Southern Heart

by Madison, Natasha

  “How about you wait three days, and then I can make it for you then?” He just nods his head.

  "I wish I could help you set up the table or something." His brown eyes turn a soft green as he stands with the sun on his face. His beard is thicker than it’s ever been before. "Where are we going to eat?"

  "Let’s eat on the couch. I know I said you have to get on your feet, but let’s not overdo it. Go sit back down, and I’ll bring you your things,” I say, walking over to the white cabinet and pulling out two white plates. "We can set you up so it’s more comfortable for you." I look over at him and see his leg is shaking just a touch as he puts his hand on the island, trying to put pressure off. "Can you stop being such a macho man and go back to the couch?”

  "I’m not being a macho man," he hisses, and I see his chest is heaving like he is panting.

  "I know that you think you can just dust yourself off, but you were shot and stabbed." I start to tell him as I plate and then pull open one of the biscuits, and the steam comes out of them. "But your body needs time to heal. Pushing yourself too hard will just set you back down the line."

  "I’m not used to just sitting down and doing nothing," he says, and I smile at him.

  "Do you want apple juice or orange juice?" I ask, and he sits on a stool at the island.

  "Ethan said your biscuits are better than your grandmother’s." He smirks at me.

  "I learned it from her," I say, breaking open two biscuits and then scooping up the white sausage gravy. "But I’ve put my own twist on it." I turn back and see that he is looking at me. "Do you need help getting back to the couch?"

  "No." He shakes his head, and I just chuckle.

  "Okay, macho man," I say, grabbing two forks. "Suit yourself." I watch him turn now and take a step and stop. “Are you sure you don’t need help?"

  "No," he hisses at me and side-eyes me.

  "I would watch that tone, Mayson," I tell him. "I would hate to have you watch me eat this meal.”

  "You wouldn’t do that to me,” he says, turning and walking back to the couch. He sits down slowly. I walk to one of the drawers and take out two trays. I put the bowl of broth on his with orange and apple juice. I place my plate on the other one. I carry his first and put it on the table.

  "Put your feet up," I tell him, and he turns and puts his feet on the couch, and even though I know he’s going to hate it, I put my arm under his feet helping him. "Now, was that so hard?" He glares at me, and I roll my lips. I hand him his tray, grabbing a dish towel and handing it to him. "Did you need a bib?" I hand him his bowl of broth, our fingers grazing when he grabs it from me. I feel the heat from his fingers even when I turn back to grab my own plate.

  "That mouth of yours." He shakes his head, looking straight at me. "One of these days, it’s going to get you in a world of trouble."

  I laugh now, ignoring the way my stomach just flipped as he looked at me. "You see, it shows we’ve never had a conversation," I tell him, looking sideways at him, cutting a piece of the biscuit. "Because my mouth has been getting me into trouble since I started talking." His eyes on me, I say, “You can only have a bite.” I hold the fork up for him, his hand goes to mine on the fork and I try not to shake with nerves from his touch, and he leans in.

  "This is good," he says, chewing. "Better than your grandmother’s." I smirk at him. "If you tell her that, I’m going to deny it and blame it on the pills you are giving me."

  I laugh at him. "I’ll just ask them for the tapes." He looks at me. "My house is wired, and everything is recorded." I do a circle with the fork in my hand. His mouth opens and then closes. "Kidding." I point the fork at him.

  "Oh, you are bad," he says, shaking his head. "For one second, I believed you."

  "I can guarantee you that outside is wired tight," I tell him. "Now the inside." I shrug, taking another bite. "Only time will tell."

  He shakes his head and finishes eating his broth. "I have a question.”

  "I’m full of answers," I tell him, leaning forward and putting my plate on the table.

  "When can I shower?" He looks at me.

  "Next month." I keep a straight face, seeing the way his mouth just hung open. I smile slyly at him. "To be safe, I would wait until it’s fully healed, so maybe even two."

