by S. A. Wolfe
“Are you sure? You can stay here for a while; we can just talk,” I whisper, wondering what I am opening myself up to.
“I can’t do that.” He sits on the edge of the bed with one leg on the floor, but he doesn’t pull his hands away from my grasp.
“You can’t talk?” I’m completely taken by his hulking physique coupled with his forlorn expression cast in the shadowed light.
“Emma, I can’t talk to you while you’re in that little nighty and… not want to do other things.” He actually reaches across me and grabs a pillow and then rests it on his lap to cover his bulging erection.
I would laugh, yet I don’t want him to leave.
“I have an idea.” I jump off the bed, grab my robe off the door hook and wrap myself in the oversized, thick terrycloth that covers all exposed parts of my body in a very unflattering way. Then I grab the giant, decorative bed pillows from the floor and line them up down the center of the bed. “There,” I say. “You get on that side of the bed, and I’ll stay over here.”
“That doesn’t work for me. I know what you have on under that robe, and I’ve already kissed you, so a few pillows are not going to deter the temptation.” His voice is deep and rather somber.
“Dylan.” I almost sound like I am pleading, which is not my intention.
“Get some sleep,” he says, standing up. He tosses the pillow on the other side of the bed and strides quickly out of the room.
Oh, damn. Damn him. Damn Robert. Damn everything.
Why couldn’t this job come with a fat, balding, funny guy instead of Dylan? On top of my uncertain feelings for him, I have to figure out what to do about Robert. I have to call my parents and discuss this new wrinkle in our plan of me starting over somewhere new and their focus on selling their business and moving to Florida. I don’t want to deal with Robert anymore, though. I want to spend more time with Dylan and figure out why he is giving me pretty butterflies in my stomach while Robert started giving me sickening goose bumps, the kind that make you realize you can’t be with someone anymore.
***
I am showered and dressed, drinking coffee from the pot Dylan has left for me, when he arrives back from his run. He is wearing what looks like biker shorts and he is taking his t-shirt off as he comes through the back kitchen door. Egads. I get to watch him half-naked again. He doesn’t notice that I am sitting at the little two-chair, kitchen dinette set, working on my laptop—observing him.
“Oh, hey,” he says when he finally realizes I am across the room.
“Morning. Thanks for the coffee.”
“We offer more than coffee at Chez Leo. I’m going to take a quick shower and then I’ll make you breakfast.”
He tosses his shirt over his shoulder and walks towards me. He has no choice since it’s the only way out of the kitchen. It’s a struggle to drag my bulging eyes back to my computer screen.
“You could run your own little bed and breakfast here,” I joke. “People sure would get a lot of sleep.” I click my tongue.
He stops at my wobbly little table.
“I barely slept at all last night.” His tone is firm. “Besides, I like having one guest.”
I glance up at him and his mouth curves slightly before he leaves me alone with those confusing innuendos to ponder.
I’ll over-think this until my head implodes. It’s just as well. I still don’t know how my new boss will react to this situation, and I also have to worry about Robert. Was he just stopping by to say hello and be on his way? Yes, rich, handsome lawyers always drive their luxury cars out to the dusty boondocks to give a friendly howdy to ex-girlfriends.
Dylan returns in loose fitting jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt, looking happy. Maybe he just jerked himself off in the shower. I have no idea what’s come over Mr. Split Personality this morning. In the last twelve hours, he’s kissed me like he wanted more, then he begged off, and now here he is all sunshiny again. Regardless, I sure love looking at him.
I am glad I put myself together this morning. Even if it did take a lot of effort to blow out my hair with the low-wattage hair dryer I found under the bathroom sink. I am assuming it is one of Lauren’s old cast-offs. I wanted that salon look and my arm started to ache holding the ancient hair dryer that only blew semi-warm air. I had no choice with wardrobe since the only other outfit I brought to Dylan’s house is a pair of low-rise jeans and a dressy, green t-shirt that has a ruffled, scoop neckline, showing a little bit of cleavage. I’ve been told the green looks nice against my dark features. I hope that’s what has put Dylan in his good mood.
