Being Neighborly

by Carey Heywood

  She’s been paying me in meals for the help I’ve been giving her around the place. The first thing she asked for my help with was installing a new rain showerhead in the master bathroom. Standing in her tub, guessing by her still damp hair, that she was naked in there earlier was hard. Not hard to do, as in made me hard.

  That reaction was repeated the next day thanks to the mental picture I got when she went on and on, telling me how wonderful her shower felt. Luckily, since then I’ve been mainly assembling bookshelves and rescreening her porch.

  I’m still trying to figure out whether it’s expanding my culinary horizons or my company she likes more. I’m hoping it’s the latter. If she still lives here in eight months, I am asking her out.

  The paint is ready by the time I have everything we’ll need. Once everything is paid for, I push the cart out to the parking lot. A gentle breeze carries the scent of Bethany’s honeysuckle conditioner past me. It hits me then, that so far, there isn’t one thing that I don’t like about her. Windows down, we drive back to her house, I add another thing I like about her to my mental list; she looks seriously hot in my truck.

  She runs upstairs to change while I tape off the room. I work on a farm, I’m not worried about paint getting on my clothes. When Bethany comes back down, I have to fight to not stare at her. She’s changed into a tight tank top and a pair of rolled-at-the-waist plaid boxer shorts. I can only hope she bought them; that’s easier to swallow than them belonging to an old boyfriend.

  “You mentioned starting your own business before, but you never said what,” I ask as she climbs a stepladder to start edging.

  “I’m a freelance editor.”

  Dipping the roller into the tray, I glance up at her. “What kind of stuff do you edit?”

  She sets down her brush and straightens her shoulders. “Novels, mainly fiction, though I did edit one autobiography.”

  “I’ve never met an editor before. Would I know any of the books you’ve edited? I don’t read as much as I’d like to, but I still follow new releases.”

  She giggles, her eyes mischievously holding mine. “That depends, do you read any romance?”

  I shake my head and start painting the wall in front of me. “I mainly read mysteries, but Bess inhales those romance novels. She loves that Sparks guy. He’s the only one I know of for romance. Oh, and those grey books, something shades of grey.”

  “Everyone knows those. I’m afraid I don’t edit for Nicholas Sparks or E.L. James. If I did, I might’ve bought an island, not a farmhouse.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Would you like to read something I’ve edited?” she asks with a hopeful lilt in her tone.

  There is only one right answer to this question. “I would love to.”

  “Really?” she beams.

  Yep, that was the right answer.

  She climbs down the stepladder and motions for me to follow her. Leading me into her den, she immediately starts rummaging through a box on the floor.

  “I have an old eReader you can borrow. I just have to find it.”

  I glance around at all the books on her shelves. “Do you have a paperback?”

  She gasps and looks up at me. “My paperbacks are signed.”

  My brows furrow so she explains, “If you read one of those, you might crack the spine.”

  “That sounds like a bad thing,” I hedge, even though I’m not certain I understand why that’s a bad thing.

  Her attention turns back to the box, and after another moment of shuffling through it, she brandishes a small tablet victoriously. “Found it.”

  Her face is a picture of elation as she crosses the room toward me and pats my arm. “I’ll hook it up to my charger while we paint and it should be good to go for you to read tonight.”

  Following her back out to the kitchen, I ask. “Tonight?”

  She stills and I almost walk into her. Her face turns so I only see her profile and she nods solemnly.

  Guess I have homework tonight. After she plugs the eReader in, we get back to painting. Her kitchen isn’t overly large, and since we’re not painting the cabinets, of which there are many, it does not take us long to get the first coat up. We share lunch on her screen porch while it dries.

  “So what kind of book would you prefer, heavy steam or low steam?”

  I drop my elbow on to the table and rest my chin on my hand. “This your way of telling me you edit dirty books?”

  She blushes which is a definite yes.

  “I want to read whichever one is your favorite.”

  We finish lunch and head back inside to do the second coat. When we’re finished, it looks great. Sure, it needs to dry, but a coat of paint is always an easy way to change the look of a place. She pulls the tape as I pack the other supplies up.

  “I’m going to go wash the brushes outside.”

  “I’ll come along with you,” she says, following me.

  I use the hose, the overspray getting her legs, making her dance away with a squeal. Painting has never been fun, but somehow with Bethany, it didn’t feel like a chore. We leave the brushes and roller heads outside to dry and head back into the kitchen. There are still things I need to take care of on the farm, so I start to take my leave.

  She stops me, unplugging the tablet and pushing a few buttons. “This eReader has an awesome battery life, so you should be good. The book I want you to read is opened to page one.”

  She goes on to point out how to change the font size if the text is too small.

  “Thank you, Bethany. I look forward to reading this.”

  “Guys who read are sexy.”

  Excuse me?

  Either the room just got warm or I’m blushing. “Good thing I like to read.”

  “I can’t wait to hear what you think of it. Are we still on for dinner Tuesday night?”

  Tucking her eReader under my arm, I grin. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  If she still lives here in six months, I’m so asking her out.

  ***

  This book is hot as hell. I realize I am alone in my cabin, but I still glance around to make sure no one can see that words on a page just gave me a hard-on.