  "What?" He gasps. The way his eyes are opened so big, I can’t stop the giggle that comes out. "You little shit." He tries to snatch me, but I evade him.

  "You can try to catch me," I tell him, bending to take my plate, "but it’ll be a cold day before that happens."

  He looks at me, his eyes twinkling for the first time. "Is that so?" he says, swinging his feet off the couch. "You sure about that?"

  "How about we bet," I tell him, putting the plates in the sink and ignoring the beating of my heart. "When you get better." I fold my arms over my chest. "You do the chase. I bet you won’t catch me."

  "What do I win?" he asks me. "Usually, when the boy chases the girl, he gets the girl." He limps over a bit. "So what happens if I catch you?"

  "Only way to find that out," I say, advancing on him, "is to catch the girl." I see his chest rise and fall. "Now, if you want, I can come in and wash you up."

  "Do I look like I need you to give me a sponge bath?" he asks.

  "Even tough guys like baths sometimes." I smirk at him.

  "Not this tough guy." He folds his arms over his chest now. I take a second to see the orange flower on his arm. The bright green leaves make it pop more.

  "Well, then, you can stay dirty," I start to say, and he smiles. "Or…"

  "Why?" he moans out. "Why must you put an or in there?”

  "Or you can have me sponge you off," I tell him, and he smirks at me.

  "You really want to wash me"—he winks at me now—"all you had to do is ask.”

  "You are lucky you have a bullet wound, and I can’t hurt you," I tell him, knowing right now that my cheeks are turning a bright red.

  "Thank you,” he says softly when I walk back over to him and grab his empty tray.

  “You’re welcome,” I say softly and walk back to the kitchen. He moves his leg now and starts to get up.

  “Are you tired?” I ask, and he tries to deny it. “Go rest. I’ll come in and check you after.

  I’ll come and change your bandages." I shake my head.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles now as he makes his way back to the bedroom.

  "And just for that, I won’t even come running if you fall!” I yell to his back.

  He laughs, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh so much since we met. Trust me, I would know since I used to watch him every single fucking time. "You lie."

  When he turns and walks back to the bedroom, I ignore that my heart is pounding so hard and so fast it sounds like a group of galloping horses. "What the fuck was that?" I ask, putting my hands to my forehead to check if I have a fever. "Was he flirting with me?" I look back toward the room where he disappeared.

  I walk over to the sink and try not to have my head overthink it. He is just being polite, my head says. The conversation plays over and over again in my head, and I’m brought back to the first time my feelings for him went from crush to something else.

  I walked into the barn, rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t know you were in here.” I lied straight to his face. I knew exactly where he was. Every single time he came to one of our barbecues, I knew exactly where he was at every single time. I would try and talk to him but all he would give me was a grunt or one-word answers and I was tired of him not seeing me. So I was taking things into my own hands.

  “I’m sorry.” He stood up from the stool he was sitting on. “I didn’t think anyone was going to come in here,” he said and just looked at me.

  “I was just coming to check on my horse”—I walked over to stand in front of him—“but if you need privacy.”

  “If anyone should leave, it’s me,” he said, as he walked over to stand right in front of me.
“I just.”

  “They can be overwhelming”—I smiled at him and he just smirked as he looked down—“but they mean no harm.”

  “It wasn’t your family.” His voice came out in a whisper as he looked at me without his stupid glasses. I saw his eyes filled with turmoil and I tilted my head and I wanted to ask him what it was, but Quinn came in and interrupted us.

  I blink when the water that is running on my hands turns cold as ice. Turning off the faucet, I gather the dish towel and walk toward the spare bedroom, seeing him in bed with his eyes closed.

  I walk back to my bathroom and get two basins and some towels for when he wakes up. I clean the kitchen, and an hour later, I walk to the bedroom and check on him. I try to be as quiet as I can when I walk in, and his eyes spring open. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, and he rubs his face with his hand. Grabbing the bowl, I make my way to the bathroom and fill it up with warm water.

