Fearsome (13 page)

“What happened to Dylan the playboy? I heard you really got around in college.”

“That was then, this is now. It’s not like I was a criminal or a junkie. I went out with a lot of women. Don’t judge me by what I did in the past, Jess.”

“Fair enough, but don’t expect me to change my mind because you’ve got a party in your pants.”

He laughs. “Come here.”

I curl back down against him on the couch with my head on his chest and his arms wrapped around me.

My hand rests where his shirt is unbuttoned and I feel his fast heartbeat. I have never been this comfortable and felt this safe with any guy. After being so close to getting naked with Dylan, I am glad to be here now, in our own little web of comfort.

“I could hold you like this all night, Jess,” I feel him kiss the top of my head and I marvel at the sensation of being adored and perhaps being loved in this way by one man forever.

“This is nice, Dylan.”

“Let me know if you do change your mind. I can adapt at a moment’s notice,” he says, sounding sleepy.

Pressed against his very warm body, only separated from his skin by the cotton shirt, I smile at his resolve.

“I know you’re smiling,” he says, his voice dropping an octave with fatigue setting in.

We lie entwined for a while before I hear the soft, labored breaths of him sleeping. The rise and fall of his chest relaxes me and I soon drift off to sleep as well.

Thirteen

As Dylan wakes up early and unfolds himself from me, I reluctantly wake myself up, but stay sprawled on the couch with my tangled hair fanned out around my head.

“You can go back to sleep,” he says. “I have to get to the shop. Carson likes us to start work between six and seven so he can let the other guys off at three to be with their families.”

He puts on his dress shoes and stands up to tuck in his shirt.

“At this hour, you look like a gigolo leaving his one night stand,” I say, admiring how men can pull themselves together in the morning with very little effort. He’s every bit as good-natured a soul at dawn as he is at any other hour.

“You look like a goddess,” he says, smiling.

“You’re sweet, but I know I must look like the whore of Babylon with the breath of Bert.” I cover my mouth with three fingers.

Dylan sits back down and swoops in for a full on kiss. His tongue and hands are on me before I can hold him off. I run my hands through his thick curly hair and the desire in me rises, urging me to finish what we started last night. Dylan’s hand is under my panties and cupping one buttock. When he squeezes, my groin reacts and the little nag inside shouts at me to stop.
If I do this with Dylan, what door do I open? If you have to keep asking yourself that, then you’re not ready.

He’s hard and on top of me again. “Say the word and I can be naked in less than a second,” Dylan says into my neck.

I savor him pressing on top of me, the sexual heat, the fantasy of being naked with him, the longing to feel what it’s like to have him completely, but then I hear Carson.
I don’t want you to break Dylan’s heart.
Damn, damn, damn.

“You stopped,” Dylan says, unlocking his lips from mine and lifting his head to look at me. “What’s wrong? This feels so right. Why aren’t we running up to your bed?”

“As much as I love this, and I do, I…”

“You’re not ready,” he finishes for me. “Is it me or is it a general feeling that you need to wait?”

“It’s a general feeling. It’s too soon.” I know it’s a lie as soon as I say it.

Dylan nods. “Okay, I can live with that.” He gives me a quick peck on the mouth and then stands up to resume his grooming.

I berate myself for not being honest
. I want to sleep with you, Dylan. I want your sexy body, but I want to leave our hearts out of this equation
. I want the sex, but Carson’s words linger with me, his once womanizing brother needs to be treated with care? Why? Why can’t we just have sex with no strings attached?

We let Bert out and he does a wobbly trot to the yard to do his morning poop. I have no idea where he goes and I don’t know if I’m supposed to be cleaning up his piles or if it’s eco-friendly here in the country to leave them.

Barefoot, I walk Dylan to the sports car.

“So are you going to be working all day?” he asks, putting his arms around my waist.

“That’s the plan. I may walk in to town later to pick up groceries.”

“Why not drive?”

“I don’t have a car. Remember, you drove me here.”

“I meant Gin’s car.” He points to the detached garage on the side of the house.

“I assumed those were old horse stables full of junk or something.”

