Enflame

by S. Layne

  Mrs. Bartol’s morning wakeup with mimosas and cinnamon rolls left me sated and sleepy.

  It’s really been the perfect weekend.

  If Donovan had been around to see it, to hear our laughter and Mrs. Bartol’s disgusting sex comments, it would have been perfect.

  I’ve had days to think about my overreaction to Donovan’s gift on Friday.

  His words and the pain in his eyes speak more clearly than my doubt and fears.

  I’m lost in the feel of the wood and sandpaper beneath my fingertips and my chest heaving from exertion. It doesn’t seem like it should be difficult, but it can take me hours to prepare the wood to ensure the paint and stain will hold properly.

  My biceps burn and my fingers are numb from the hours I’ve spent sanding wooden planks.

  I’m almost done, taking a moment to wipe the dust from the wood, when lights shine in my driveway, an engine purring quietly as it pulls up to my garage.

  I usually work with the garage door closed, but the fall weather is beautiful—cool and calm—making it easy to work and get fresh air at the same time.

  Turning around, wood plank in my hand and covered in dust up to my elbows, I feel my eyebrows jump high on my forehead as Jeremiah hops out of the back door of the black vehicle in my driveway.

  “Hey,” I say, surprise evident in my voice and expression. I remove the earbuds from my ears and tuck them into my shirt pocket.

  “What did you do? Uncle D has been pissed all weekend and you haven’t been there.”

  “Jeremiah.” My voice is calm and soothing.

  Based on his expression, it’s also completely patronizing.

  “I came home yesterday and you weren’t there. Uncle D told me you left.”

  His chin trembles and anger and sadness battle inside me.

  “Not you.” I reach for the young adult in front of me, who looks completely shattered. “I wouldn’t leave you, Jeremiah.”

  His hands ball into fists. “You already did.”

  I shake my head. “We had a fight. It’s adult stuff, but I’ll always be here for you. Donovan should have told you that.”

  He scoffs, looks past me at my workbench, and his eyes narrow.

  Wretched guilt curdles in my stomach like sour milk.

  “Jeremiah,” I say again, my voice still quiet. I move to him like he’s an injured animal. And he is, just in kid form. “I’m so sorry if we hurt you. But our fight had nothing to do with you.”

  He rolls his eyes and I try again.

  “It was really my fault,” I admit. “Donovan did something and I took it the wrong way. I plan on apologizing.”

  “When?” His head snaps to mine. “Because he’s being a jerk again and I don’t like it.”

  “Soon.” I watch his tight shoulders loosen a little bit.

  With a slight jerk of his head, I know he’s forgiven me—know he believes me.

  Slowly, he walks toward the bench where I’ve been working. Almost reverently, his hand reaches out and slowly trails along the wood. “It’s smooth.”

  I watch him for a moment before I join him, standing next to him as he glances at the words I have printed out on a simple scratch piece of paper.

  My lips pull into a gentle smile. “It is. I need to brush it off, wipe it clean, and then I start painting.” I nudge him with my shoulder, getting his attention. “Want to stay and help me?”

  He glances at Bentley…in the Bentley, and looks up at me. “Can I?”

  “Of course.”

  For the next hour, I teach Jeremiah how to use the brushes and rags to finish prepping the wood. Then after showing him how to carefully stencil the words, I stand back and watch him work.

  He’s precise with his movements, and intentional. It makes me smile when he sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth and his brow furrows in concentration.

  He looks so much like Donovan that it makes my heart hurt.

  “I think we’re about done for the night,” I say once he’s stenciled the final word.

  He sets his brush down, and both of us are silent for a moment while we read the deep navy-painted words: Smile often. Forgive easily. Love freely.

  “It’s kinda lame,” he mutters, his lips fighting a smile.

  I bump his shoulder with mine. “I know. It’s a girl thing.”

  Handing him a rag to clean off his hands, I take one too, and nod toward the car that’s been waiting for him. I thought about inviting Bentley to join us, but if he was content sitting in the car for an hour, I decided to let him so Jeremiah and I could have this time together.