  Words on a page.

  My eyes settle on my alarm clock and nearly pop out of my head. I hadn’t meant to read this late. I’m just having a hard time putting this book down. There’s this guy and a girl who grew up together and fell in love, but some bullshit happened and she left town without a word. He’s still in love with her and sees her again after a few years.

  I need to go to sleep but I’m still reading to try and find out why she left in the first place. Every time they’re together, you can tell they just want to tear each other’s clothes off. Sexier than what I was expecting. The digital glow of my clock catches my eyes again and I turn off the eReader. There’s a ton of work I need to do tomorrow so I have to get some sleep.

  Even though I’m not running at one hundred percent, the next day I carry Bethany’s eReader around with me. Every chance I have a couple free minutes, I pull it out and read. I’d like to be able to finish it before our dinner tomorrow night.

  “What do you have there?” Bess asks, peeking over my shoulder.

  I pass the eReader to her. “It’s a book Bethany wanted me to read.”

  “And you can read on this thing.” She moves the eReader back and forth from her face, squinting at it.

  I shrug as she hands it back to me. “It’s nice for reading without a light. It’s got one built right in.”

  She shakes her head. “I like the feel and smell of a book. There’s nothing like turning an actual page.”

  There’s no point in arguing with her, so I give her a small smile and nod.

  “When are you seeing Bethany again?”

  Without even meaning to, I glance in the direction of her farmhouse. It’s too far to actually see from where I’m currently sitting, but no matter where I am on my land, I know where her house is in relation. She’s west, just like the
setting sun.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Are you gonna quit sniffing around her and ask her out already?”

  My jaw drops and it takes me a moment to respond. “I’m not a dog, Bess, and I’m just being neighborly.”

  She snorts, and then chuckles at my raised brow. “Neighborly my rear. You like her and you’re being silly for not telling her how you feel.”

  I take a deep breath. “You know not everyone is cut out for farm life. She grew up in a big city. I’m partly waiting to see if she’ll stay.”

  Her hand comes to rest gently on my shoulder, squeezing it. “I was born and raised in a big city too, Beau. I don’t think she’s going anywhere.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with giving it some time to know for sure.”

  Her hand squeezes my shoulder again before she lifts it, and starts walking away.

  She pauses, turning back to look at me. “Sometimes you wait too long and lose an opportunity that you can’t ever get back.”

  I’ve known Bess my whole life. That’s the most melancholy I’ve ever seen her. As far as I know, she’s never married, never had a long-term relationship. I don’t even know what brought her to the farm in the first place. Maybe someday she’ll share her story with me.

  Watching her figure retreat, I can’t help but wonder if my caution toward making a move on Bethany is a mistake. What would be worse, never having a chance to ask her out or doing it too soon and pushing her away instead?

  It’s a question I mull over quite a bit that day and into the next. I’m no closer to knowing what to do than when I started. The few female relationships I’ve had have been initiated on their side. My very first girlfriend was the cousin of the Jacksons, a family who still lived and worked on the farm.

  She came out for a visit the summer I turned seventeen. Angel was nineteen, and looking back, was probably bored staying on the farm. She decided to fill up her free time with being my first everything. By the end of the summer, I was convinced I was in love with her. Unfortunately, that feeling was not mutual and she headed back to college without even looking back.

  In my defense, I was still on the scrawny side back then. After her came my first local girlfriend, Sylvia. This time around, I was twenty and happy to practice all the things Angel had taught me. Again, I was sure I was in love. That was until Sylvia started talking about moving away together. I told her in no uncertain terms that I had no interest is living anywhere else.

  She didn’t even tell me to my face she was moving; she just up and left one day. I had to find out from her mother when I was picking up fertilizer from the farm supply warehouse. The next girlfriend I had, like Bethany, moved out to the country for a change of pace. Her name was Josie and that change of pace only suited her eight months before she got bored and moved back to Atlanta.

  Whatever woman I end up with, if I end up with someone, will have to understand that being a farmer is part of who I am. I enjoy waking up early, except for this morning after staying up too late reading. Most mornings, I’m the first one up and out the door. Being outdoors is where I am most comfortable. Walls, no matter how tall, always seem to close in after a while.

  There’s a hope though, after spending time with Bethany and learning more about her, that maybe she’ll stick around long enough for me to take that chance. Once I’ve finished my work for the day, I head back to my cabin to shower before dinner at Bethany’s. I need a haircut, but otherwise, I clean up nice enough. I wasn’t able to finish the book; work of the farm and needing a good night of sleep took precedence over it.

  Hopefully, that’s okay with Bethany. I’d hate for her to think I wasn’t interested in what she did. I did manage to make it to 68%, or at least that’s what the bar on the bottom of the eReader said. I still have plenty, book-wise, to talk about with her even though I’m not done. I change into a newer pair of jeans and a grey collared t-shirt. It had been a hot week seeing as how summer was fixin’ on moving in.

  It won’t be too long before I’ll be taking evening dips in the pond out by my parents’ cabin to escape the heat. Hell, it might be fun to see if I can talk Bethany into swimming some night. More nervous than I thought I’d be, I leave to head over to her place. When I get there, I see she’s setting up supper outside.