“What are you working on?” he asks. “Picking up more assholes and perverts online?”
You would think he’d crack a smile at his own joke. He doesn’t, though.
“No. I don’t need to pick anyone up. They come to me.” Oh, great, here comes my stupid banter I usually reserve for when I am drinking at a bar.
“Oh, do they now?” He raises an eyebrow and puts a hand on the back of my chair and the other on the table to lean down to see my computer.
“I’m looking at the sales revenues of a few competitors and comparing where their peaks are geographically.” I try to sound very serious even though his cheek is a couple inches from mine, and he has just activated the marshmallow fluff machine churning inside of me.
“Hmm.” His eyes flick from the screen and back to me, then down to my lips and back up to my eyes. The marshmallow machine is shooting fluff everywhere. He better kiss me or move the hell away. His lips part as if he’s considering just that.
“Breakfast?” I end the nonsense.
He stands up. “Yeah, coming right up.”
“Good, ‘cause one of the appeals of this ramshackle B&B is the food.”
“One? What’s the other?” he asks, smiling.
“The scrumptious bed.”
“Ah, yeah, okay.” He smiles and starts gathering the food and pans to cook for me.
I find this to be amazing—the way he works his way around the kitchen with a natural confidence—although I suppose any big guy who benches a gazillion pounds a day looks more innocent and endearing when he is whipping up eggs and setting the table in a homey kitchen. I move my computer to the pool table in the dining room and pretend to be working very diligently.
“Come and eat,” Dylan calls loudly.
I return to my seat at the kitchen table and he places an omelet in front of me with freshly chopped tomatoes, basil, and a side of toast.
“Oh, shit,” he exclaims. “Do vegetarians eat eggs?”
“This one does.”
“Aren’t they part of the meat group on the food pyramid?”
“Most likely.” I take a forkful of the cheesy omelet. “I eat eggs and dairy. I just have some type of aversion to animal flesh. My mother says it started when I was four and connected the dots between my chicken nuggets and the chicken in my toy farm set.” I shrug.
“So you like it?” He watches me intently before starting on his own food.
“It’s excellent,” I answer with a mouthful of food.
“Good. The first two meals are on the house. After that, you owe me.”
“I don’t even know how to take it when you say things like that. Are you joking or are you expecting…”
“I’m joking, Emma,” he says softly.
He digs into his food and polishes it off before I can even finish half of mine. Well, he did run a gazillion miles, so he should have a voracious appetite. I even like watching him eat; the way his strong jaw jerks, and the way he devotes himself thoroughly to the food without talking.
I help clear the table and Dylan washes the dishes while I dry and stack them on the counter.
“See? You can work off your rent,” he says, taking my dishrag and snapping it against the counter.
“Seriously? There you go again.”
“What?”
“I can work off my rent?” I am hoping he says I can pa
y him in kisses because I think I would be really good at that.
“I’m joking. Jesus, woman, I meant you can do dishes, not—oh, forget it.”
Wrong answer, Dylan.
“Let’s go get my stuff.” I grab the towel from him and snap it hard against his butt.
“Hey,” he grins, “you’re a good shot.”
“You have no idea,” I mumble.
***
When we take Dylan’s Jeep Wrangler to my cottage, he drives like a lunatic. Not the best description for a guy who actually did time in a mental health rehab, but there is no other apt description for his high speed turns with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. I grip the door handle and my seatbelt like someone who is about to be accidentally ejected from a fighter jet. I have no idea what that’s like, however I imagine it’s horrifying. I didn’t experience this on Dylan’s Harley—hugging him and not being able to see what’s in front of me helped there. From now on, I will have to insist on driving if we make any more excursions together.
As we get closer to my rental cottage, we see an SUV parked in front. Oh, craptastic.
“Who’s that?” Dylan asks as he slows down and parks next to the Mercedes.
“It’s Robert,” I answer, and then, as if on cue, Robert walks out from under the shadow of the front door awning.