  “You probably have to get home and get ready for school tomorrow.”

  His eyes sparkle with something. “Yeah. New school tomorrow.”

  “What?” I ask, dropping my rag. “What do you mean?”

  Jeremiah nods like it’s unimportant. Then he shrugs. “Uncle D said I could go to the public school starting this week. Basketball starts soon and I want to try to make the team.”

  “You need some help practicing?”

  He scoffs at me, but I watch as he takes note of the basketball hoop next to my driveway. I don’t play often, but I used to love it, and sometimes when I’m bored or in need of some exercise, I still practice my layup drills and free point throws.

  “Like a girl could beat me,” he says, full of mirth and cockiness too old for a young teenager.

  I laugh and toss my arm around his shoulder. “You’ll eat your words someday soon.”

  He rolls his eyes but sobers when Bentley sees us headed toward the car. He climbs out of the driver’s seat to open Jeremiah’s door.

  “Master J,” he says, tipping his head and pressing his lips together.

  I chuckle as Jeremiah scoffs.

  “I’ll see you soon, okay?” I tell him as he slides into the backseat. “And we’ll finish the sign if you want.”

  “Sure. Whatever. It’s not like it’s that important.”

  But I catch his gaze on my garage as he says it and my heart aches. I’ve damaged a relationship we were building by taking off this weekend, and while I know it can be repaired, I hate that we’ve taken two steps back. I genuinely care for this young man.

  Nodding goodbye, I shut his door and then look at Bentley.

  He’s dressed as casually as he always is, in perfectly pressed khakis and a white button shirt. “Can you help me with something while I’m at work tomorrow? I know it’s not your job,” I say, hoping I’m not overstepping my bounds.

  “My job is to help you and Jeremiah in whatever capacity you need, Miss Merchant.”

  “Talia.” I smile.

  He nods.

  Nodding toward the garage, I ask, “Can you bring my workbench and a few other things to Donovan’s? I’d like to be there to help Jeremiah finish the sign.”

  And a part of me hopes that Donovan will accept my apology and allow me to continue staying there for a few more weeks. I’d like to be there to help Jeremiah adjust to his new school and repair the things I’ve broken this weekend.

  “Certainly.” Bentley nods and we begin walking toward the front of the car.

  “Thank you. I’ll have everything I need set on the workbench. It won’t be much, but I appreciate it.”

  “It’s not a problem.” He gives me a kind smile, and in a way that I assume is uncharacteristic of him, he reaches out and places his hand on my forearm. I look down at his touch and then at his kind blue eyes. “And now, if I’m not overstepping my bounds, I would like you to know that Mr. Lore has been truly horrific this weekend. He misses you greatly.”

  My throat swells with unnamed emotion and I swallow thickly. “I hope to fix that tomorrow.”

  He smiles, fine lines appearing around his lips and his eyes, and I almost want to lean into him and have him wrap his arms around me. He reminds me of a kind uncle that I never had. But I love how he seems to genuinely not only love his job, but caring for Donovan and Jeremiah.

  “Very well, then. Goodnight,
Talia.”

  I smile as he uses my first name for the first time unprompted, and tip my chin goodnight. I stand in the driveway, watching the car pull away until the rear lights have faded from my view.

  Back in the garage, I clean up my mess, preparing everything to be moved tomorrow.

  And when I’m done, showered and dressed for bed, I close my eyes and dream of Donovan.

  Sweet dreams where he forgives me. Where our past is inconsequential.

  Where he pleads for my love and my trust and desperately wants me to be with him.

  And then I dream of love that feels more important, more necessary, than the daytime sun.

  How it warms me from the inside out as he slides inside of me, his fingers and tongue and cock bringing me to overwhelmingly emotional and physical orgasms…over and over again.

  “What are you doing here?” Donovan’s voice is hesitant, but his lips quirk into a slight smirk that says he’s not altogether unhappy to see me.

