by Rush, Olivia
Becca moaned in her sleep and scooched closer to me, upping the level of temptation again.
Keep it together. Keep it the fuck together. Do not wake her up with delicious thank-you sex. Do not further complicate an already fucked-up situation.
The more I thought, fuck, the harder I became. It was a recipe for disaster.
Hell, one more romp in the sack wouldn’t hurt anyone, right? We’d already done the damage. We’d already buried ourselves in each other, or rather, I’d done the burying, and she’d done the shaking. What did it matter if we did it again?
I lifted myself on the arm beneath her and used my free hand to trail a path down the side of her neck and over her shoulder. The muted light from the streetlamps outside was barely enough to pierce the curtains, but I could just make her out.
The soft slope of her neck, the lips, puffy and parted slightly, and her eyelids shut, eyes moving behind them. Becca was dreaming.
I worked my fingers down her side and back up again, painting her with an imaginary brush, coloring her body with my desire.
“Doctor,” she muttered in her sleep, and I couldn’t help the wolfish grin in response to that. “Mmm. Doc.”
I held back my mirth and pressed my cock between her ass cheeks instead, continuing my work with my fingers. I planted a single kiss on her shoulder, gentle as the flutter of a fucking bird’s wing, then pinched her ass lightly. “Becca,” I whispered.
Hard or not, I couldn’t slip inside her when she wasn’t awake. I needed to know she wanted it as much as I did first, and moaning “Doctor” in her sleep didn’t count. Shit, she might’ve been dreaming about Looney Toons for all I knew.
“Angelface,” I whispered.
She groaned softly, and rolled onto her stomach, away from me.
I rested my hand on the small of her back and brushed that gently, too. Well, there’s your answer. Definitely for the best. Another round would’ve been amazing, but ill-advised. I gave her a light pat, then rose from the bed and bent, grabbing for what felt like my jeans and shirt in the dark. God knew how long we’d been asleep, but I had work in the morning and my stomach had already started eating a hole through my abdomen.
I began the slow creep toward the door, making as little noise as humanly possible. Becca was clearly pooped from the move and whatever else was on her mind. She needed the sleep.
A light clicked on behind me and threw the open door into sharp relief. I was about an inch from slamming into it.
“What are you doing?” Becca croaked behind me.
I looked back at her, affecting a cheesy grin. “I believe they call it the walk of shame,” I replied. “Though, in my case, I’m inclined to call it the walk of pride. You all right?”
“Yeah.” Becca sat up in bed and brought her knees up, blocking my view of her ample tits, and placing her feet just so, to cover her pussy. She blinked in the light and worked her mouth. “Just thirsty.”
“Want me to get you a glass of water?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she replied. “I do have two legs, two hands, and working muscles, you know. I can get my own glass of water.”
Uh oh. Becca was clearly just as concerned as I was about the repercussions of our little fuckfest. I made quick work of tugging on my jeans and shirt, purposefully averting my eyes as Becca did the same for herself—though she pulled on a robe instead.
After we were done dressing, silence pervaded the space between us, and that same awkward, fucked-up tension was back. Christ, the sex hadn’t dissolved it. The connection—don’t start with that shit.
“So,” I said and shrugged. “Guess I’ll head home. I’ve got work tomorrow, and you said you had interviews, right?”
“That’s right.” Becca nodded, curls bopping along. Gorgeous still, even with a little mascara smudge under her right eye and pillow creases on her cheek.
Another span of quiet.
Fuck this. “All right,” I said. “Let’s talk.”
“We don’t need to talk.”
“Becca, you’re so quiet I can hear your fridge making ice downstairs,” I replied. “Clearly, you’ve got something on your mind. Spill it.”
“Do you always get people to do what you want them to?”
“Glad you noticed,” I said, with a wave of my hand, egging her on. “Spill. You’re concerned because you just met me, I’m your next-door neighbor, and we fucked. Sorry, my bad—we had the most mind-blowing session of sex you’ve ever experienced.”