  “I thought you were joking,” he says, looking at me coming back with one of the bowls.

  “I never joke about sponge baths,” I tell him, walking back to grab another bowl. I grab two towels and walk to him. “Turn on your side,” I tell him, and he turns on one side, and I tuck a towel under him, repeating it on the other side. “Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, and I press the button for his bed to sit up more.

  “Can you take off your T-shirt?” I ask him, and he takes it off slowly. I swallow now as I look at him with his shirt off. I put one of the face towels into the hot water and rub the bar of soap on it. “Let me know if this is too hot,” I tell him as I put it on his chest. “Good?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and I tell myself he’s just another patient. I tell myself even when my hand shakes as I wash his chest.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask him, trying not to embarrass myself while I am washing him. “After all this.”

  “I have no idea,” he says, and his voice sounds tight.

  "If you can do anything, what would it be?” I ask him.

  “I guess I would do construction,” he says. “When I wasn’t on tour, I would love building things for the cabin.” I look at him.

  “What is one thing that you’ve built?” I ask him as I take a towel in the clean water and rinse him off.

  “I built a coffee table,” he tells me, and I can see his eyes light up, “then I added two bedrooms to the cabin.”

  “You like it,” I tell him.

  “I guess I do,” he says. “What about you?”

  “I want to get my career going,” I tell him, “then I want to do the regular girl things.” I smile at him when his eyebrows pull together. “You know, husband and kids.” I don’t tell him that he’s always been the one I’ve seen holding my hand. I don’t tell him that he’s the one I’ve always wanted. Ever since I saw him that first time. “Do you see yourself having children?” I ask him, and I hold my breath now, the thought of him with someone making me feel sick.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never been in a relationship. I have nothing to bring to the table,” he says while I wash up his arm. “I have nothing. The only thing I did have is now burned to the ground.” Stopping at his shoulder, my face is very close to his.

  “Everything can be rebuilt,” I tell him in almost a whisper, and he doesn’t say anything else. He looks at me and I don’t move as my face hovers next to him. I know that if I move even an inch, my lips could be on his. My heartbeat is echoing in my ears. “Do you think you can?” I move away from him now, pointing at his bottom half.

  “I got that,” he says, and I just nod my head. “Call me when you are done.” I walk to the door. “I’m going to leave the door open, but I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  My hands shake as I walk to the kitchen and grab a glass of water. I look out, his words playing over and over in my head. I have nothing. “Stupid man,” I mumble.

  I walk over to the freezer, taking out a frozen chicken and putting it in a pot of water. This is what I do when I’m stressed, I cook.

  "I’m done!" I hear him yelling and walk toward the bedroom. I find him sitting on the bed, his shirt in his hand.

  "How was it?" I ask him. When he looks up at me, I can see little drops of water still in his hair.

  "Heaven," he says, and I swallow when I see that he’s just wearing a pair of black boxers.

  "Um, I’ll give you a couple of seconds to get dressed," I tell him, turning to walk out of the room.

  I look over at him. "Does this offend you?"

  I scoff now. "No, of course not." Ignoring the heat rising up my neck.

  "I was going to say you already ripped my clothes off me," he jokes, and I just glare at him.

  "That was a medical emergency"—I shake my head—"and it’s too soon to joke about it.” My voice goes soft as I walk over to the supplies. "But I cut them off you. Now lie back."

  When I turn back around, he is lying down. I stand next to the bed and bend over. My hand is shaking just a bit. "Chelsea," he says my name softly, and I look up at him. "You saved me."

  I swallow down the lump forming in my throat and ignore the stinging of tears in my eyes. It takes me no time to get everything changed and dry, and when I look up, he has his eyes closed. "All done. Did you want a pain pill?" I turn my face to look at him and realize I’m suddenly very close to him. His eyes open, and we stare at each other, and I swear I stop breathing. His hand comes up as he cups one of my cheeks. I don’t move. My stomach flips back and forth as his thumb rubs my cheek.