  My lips roll together and I take a fortifying breath. I thrust a plastic-covered pie container toward him, and he reaches out, grabbing it before it hits his chest.

  “What’s this?” He looks down and then up at me, our eyes meeting—his a warm green filled with amusement, mine tremulous.

  “Um.” I lick my dry lips and suck my bottom one in between my teeth when Donovan’s eyes drop and watch the movement.

  His chest expands and those warm eyes change. Darken.

  When his eyes meet mine again, something flips and warms deep in my belly in the best way possible.

  “Humble pie.”

  His lips twist, lines crinkling at the edges of his eyes. “And what does that taste like?”

  His rich, deep voice sends a pleasured sensation down my spine, straight to the area between my thighs.

  Humble pie is well…humiliating. I hate admitting when I’ve been wrong.

  I shrug, lips pulling to the side. “Cherries?” It’s more of a question than an answer.

  Donovan’s grin spreads wide and easy. He takes a step back, opening the door further. “Get inside, you pain in my ass.”

  I take the final step, shaking in my gray stiletto ankle boots, and smooth invisible wrinkles out of my tunic top at my waist.

  “Thank you,” I say when I think I can speak without a trembling voice. It works—barely.

  Donovan simply nods once, questions in his eyes, and leads me toward the kitchen.

  “Did you make this?” he asks. He slides the container onto the counter and takes off the top, inhaling the rich aroma of freshly baked pie.

  “I did.”

  “It smells delicious. Join me for some?”

  My eyebrows knit together as I watch him move about his kitchen as if we hadn’t argued the last time we saw each other. That I hadn’t essentially called him a pimp and thrown a gift back in his face.

  “Donovan,” I whisper, walking toward the counter. “Don’t you think we should talk?”

  His hand stills for a brief moment before he scoops two pieces of pie onto two bright blue plates. “I think we should have dessert first.”

  He turns to me, looking at me over his shoulder, and his gaze slowly slides down my body and back up again. Nodding once, as if by simply scanning my body he’s come to a conclusion of an unspoken manner—a scan I still feel even when he’s done looking—one side of his lips rises. “Yes. Dessert first.”

  He slides a plate across from him on the counter and I take the silent cue to take a seat on a bar stool and join him.

  “Mmm,” he murmurs over a mouthful of freshly baked pie, his eyes locked on mine.

  My spoon freezes as it reaches my lips. That sound.

  It steals my breath, and I feel my panties grow damp.

  Feeling a heat creeping up my neck, I force my attention back to my cherry pie. It’s delicious—and a recipe from Mrs. Bartol, who has declared that it will not only melt in your mouth, but make any man melt at your feet.

  Based on Donovan’s lust-filled eyes as he continues eating, I suspect she’s not wrong.

  When he’s finished eating, wiping away a morsel of cherry sauce from one edge of his lips, he slides his plate to the side, leans forward, and braces his forearms on the counter. “You ran.”

  I focus on my pie like it’s a lifeline. I can’t think straight when Donovan sets those eyes…that voice…on me in this way. Everything inside me feels warm and tingly, which is not entirely unwelcome.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

  “Forgiven.”

  My head snaps up and I meet his gaze, his lips pulled into a wide smile. He looks so relaxed, so thrilled. There is no hint of the anger or horrific personality I have heard he was displaying over the weekend.

  Is it possible that my presence calms him this much? Makes him this happy?

  I shake off the thought.

  “That easily?” I arch a brow and slide the last bite of cherries into my mouth.

  Donovan’s eyes dip, an intense expression in them as he follows my movement. “No,” he finally says, shaking his head. “Not that easily.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come with me.” He extends his hand as he walks around the corner of his kitchen bar and waits until I slide off my stool to meet him. My hand slides into his as if it belongs there, and electricity slides smoothly up my arms when his fingers wrap around my palm.

  “Where’s Jeremiah?” I ask as he leads me into his living room. “He told me he was starting a new school today.”