“Humble much?”
“Truthful,” I replied. “Even you can’t deny that what just happened was something…else.”
“Eloquent.”
“Do you have any other adjectives you’d like to pin on me? Sexy? Unforgettable?”
“Obnoxious,” Becca replied and pointed at me, the corners of her lips twitching.
“Gorgeous.” I grinned at her. “That’s you, not me. Seriously, let’s talk. You’re freaked because we fucked, I get it. I’m not here to mess up your plans. I’m just the friendly neighborhood carpenter.”
“Who’s also a doctor,” she put in.
“More adjectives?”
“That was a noun,” she replied, and the smile broke through in full now. It faded a second later, and she cleared her throat, once and then once more. “OK, I guess I’m just not interested in having my heart dragged backward through a field of broken glass again. And something about you tells me that there’s a high possibility that might happen if I let you any closer. Or let you, um, inside me again.”
“Now, see? There’s where you’re wrong. You’re not looking for anything serious because of the heart-dragging issue, right? I’m not either. So, we’re good,” I said.
“Good,” Becca said and huffed a sigh, tucking her hands into her pockets. “That’s good. But this still won’t ever happen again. For you and for me. For us, you know? It’s too risky.”
Who the hell hurt you? She wasn’t even willing to risk casual sex because she was afraid of what it might lead to. It was wise on her part, and I had no interest in being anything more than casual, but this was—she was hurt. Some son of a bitch had hurt her, and it made every protective part of me puff up and roar.
“All right,” I said. “Deal.” I stuck out my hand.
She regarded it for a second, then took it. “No more sex. Just—casual friendship.”
“Better keep the word casual out of it.” I grinned as we shook, her hand tiny and soft against my calloused palm. “You still need my help with the house.” It wasn’t a question.
“You said one weekend, right? The weekend’s over. I’ll figure it out on my own, Mason, you don’t have to—”
“There’s no ‘have to’ about it,” I replied. “I want to. I’ll be here to help you, Becca, that’s a promise I already made. Unless it’ll be too difficult for you to see me working shirtless.”
“Sheesh, did I mention obnoxious already?”
I chuckled. “I’d better get home. Work tomorrow.”
“Right.” She tucked her hand back into her pocket. “Right. Thanks for…everything.”
“Anytime you need me,” I said, “I’ll be here. Listen, you don’t have to walk me out, you get back in bed and languish. I think I’ll manage.” I didn’t give her a chance to object before I was striding out of the bedroom and down the hall, down the stairs up which I’d carried her, out the front door against which we’d almost fucked. I made straight to my Dodge, breathing like a winded rhinoceros. My dick was hard again.
Even memories of her drove me wild. What the fuck would it be like helping her fix this place up in my spare time? I’d have to use every ounce of self-control to keep from shredding the clothes off her body and feasting on her again.
I made the short drive home then unlocked my house, flicked on the lights, and sighed. The hallway was full of half-packed boxes. A job I needed to finish by the end of the month—when my replacement at the practice was due. I needed to hire a moving van, too.
&
nbsp; It wasn’t an insurmountable task, but I couldn’t find the motivation to follow through. Which was weird, given that all I’d wanted since the divorce was to get out of this damn town.
I shut the front door and traipsed past the boxes into the kitchen and set about fixing myself a sandwich, banishing thoughts of packing and summoning up naked Becca instead. The images were a welcome distraction.
My phone pinged in my pocket, and I frowned, fishing it out.
“Thanks for what you did.” It was a text from Becca. No hearts or emojis or any of that other shit, just the words. I tilted my head and read it again, grinning.
“Like I said, angelface, anytime.” I sent it off, nodding to myself. Angelface was the perfect name for her.
Another text blipped through and I opened it, anticipation building in my gut. I tamped down on it hard—she didn’t want sex, and I didn’t want complications. I’d have to keep reminding myself.