  She looks up as I park and waves. I suddenly feel underdressed in my jeans and t-shirt when I see her in a dress.

  I pass the front door and head straight for the porch, smiling as she opens the door for me. “That’s some dress, Bethany. I feel like I should be taking you somewhere fancy.”

  She looks away quickly, blushing. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

  The table is already set, so I offer to help in the kitchen, but she refuses, telling me it’s all done. It feels foreign not helping her. I sit stiffly, wanting to help her as she starts bringing stuff out.

  Finally, I give up and stand. “Sorry, I gotta help.”

  She shakes her head at me, but doesn’t argue when I take the platter from her. She’s prepared lobster and crab legs. Seafood dishes appear to be her specialty. We don’t eat much seafood on the farm so it’s a nice change.

  Bess usually sends me over with a dessert, and tonight is no different. We’ve finished our main course and are about to have some pecan pie when Bethany jumps out of her chair and runs into the yard.

  “Where are you going?” I laugh, following her.

  Her hair bounces around her face as she glances back at me. “I saw a firefly.”

  Our dessert is forgotten as we race around catching and releasing fireflies.

  Chapter Four

  “Bethany?”

  “I’m in the kitchen. Hurry,” she shouts.

  If there wasn’t water spraying out from under the sink, the sight that greeted me as I rushed into her kitchen would have been funnily similar to our first meeting. Legs, long, pale, freckle-kissed legs, one fine ass encased in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and the rest of Bethany’s body disappearing from sight into the cabinet under her kitchen sink.

  “I can’t turn it off,” she groans.

  I crouch down beside her and tap her thigh. “Let me try.”

  She wiggles out, her green t-shirt soaked and molding to her breasts. She squints at me, probably wondering why I’m staring at her and not trying to shut off the water.

  I quickly duck my head under the sink and go to turn the shut off valve. It’s stuck, maybe rusted, but with sheer force and a layer of skin off my palm, I get it to turn. I’m breathing heavily by the time I move out from under it. Bethany is standing over me, panting and dripping. I can’t deny under different circumstances, I’d love to be making her pant and drip all over again.

  Just thinking of her that way sends blood flowing to my cock. I shift, using my now sore hand as leverage and wince.

  Lifting it to inspect the damage, I’m grateful the pain is killing whatever budding erection I was about to sport until Bethany gasps, “Your hand.”

  Standing, I wave her off. “It’s not that bad. It’s my own damn fault for not putting on a pair of gloves or using a wrench.”

  She ignores my brush off and comes closer, pulling my hand into both of hers, cradling it at she takes a look. She’s so close and is touching me, in a wet shirt. Any pain I’m feeling vanishes as desire returns. Over the past few weeks of getting to know Bethany better, I can’t deny there is something more than a simple attraction going on here.

  I like her. Even when she’s trying to do something harebrained to this old farmhouse, it’s fun to just be around her. More often than not, I’ve found myself gravitating toward her farmhouse, a pull I cannot ignore. Even if she’s working, she’ll save her place and offer me a glass of lemonade and her company. In all my unexpected visits, not once has she seemed anything less than happy to see me.

  Her call to my cell for help is the reason for my visit today. Even when I’m busy on the farm, a call from her makes me stop whatever I’m doing. Bess notices but hasn’t said anyth
ing. She doesn’t have to. She already looks like the cat who ate the canary. When I first met Bethany, I planned to keep any feelings I was developing for her on hold. I’m a farmer. I know a seed takes time and nurturing to take root.

  At first, I planned to wait a year to ask her out and I’ve been reevaluating and lowering that time frame mentally every time I see her. Just two days ago, it was down to two months. Standing here, in this kitchen I helped her repaint a couple of weeks ago, my patience has reached its end. She’s cradling my hand in both of hers. Quietly, flustered since I got hurt, not noticing my other arm snake around her waist until I’ve crushed her body tightly to mine.

  Her hands are still between us, one now pressing against my chest, the other protecting my hand. Her wise eyes are more green than brown, her pretty lips forming an O. Gently, I tug my injured hand from hers and slide it up her back and into her damp hair. Any pain I feel is outweighed by how right her skin feels against mine.

  I keep my eyes locked on hers as I slowly dip my mouth to hers. This way, I know she knows it’s coming. She has plenty of time to stop me. So close I can almost taste her, my eyes drift to her lips and have just enough time to see the corners tilt up before I claim them. Her hands drift up to wrap around my neck. The dampness of her shirt seeping through mine is nothing compared to her firm breasts rubbing against my chest.

  I have no plan in place for this kiss, other than the absolute certainty that I need to put my mouth on hers. Once I have, it becomes another absolute certainty that I need to taste her tongue. When I have, I am absolutely certain I’m not going to stop anytime soon.

  She seems as greedy to consume me as I am for her. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, changing my outlook on patience as she does. Her teeth nip at my lips lighting the spark to my fuse. I only hope, as her hips rock against my very apparent appreciation toward every single thing she is doing, I won’t embarrass myself by blowing a load in my pants. Turning, I lift her and set her onto the counter, my lips never leaving hers.