“They were horse stables, but now they hold Gin’s Prius and all the garden equipment. She left you a car. The keys are hanging on a hook inside the pantry. There are extra house keys there, too.”

A smile spreads across my face. “I’ve never had my own car. I’ve had a driver’s license for four years and I’ve probably driven less than a dozen times. It’s too hard to maintain one in the city, but this is great. I have a car! Maybe Bert and I will go for a drive.”

Dylan is beaming. “Then you have to come visit us at the shop. Come see what we do and then I’ll take you to get groceries.”

“All right, I suppose I could come around my noon time break.” Bert returns from his nature call and walks between us, looking at me and licking his jowls.

“Someone is ready to be fed,” Dylan comments.

“Oh, is that what that means? He’s always slobbering around me.”

Dylan kisses me again, a peck only. “I’ll see you soon, around lunchtime. Do you know how to get back to town? Our shop is going to be on the left just as you enter. It says Blackard Designs.”

“Got it. Drive straight down the one road, look to my left.”

“You’re a genius.”

I watch him drive away before Bert and I go inside to make breakfast.

I sit in my bra and underwear and spend the whole morning trying to find one persistent bug in my program. The library is a beautiful, comfortable room. I admire the view from its window and think I could get used to this working environment. A little before noon, I shower and change into a T-shirt and shorts. I put my hair in a high ponytail and grab my purse.

“Come on. Let’s go!” I call to Bert. He scrambles down the stairs with me and follows me out to the garage. I pull open the barn-style door and find the shiny, clean, silver Prius waiting for me. It’s such a rare treat for me, a kick of independence. I back the car out, excited to be driving. Then I jump out and run around the passenger side and open the door for Bert.

“Come on. Get inside. I’m letting you sit up front.”

Bert plants his rump on the ground and all the excitement is drained from his body. I grip his collar and try to lead him, but he won’t budge. It’s like trying to drag a fifty-pound sack of flour. I manage to get him on his feet and move forward about three steps before he grunts and pulls me back six steps.

“This is ridiculous. I thought you’d want to go out on the town with me.” Bert lies down with his head between his paws and looks up at me with dread.

“Fine. You stay here. Back inside!” I point to the house. He charges back to the house, gleeful he won the battle. I let him back in the front door and then jog back to my car.

It’s not too difficult to find my way back to the town. The dirt road from my house leads to the main road that goes right through Hera. I pull over when I see the black metal sign for Blackard Designs. It looks like a renovated barn with a glass front so people can see not only the furniture, but also the craftsmen at work. I park along the side of the building next to Dylan’s Jeep.

When I enter the modern, industrial-looking shop there’s a receptionist desk up front made of metal and wood. To the left of it is a large showroom with finished furniture displayed in various settings. On the right side is the work area. Four guys around the same age as Carson and Dylan are sawing, carving, sanding and putting together actual furniture that doesn’t come from an IKEA box. An attractive young woman sits behind the counter talking on the phone and signals to me with her index finger, but I see Dylan come out of a back room and he reaches me as the woman puts down the phone.

“You made it,” he says. “Daisy, this is Jessica. Daisy runs this whole place. We’d be lost without her.”

Daisy reaches across the counter and shakes my hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She gives me a friendly smile. “I’m so sorry about Ginnie, but we’re so lucky to have you here.”

Maybe I’m a jaded city person because I don’t think I could ever believe that a town is lucky to have me, yet from her it sounds sincere.

“Thank you. I’m having a very interesting time so far.”

“I’ll bet,” she says. “I hear ya got plenty of action goin’ on up at the house.”

Mortified, the image of Dylan and I grappling half-naked on the couch comes to mind. I look at Dylan and he bursts out laughing. “I told her that Lauren and Imogene have been hanging out with you. And she already knows Carson and I have been working there.”

“Yeah, it’s been busy at the house,” I admit.

“I want to introduce you to the guys.” Dylan puts his arm around my shoulder. Daisy smiles at me as if she’s got Dylan and me all figured out.

As we walk through the workshop area, the men put down their tools and silence their equipment so they can hear Dylan.