“We nd 2 tlk.”
I blinked at the text then read who it was from. Cold water doused any fucking flame I’d held a second ago. It was from Tabitha. My ex. What the hell? She knew better than to text me after what she’d done. She knew better than to come within a few feet of me, for fuck’s sake.
“Bby pls. Thnk we made a huge mstake. <3”
One of my pet peeves was text communication without real fucking words, and she goddamn knew it. Tabby had never given a shit about anyone but herself. I deleted the texts, blocked the number, then placed the cell on the kitchen counter and returned to my sandwich-making.
Bottom line, Rebecca was right. Life was too damn complicated for us to get involved. The sex had been a perfect mistake, one we couldn’t repeat again.
No matter how much we wanted to.
Chapter 8
Rebecca
“I would totally wish you luck, but I know you don’t need it. Those small-town diners aren’t going to know what hit ’em when you walk through the door,” Peggy said.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I replied, though none of what my sister had said did anything to dull the nerves that bubbled through my belly. “An interview’s an interview though, and—” I cut off to yawn and picked up my mug of coffee from the kitchen counter.
I was already done with this Monday morning. It’d taken ages to fall asleep after Mason had left the night before, simply because I couldn’t get him off my mind. The smell of him on the sheets, his sharp cologne, and the underlying scent of his skin had driven me half-crazy most of the night.
“Was that a yawn?” Peggy asked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get enough beauty sleep last night. If you weren’t sleeping, then why didn’t you answer my calls?”
This was what I got for having sex with Hotty Doc McNext-Door Pants. A sister who could smell gossip in the air like a shark could smell blood in the water and exhaustion on what was probably the most important day since I’d moved to Stoneport.
“Becky? Answer me.”
“Peg—I—uh, you know I’ve got to go soon, right?”
“Oh ho. Oh. Oh my. Oh yes, you’re hiding something. My sister senses can feel it.”
“Your Spiderman impression is totally off,” I replied and walked from the kitchen through to the dusty living room. I’d already emptied it of our grandparents’ stuff, simply because it’d been old and worn. Now, the empty space was my morning sanctuary. I set the cup of coffee on the mantel and checked my watch. “I’ve got to go in like five minutes, sis. I’ve got a busy day ahead.”
“I know that. Why do you think I’m calling? And my Spiderman is totally on point, thank you very much. Clearly, you haven’t seen the latest Avengers movie—”
“Spoilers!” I yelped.
“Anyway, don’t think you can throw me off the scent so easily. You didn’t answer any of my calls yesterday. You missed our Sunday catch-up, and that’s a crime punishable by family law. You’ve got to have a good reason for it.”
“Nope. I was just busy.”
“With what?” Peggy sniffed on the other end of the line. “That hot doctor guy? Your neighbor. You were busy with him, weren’t you? I’m right. I’m totally right. I can hear it in the way you’re breathing right now. You’re doing that weird nasal huffy thing with your nose.”
“Peg, I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Rebecca Starr. Don’t you think I won’t just—”
I hit the red button before she could launch into her volley of sisterly threats. I didn’t need this right now. I had to keep my head clear of Doctor Dunn and his abs and the tattoos on his well-formed pecs. Tribal swirls, and an image of a dragon.
Great job, by the way. Not like you’re obsessing over them right now, or anything.
I left my coffee cup on the mantel and trudged through to the entrance hall. I’d hung a mirror over the table there, and I checked my reflection in it, nitpicking over my interview outfit. No more cutoff shorts or camisoles—casual home-wear was out. Today, I’d chosen a sleeveless cotton blouse and a pair of smart tailored pants. Shoot, I’d even slapped on more makeup than just mascara.
I’d likely die of heatstroke by midday, but it’d be worth it if it meant I landed a job as a chef at one of these diners. I lifted my bound and printed resume from the entrance hall table, then slung my handbag over my shoulder and gave myself a nod. “You got this, bitch. Let’s go.”