  "No pill," he says and then he drops his hand, and the moment is gone.

  "I know that you overdid it today." I walk over to throw out the other bandages, then walk back to him and hand him the pain pill with a glass of water.

  He takes it without saying anything to me. "Thank you," he says, and I just nod at him and put down the glass.

  "I’m going to take a shower," I tell him, and he just looks over at me.

  "Leave the door open just in case." He smiles shyly at me, and I walk out of the room with a huge smile on my face as I shake my head.

  When I finally get out of the shower and walk into the kitchen, darkness has come. I walk toward his bedroom and see that everything is off. Walking into his room, I see that he is sleeping. A T-shirt covers his chest. I try not to make noise to wake him, and when I get close to the bed, his eyes open if only for a second and then quickly close. "You are what dreams are made of," he says softly and falls back asleep.

  Chapter 13

  Mayson

  "I’ll kill everything that you love. Nothing is safe from me."

  My eyes flicker open, and I see darkness again. My eyes roam the four corners of the room and then look out the window. I close my eyes again, and this time I see Chelsea. I was so close to crossing a line yesterday. So close to kissing her that I could have tasted her lips on mine. It was a slip that will never happen again. It can’t happen.

  Her hands on me as she bathed me made my cock so hard, I was petrified she would see it. Instead, I kept my T-shirt over it in a ball. Listening to her talk about what she wanted in the future and knowing that it was nothing that I could give her. I have nothing to offer her.

  I get up slowly as I make my way to the bathroom. The stinging is a bit less today, but it pulls nonetheless. I walk into the kitchen and see that it’s just after five in the morning. I see her bedroom door open, and everything inside me tells me not to go there. But before I can think, my feet are walking there, and I see her lying in the middle of the bed. The soft light is on her as she sleeps in a fetal position. Slowly, I close the door, not to wake her, and walk back into the kitchen to start coffee.

  Putting my hands down on the counter, I look around her house. Something that I didn’t have time to do before. Everything is clean and put in place, the white countertops shine. Two brass lanterns hang from the ceiling that is over the island. She has a small plant sitting on the window ledge that looks out to the backyard, just like h
er grandmother. A picture of her and her grandmother also on the ledge. I pick it up and hold it in my hand, looking at the smile on Chelsea’s face. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever met. I place it back right where I took it from and walk over to the fridge, seeing two color drawings stuck on there.

  Grabbing the milk out of the fridge, I walk over to the coffee machine and pour some in. Putting it back into the fridge, I hear soft footsteps. "Hey," she says, wrapping the robe around herself and looking at me with one eye open. "Is everything okay?"

  "Yeah," I say, looking at her bare legs now, the robe no longer than the shorts she’s wearing underneath it. "I didn’t mean to wake you." I grab the coffee in my handm ignoring the little shakes. "Go back to bed. I’ll be fine."

  "Are you hungry?" She ignores what I just said, walking into the kitchen now. "I can make some eggs. All you ate yesterday was broth." She walks over to the fridge, and I see that her face still has sleep on it. “You can have some solids today.”

  "Chelsea." I call her name, and she looks over at me. "Go back to bed."

  "Do you know," she says, grabbing a pack of bacon out of the fridge, "that breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”

  I put my head back and groan. "Do you ever listen?"

  She shrugs her shoulders. "At times." She chuckles. "I’m just going to put the bacon in the oven, and then I’m going to have a coffee."

  "Whatever I say, you aren’t going to listen to me?" I ask her, but I know the answer. It’s clear as day she is her own woman, and she does what she wants when she wants it.

  "I listen sometimes," she says, starting her own coffee, and I chuckle as I walk to the island and pull out one of the wooden stools.

  "Do you have a routine?" I ask her, and she looks over at me.

  "Everyone does,” she counters as she pours some cream into her coffee. "Even you."

  "What’s your routine?" I ask her.