“Jess, this is Thomas and Daniel.” He points to two men at the table saw, both bearded with brown hair. I’d never be able to tell them apart.

“Hello!” they both bark loudly and I wonder if they’re all going deaf from the noise of their equipment. Then I see them pull earplugs out.

I nod and say hi.

“This is Jeremy who just started a couple of weeks ago.” Dylan points at a young man about Dylan’s age. He takes off a work glove and leans over a table to shake my hand.

“And this is Leo,” Dylan says after I shake Jeremy’s sweaty hand and give him a little hi. “We go way back. We’ve known each other since we were in kindergarten and he has his own style here.” This is Lauren’s Leo. He gives me a shy wave and an inaudible “hi”. He’s painting the trim on a rustic table that looks like it’s made from barn wood. His style is whimsical and colorful, and I can see why his pieces would be popular.

The door to the back office swings open and Carson steps out. Our eyes meet and then he goes back inside, closing the door behind him. Well, shit me. Someone doesn’t want to see me.

“That’s the office, nothing to see there,” Dylan says. “Okay, time for groceries.” He bids goodbye to the staff and we head about fifty yards down the main street to the small grocery store. It has a sign that says,
The
General Store
. I laugh.

“A lot of people shop at the super stores out on the interstate. They only go here for emergencies or gourmet items,” Dylan explains. “I like to support Harvey’s business.”

He holds the door open and I walk inside to the nineteenth century. The floors are unfinished wood planks, there are wooden barrels of gourmet items and a long, wooden front counter supports the cash register and freshly made treats. Behind the counter are floor-to-ceiling shelves with cans of caviar and other delicacies I’ve never eaten. A ladder on rails makes everything accessible to the large man in the white apron.

“Dylan!” the husky man exclaims, stepping off the ladder. “Sushi man is here today. And you must be Ginnie’s niece. I’m Harvey.”

“Jessica.” I put my hand into his giant palm.

“Sushi. You like sushi?” Dylan asks me.

I nod as he takes my hand and grabs a wicker shopping basket at the counter. We weave through aisles of fresh produce and baked goods that are displayed in baskets.

The ambiance reminds me of Eataly, one of my favorite places to shop and eat in New York, although this store is infinitely smaller and not crowded with tourists. The back end of the store actually has a sushi station with two chefs making hand rolls. We select a few varieties and perch ourselves at a dining bar where a few other locals Dylan knows are eating sushi as well.

“See, now you can move here. We have sushi,” he says, wolfing down his pieces in whole bites.

“This is a surprise. Fresh sushi in the country. Weird.” I have an inner debate over how much wasabi I can use if I’m going to be kissing Dylan in the very near future. I decide to omit it all together.

After we eat, Dylan stays to peruse the aisles with me, carrying the basket that is growing extremely heavy with all the items he thinks I must have.

“You have me mistaken for someone who cooks.” I look at the homemade sausages and eggplants he has put in the basket. “I’m good with apples and instant ramen noodles.”

“Don’t let Harvey hear you say that. He doesn’t stock ramen or instant anything.”

“Well, I don’t know how to cook eggplant.”

“I do. These are from local farms. It’s the best produce. We also have a local couple that makes artisanal sausages and cheeses. You’re from the city; I thought you’d have refined tastes.”

“I was raised on Ding Dongs and baloney sandwiches. Don’t get me wrong, my parents eat out constantly at all the best places, but at home, they wouldn’t know how to work an Easy Bake Oven. I know that because I actually received an Easy Bake Oven for one of my birthdays and my mother had no clue how to operate it.”

“You’re cute.” Dylan laughs and shoves more items into the basket. “I’m going to cook for you.”

“What makes you such a good cook?”

“No parents, but I had nice women who offered to feed us. I watched them cook and picked up a few skills.” His face doesn’t register any grief or the wish to expand on his comment. I regret asking something that would bring up his sad childhood; however, it doesn’t seem to bother Dylan.

He takes my hand and leads me back to the front register. When I reach for my credit card, he stops my hand. “I’ve got this.”

“Why? It’s my food.”

“I’ve overloaded your basket. I’m cooking for you.”