  Donovan’s lip twitch into a grin. “Yes, the sneaky little guy told me he saw you last night.”

  “He was really angry with me.”

  I don’t know what my voice betrays, but in a second Donovan has spun around and wrapped our entwined hands around me so they’re resting at the small of my back, and his other hand cups my cheek. “Hey,” he says soothingly. His thumb caresses my cheek tenderly and I lean in. I can’t help it. I love this man, even if loving him terrifies me. “He’ll get over this. He was already in a much better mood when he returned last night.”

  “You knew where he went?”

  He rolls his eyes in an arrogant I-know-everything gesture. “Bentley called me while you were working in the garage. Until then, no, I didn’t know, but I knew he was with Bentley so I also wasn’t worried. Usually he just takes off on foot.”

  He walks me forward, keeping his hands on me until we’re in front of his couch. His hands release me only to slide to my hips, and then he pulls me down so I’m sitting on his lap, my legs draped over his thighs, my back against the armrest.

  His arms wrap around me and he smirks. “Now you can’t get away.”

  When I’m in his arms like this, my shoulder against his and feeling his breath against my neck, I don’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

  “So where is he now?”

  “Bentley took him shopping. Apparently all of his clothes weren’t cool enough for public school.”

  He rolls his eyes like he’s put out by this, but I hear the affection in his tone.

  “That was really nice of you, letting him change schools.”

  “Yes, well, it’s occurred to me in the last several weeks that a lot of things around here need to change. Apparently,” he says, arching one brow teasingly, “I’m quite the control freak, and it’s been brought to my attention that not everyone appreciates the gesture.”

  I flush crimson and look down at my hands in my lap.

  His thumb grazes my chin and he tilts my head back so I’m forced to look him in the eye.

  “I want to take care of you, Talia. I want to make up for when I hurt you years ago. That’s all that gift was. By making your father’s life better, giving him the best therapy I possibly can, I make your life easier.”

  Tears burn in my nose and I can’t stop them before they fill my eyes and spill over.

  “Don’t cry,” he murmurs, brushing them away with his thumb.

  “It just…” I
sniff and disgustingly wipe my nose. “It scared me. I don’t know what this is between us, and I’m not used to people helping me.”

  He cups my cheeks and brushes his lips against my forehead. “This is our second chance, Talia. I want it. I want you. I want you in my house, in my life, in Jeremiah’s, and I want us to make up for all the time we’ve missed. I know I messed that up, but helping your dad wasn’t about making you indebted to me.” He pauses and I feel the swell of his chest against me as he inhales a breath. “It was about me showing you how much I love you. How much I always have.”

  My heart thumps painfully inside my chest. Love me?

  My eyes must widen at the admission, but my breathing has faltered and I’m frozen in his arms.

  He licks his lips and brushes them against mine. Magically, his slight touch restarts my heart. I lean forward, needing more.

  “Tell me you feel the same.”

  With his hands pulling me toward him, I can feel his arousal growing beneath him, pressing into the area between my thighs.

  I can’t think, much less speak.

  “Talia,” he whispers, “tell me.”

  “I do. I love you. I always have, but it’s scary this time.” I pull away, collecting my thoughts and my breath at the same time. “You still have Cassandra.”

  He scowls, as if the reminder of his wife disgusts him.

  It does the same for me, throwing an icy chill over a heated, romantic moment. But it can’t be helped.

  He opens his mouth to speak, but I quiet him by pressing my finger over his lips.

  “I can’t be that other woman. Even if it’s a technicality, even if it’s a matter of weeks. I can’t do that…be that person anymore.”

  His lips part, and I move my finger when his hand reaches up and clasps around my wrist. His tongue darts out and swirls around my finger before he sucks it into his mouth.

  My fingertip is apparently connected to my clit, because everything begins heating and pulsing as my shocked eyes stay fixed on his lips. His tongue. His warm grip on my skin.

  He pulls my finger from his mouth with a pop.