey said Ma could move in with her when she got sick, but I wanted to be there for Ma. She took such good care of us when we were kids. Besides, it makes me feel good.”
He covers my hands with his, the warmth of his palms blazing against my skin, and his touch gives me the courage to go on. “I want someone who sees the real me and likes what he sees. I don’t wanna be lonely all the time.”
“Oh, Ashley,” he breathes.
I press my hands into his for a moment. Allow myself to enjoy his touch. Then I try to shake off the melancholy and lighten the mood. “But since I can’t seem to find someone, I’ll end up all alone in the forest. I’ll be the curmudgeon with a shotgun, yellin’ at the neighbor’s kids when they’re trespassin’.”
He squeezes my hands. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Put yourself down like that. It’s not too late, you’ll find someone.”
I shake my head. “I sorta gave up lookin’ after Dave.”
“Dave is an idiot.”
“That’s…not untrue.” I grin.
“You’ll find someone, Ashley. Maybe sooner than you think.” With that, he lets go of me and digs back into his food.
I can’t stop looking at him. What did he mean by that? Is he suggesting that he…
Surely, that can’t be it.
But I can’t stop thinking about his words after he leaves for work. Not when I lift weights. Not when I make lunch. Not when puttering around the house making more plans for renovations. Not while spending time on the computer searching for inspiration. Not while catching up with my favorite YouTube channels.
“Getta grip, Buck,” I mutter. “You’re obsessin’ over a kid.”
Except he isn’t a kid anymore and hasn’t been for a long time. And even though I’m sixteen years his senior, I haven’t felt the age difference for a long time. He’s always been mature for his age; he had to be.
I admire his way of taking on any obstacle with head held high and coming out after with more steel in his spine than before. I’m sure he could have been a straight-A student with colleges wanting to throw scholarships at him if he’d been given the chance. Instead, he did what he had to do to scrape by, while taking a job so he and his mom could eat. But I haven’t heard him complain once.
That boy was grown up long before he was out of his teens, and now, he’s the finest man I’ve ever known, both in mind and body.
And I get to see the body up close later, when he storms into the house with his nose wrinkled and an annoyed set to his mouth, his face looking more like a storm cloud than his usual sunny self.
“Gaaah,” he cries as he toes off his boots and yanks off one of the hoodies I bought for him, revealing another hoodie underneath.
Wait, what? Why is he wearing two hoodies? Hasn’t he got a proper winter coat? We still haven’t gotten any snow, but it’s freezing outside, and he should have a coat. Why haven’t I noticed before?
His continued ranting interrupts my thoughts. “This day.” He huffs and shrugs out of the second hoodie. “We had to clean up after an office party,” he explains and continues to peel off layers of clothing. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. Eleventy hundred empty booze bottles. Leftover food everywhere, and I mean everywhere. On the ceiling, Ashley. How the hell does food end up on the ceiling?” He balls up the clothes, wearing nothing but his underwear and socks. “Being the most recent employee, I didn’t get to do any of the fun stuff, like mopping the goddamned ceiling. Nooooo, I had to clean up puke in the bathrooms. Puke! What the hell kind of office party was this? Alcoholics’R’Us?”
He stomps his way past the couch, where I’m sitting with my mouth hanging open and brain overloading with all impressions.
Pippin is almost naked. In my house. He’s naked in my house, ranting about vomit.
“I need a shower. And I need to wash the stink out of these clothes. Or maybe it’d be better to just burn them and buy new ones.” With that, he disappears into the bathroom and leaves me alone with my gaping mouth.
I still haven’t gotten over seeing him only in his underwear when he returns a few minutes later, with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips and his damp hair looking like he put his fingers in the socket.
All the naked skin on display dries my mouth. He’s pale, with coppery nipples and a concave belly. I can’t see any body hair except for on his legs; his chest is smooth and soft-looking.
I snap my mouth shut to stop a moan from escaping.
He throws himself next to me on the couch—close enough that I catch a sniff of my shower gel. I swallow. Him smelling like me does weird things to my stomach. I have to close my eyes; I can’t look at him or I’ll pop a boner.
“I had to borrow your stuff. I used up all mine, and I still felt like I had vomit all over me, so I took some of yours. I’m
sorry.”
“‘S fine.” I barely pay attention to what he says; his naked arm brushes against mine, and he radiates heat.
“Gawd, I feel so much better now. If I could, I’d quit. I don’t want to be an ungrateful brat, but cleaning for a living is so not my thing.”
“You’re not ungrateful.”
“But some people don’t have jobs at all. And here I am, complaining about a little vomit.”
That brings me out of my stupor. Because if something is more beautiful than a nearly naked Pippin, it’s his compassionate and generous heart.
“Darlin’.” My voice is soft, and this time I don’t regret the endearment. “‘S all right to think your job is crappy. We’ve all had them, ‘s a part of life. As long as you do it properly and treat it with respect, you’re allowed your feelings.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. And it’s temporary. Soon you’ll have a fancy college degree and can leave this shit behind you.”
“You sound so sure.”
“I am. I’ve got no doubt you could be the president of this country if you wanted to.”
“Eeek, no. No politics for me, please.” He leans closer to me. After a couple heartbeats, he rests his head on my shoulder.
“I’m darned proud of you, Pippin. Never doubt that.”
“I don’t,” he whispers.
We sit like that for a while until he starts shivering. But he doesn’t get up and put on clothes. Instead, he grabs the blanket and covers himself, cuddling even closer into my side.
“Wanna watch somethin’ on Netflix?” I ask. There’s no way in hell I’m moving away from my spot now.
“Sure. None of your zombies, though.”
“What’s wrong with zombies?”
“What’s right with zombies?”
I chuckle and grab the remote. After a few minutes scrolling on Netflix, a familiar title grabs my attention. “Ain’t that those vampires you were readin’?”
He nods. “Yeah. You don’t wanna watch that, trust me.”
“Hah!” I exclaim and press PLAY. If there’s something I like, it’s crappy movies.