“You stay here,” Dylan says angrily, whipping off his aviator sunglasses and tossing them on the dashboard before jumping out of the Jeep and slamming his door.
“No, Dylan!” I jump out and catch up to him as he charges towards Robert.
“Hey, beautiful!” Robert smiles at me. He’s dressed impeccably in black tailored pants and a fitted grey shirt. His dark hair is shorter but still long enough that it has that sexy, just-showered look. He’s handsome and he likes to flash megawatt smiles to win people over. It generally works, yet I can see that my maniac roommate is already in berserker mode.
“You!” Dylan points a finger at Robert as he strides towards him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Robert steps back to protect his space, but he doesn’t look too concerned.
“Dylan! Stop!” I pull his arm back.
“What’s going on here?” Robert asks, putting his hands low on his waist and spreading his legs slightly apart as if he’s ready to pounce into a fight position.
Watching males get defensive when all their territorial blood rushes to their cocks is rather humorous. This is when they say and do moronic things. This is also when Robert’s back-up man usually steps in, yet I don’t see anyone else in the vicinity. I also know that Robert is always packing. Since he’s not wearing a suit coat, I assume his gun is strapped to his calf. I am not going to tell Dylan this, though; it will only inflame the situation. Besides, Robert carries the gun, but he doesn’t use it. He is not a trigger-happy guy. He may throw a punch, however he doesn’t pull his gun on people. It’s not his nature. His gun is purely for protection. At least, that’s what I used to tell myself while we dated.
Dylan steps right up to Robert’s face. He’s got a good three inches on Robert and a lot more muscle than Robert’s lean form.
“You broke into her house yesterday. Why the fuck are you here?” Dylan’s anger makes Robert step back a little bit, though not enough to show weakness or fear.
“Emma and I are old friends. Who are you?” Robert keeps his tone very measured as he glares at Dylan.
“I’m her new friend, and I don’t like that you’re breaking and entering.”
“Dylan, let me talk to him,” I say, trying to come between them. I actually have to push against Dylan’s chest with both hands to get him to move back.
“Robert, why are you here?” I hold my palm up behind me as if that will keep Dylan at bay.
“Emma, it’s been a long time. I missed you and wanted to see how you’re doing.” He rakes a hand through his hair and eyes Dylan.
“She was doing fine until she found out you broke into her home,” Dylan snaps.
“That was a little unsettling, Robert. Why didn’t you call me like normal people do?” I inquire.
Robert smiles. “I thought I’d surprise you. You don’t exactly have a real lock on your door. I used a credit card and jiggled it to open it. Baby, anyone could break in.”
I hate that he’s calling me baby in front of Dylan.
“And I noticed your old number doesn’t work.”
Right. I got a new phone for my new life, and Robert is not supposed to be part of this equation, but seeing him brings back a flood of conflicting emotions; the agitation that comes with his circumstances and our recent history as well as the dying spark from our old history. I am done with Robert and acknowledging that makes me sad to think of how our story played out from beginning to end.
“I’ve heard enough.” Dylan moves in front of me to confront Robert. “You need to leave now.”
Robert steps forward, too, and I can see that they are about to do the Neanderthal fight dance. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but I’m here to see Emma.”
“No, not now, Robert. This is a bad time. Dylan and I are moving my stuff out of here today. I don’t have time to talk to you and rehash whatever it is that’s brought you out here.”
Robert’s dark eyes take me in, and I hear Dylan’s breathing escalate above me.
“All right. I understand. How about we meet for lunch or dinner later this week? I’ll swing by your new office and pick you up. We can have dinner up at that Mohonk resort?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dylan says. “I don’t think she wants you here at all.”
“Emma?” Robert’s voice is crisp, a tone I recognize as one he uses when he’s keeping his anger in check.
“Robert, I’ll call you. Maybe next week after I get settled into my job and my new home.”
Dylan puts his arm around my shoulders. “You need to leave now.”