I hurried out of the house, then turned to lock the door.
A bit of paper flapped in my face as I did. I frowned and pinned it flat to the wood.
You look beautiful today.
I haven’t seen you yet, but I know it’s the damn truth because you’ve looked beautiful every day since I met you.
Just a pick-me-up. Or maybe, a pick-you-up. Badum tsss. That was a drumroll in case that wasn’t clear enough for you.
Stay golden.
Your Secret Admirer.
My heart pounded against the inside of my ribcage. I removed the page from the door, grinning as I read it again, two more times. It had to be from Mason. I hadn’t exactly forged any close relationships with anyone else in the town.
Heck, I hadn’t even met another man, unless I counted Troy, the old carpenter.
“Cute,” I muttered and shook my head, a blush creeping up my throat. Cute and a distraction. I tucked the note into my handbag and took out the little pad and pen I always carried with me, just for fun.
I scribbled something back then hurried to my beat-up VW and chug-chugged down the road to Mason’s house. I slipped the note into his mailbox then hurried back into the car and turned it around, trying but failing to focus on the day ahead and the importance of it.
If I didn’t get a job, at least something to pay electricity bills and basic costs of living, I was pretty much screwed. I still had some savings left to work with for the next little while, but the sooner I could start working—and potentially saving a few bucks on the side—the better. I’d be able to open my bed and breakfast, or even a restaurant.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled up outside the Dirty Rice Diner. The place had a quaint vibe, with lights hanging from the overhang, tables out on the grass in front, and customers already seated on wooden benches, chowing down on the dishes of the day. A specials board leaned up against the side of the building, decrying dishes that made my stomach rumble.
Smothered Pork Chops. Jambalaya. Creole Baked Chicken.
I licked my lips, cut the engine, and mentally prepped myself. It’d be fine. This place looked great and super friendly. The owner would be just as friendly, and I’d charm him or her with my resume.
These nerves? They weren’t me. Or at least the “me” I’d been before the incident. Now, the thought of getting back in a restaurant kitchen gave me the shakes, but it was a fear I had to overcome.
I banged my fist against the steering wheel to pump myself up, and the horn sounded once.
Every customer at the tables outside jumped or spun around to stare at me.
“Great s
tart, Becky.” I slipped out of the car and raised a hand to the diners. “Sorry,” I called out. “My mistake.” Slowly, they returned to their meals, some of them clicking their tongues or shaking their heads.
I grabbed my resume, locked up the car, and walked through the open gate and into the garden, winding my way past tables and delightful smells. If I got the job, I’d totally fit in here. Adding a little personal flair to some of these traditional dishes would be awesome.
Inside, the atmosphere was just as cheerful, with a long countertop at the front and stools sitting in front of it. At the back, an open window granted me a view of the cooks working away in the kitchen. One rang the silver bell and called out, “Order up!”
A woman hurried forward to take the order—a plate of fried chicken—and whisked it past me and out the door.
I strode forward and halted in front of the register, where a woman stood patting away at the keys. She wore her hair big and red, piled in a cone on top of her head, with matching lipstick. Her name tag read Flo.
“Hi,” I said. “I’d like to speak to the owner of this establishment. My name is—”
“Hon, we all already know what your name is.” The voice didn’t come from Flo, who’d only given me a cursory glance, but from a woman sitting at the counter.
“Huh?” I asked, blinking at her.
“We already know what your name is,” she repeated and fluffed her blonde Barbie doll curls. That was what she looked like. Perfect—a Barbie doll in the sense that she was straight up and down, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and in proportion in every way. Apart from her chest—she sported a pair of knockers that would’ve given Dolly Parton a fit of the envies.
“You do.” I glanced between Barbie-lady and Flo. “How?”
“News travels fast around here, isn’t that right, Flo?”
“That’s right.” Flo pushed off from the register and wandered off down the counter, toward the kitchen window.