Oh, boy. This won’t help. This is the kind of behavior that makes Robert more determined to win. I know Dylan is trying to help me—I adore him for that—but this is how you turn Robert into your competitor and ensure that he’ll definitely be back.
Robert scoffs. “Fine. Emma, I’ll be in touch soon.” He studies me for a second and then grins.
Please don’t give me a goodbye kiss on the cheek, Robert. That is standard operation for him, and I don’t want him to do that in front of Dylan. Thankfully, instead, Robert walks by me and heads back to his SUV.
I turn to watch him go, and just when I breathe a sigh of relief, he turns around and says, “Emma, you really do look gorgeous. I’m looking forward to catching up. But let’s leave your guard dog at home.”
Before Dylan can think of charging at the three-ton Mercedes, I block him so he rams into my back and I grip his groin and apply a lot of pressure.
“What are you doing?” he grits through his teeth.
“Preventing you from doing something you’ll regret.”
“Jesus Christ, woman, you’re giving me a major boner,” he says with a slight groan.
“That’s the point. With all the blood rushing to Mr. Boner, you won’t have the energy and desire to stop a moving vehicle with your bare fists.
As Robert drives off, I release my hand from Dylan’s crotch. “There, that’s done. It worked out fine. Let’s go pack.”
I turn around and Dylan is partially bowled over, both aroused and angry. “I don’t think I can walk,” he spits out. “What are you doing to me?”
“I’m sorry. It’s the only way I could think of stopping you from doing something stupid.”
“Stupid? You just made a date with that jerk. Why?”
“I didn’t make a date with him. I said whatever I had to say to appease him so he’d leave.”
“He’s going to come back, and when he does, I’m not letting him on the property. And if you had any idea who I really am, you’d know I’m trying real hard to be the pacifist here.
But if he shows up at work, I’m going to beat the shit out of him.”
Nine
Dylan
I am so fucking pissed that she agreed to see that guy again that I throw her belongings into moving boxes she’s had stored in her closet. I grab a bag of yarn and fling it in with the other stuff, causing knitting needles to fly across the room.
“Dylan! Be careful! That’s a blanket I’m working on. You just lost my needles,” she huffs, running across the room to retrieve them. “What’s wrong? I got rid of Robert, didn’t I?”
“You made a date with him.” I want to put my fist through the cheap drywall to get some satisfaction from hitting the shit out of something at this moment.
“Stop calling it a date. I’m going to meet him for lunch and resolve whatever he thinks needs to be said.”
I drop the moving box and rest my forehead and palms against the wall.
“What’s going on?” She stands behind me and puts her hand firmly on my back.
“I’m counting backwards from one hundred with very deep breaths so I can stop the urge to smash my fist through this wall,” I reply angrily.
“Does that work?” Her voice is an octave higher as if she’s afraid I’ll do it.
“We’ll see.” I don’t want her to fear me, to worry that I am a loose cannon. I am supposed to have this under control and know how to deal with these situations when they arise.
“Dylan, it’s not a date, and I wouldn’t put myself in a dangerous situation.”
I take my last deep breath and turn around to face her. “When you do meet him, I’m going to be there. You’re not going without me. That’s the only way I’ll know that you’re safe.”
Emma doesn’t say anything as she scrutinizes my demeanor. I’m not certain what she’s thinking, but I do know that seeing her ex has made me realize I am most definitely dragging her into my life. It’s not because I am ill, either; it’s because I like her. I want to be around her.
I can’t get her knitting crap, books, and Magic 8 ball packed quickly enough. I need her out of here and back at my house. This is exactly how I felt the night before, having her on the back of my bike heading to my home. I knew it then; that I was going to get in deep with her. Even when I was bitching to Carson, I was already gone after almost a week of being lost in her high-pitched laughter with the other people at work, her doe-like eyes, and her razor sharp wit when she gets annoyed with me. From the minute Daisy introduced us, Emma has come at me hard, whether she realizes it or not, and I have thought of no one or anything else since I’ve met her.
