It was one of those weird naked dreams that make you feel vulnerable and exposed, but the worst part for me was that when Dream Me looked down, I didn’t even have the A-cup boobs I had in real life. I was so flat I literally had nothing there, like a boy. And I could see my ribs.
It was a new version of an old dream where I looked like an emaciated person with more skin and bone than flesh and blood, this time with Damien looking on.
When I woke up, it was two in the morning. Afraid to dream it again, I finally crawled out to the living room and watched YouTube until my sandy eyes closed from exhaustion.
Unfortunately, the sun came through the patio door with no mercy and woke me up way before I was ready.
And that was why I avoided people and tried not to care about them. Just being around them made me care about things I didn’t want to care about and made me judge myself in ways I always swore I wouldn’t.
Ugh. I was in such a funk that I didn’t even know if spending the day in my art studio would help. In fact, I couldn’t even dig up any motivation to get off the couch.
That was, until I heard a distant roar, beep, and clang. The trash truck was coming. I’d meant to take my trash can down to the road last night, but I’d been way too exhausted. Now I was going to have to drag myself up, half dead, and sprint to get it down there in time. But being the perfectionist I was, I also felt a desperate urge to get every speck of trash out of the house and into the can first.
I listened closely and guessed that the truck was still a block away. I could do this.
In a mad dash up the stairs, I ran into the bathroom and peed because my bladder didn’t care if I missed trash day or not, then grabbed the trash bag out of there, grabbed the bigger bag out of my art studio, and ran downstairs to get the kitchen trash.
I should have paid attention to the fact that I’d gone to bed with a pair of fuzzy socks on because as soon as I hit the tile at a dead run, my feet flew out from under me and both bags of trash flew up into the air. Toilet paper tubes, tampon and pad wrappers, a toothpaste box, and an empty shampoo bottle clattered around me and mixed with the crumpled drawing paper from my art studio.
I wasn’t normally one to cuss, but I let loose a few choice words that would have made my grandpa proud. There was nothing to do but scrape my bruised body off the tile and gather it all back up again as the trash truck sounded louder and louder. It took too much precious time to wash my hands and chuck all the old take-out boxes from my fridge into the kitchen trash. The fact that almost the only food in my house was free stuff I brought home from work was depressing. The sight of a cleaned-out fridge should be a positive one, but it wasn’t. How could I have nothing but a half-gallon of sweet tea, a bottle of ketchup, and a small tub of butter on the shelves?
But I had other things to worry about right now, so I ran out the front door, straight into a wall of cold I was totally unprepared for.
My skin prickled, and my eyes watered. This cold front meant business.
But I didn’t have time to worry about frostbite or the fact that my socks were apparently filled with tiny wind tunnels. The trash truck was in front of our driveway, and the workers were already dumping Damien’s barrel into the compactor.
“Can you wait just a second?” I called to them.
One of the workers raised a gloved hand in acknowledgment, so I rushed to get my trash barrel from the side of the building. But as I turned the corner, I ran headlong into someone coming from the other direction. I reached out, grabbing wildly for support as all the air whooshed out of my lungs on impact.
“You okay?”
I looked up at the owner of the deep, familiar voice. I found myself clutching the front of Damien’s hoodie, staring up at his morning stubble and wide, slate-blue eyes. Since the impact had made it hard for me to catch my breath, I stepped back and nodded.
“Let me take those,” he said, grabbing for the trash bags I still carried with one hand. That was when I realized that he had the handle of my trash barrel in the other hand and was in the middle of taking it down to the road for me.
At least I hadn’t dropped the bags again. But letting Damien touch my trash? Especially period trash? No way. “I’ve got it.” I stepped around him to throw open the lid and stuff the bags I carried inside. With an anxious glance at the trash truck, I waited for Damien to let go and let me have the handle, but he didn’t. Instead, he moved forward, pulling the can to the street. Short of fighting him for it, there was nothing I could do but follow him.
After the workers had finished emptying it, I jumped forward and grabbed the handle before Damien could. “Thank you!” I called after them as they turned down the next street.
“Come on, Krista. Let me get that for you.”
“I can manage.”
“Well, I know, but you don’t even have shoes on.”
He was right, of course, but they were my feet. I didn’t want him to worry about them. Or my trash. Or anything to do with me.
My whole plan for the future revolved around being independent of people—living a solitary life where I didn’t have to worry about what anybody thought about me or whether they were disappointed in me or thought I was pretty or talented or successful. Yes…that was what I wanted. Not awkward friendships with my good time, country boy landlord.
Which is why I ignored the fact that Damien still followed slowly behind me as I pulled the trash barrel up my driveway. When I got to the corner, however, I stopped in dismay at the sight of the puddle against the house. “It must have rained a lot last night.”
“This morning, actually.”
Even though my socks were already wet, the thought of wading through the cold mud puddle was daunting. “I’ll just leave this here for now.”
But as soon as I let go of it, Damien grabbed the handle and pulled it around to the side. That’s when I noticed that his flannel pajama pants were tucked into rubber boots.
As he maneuvered it into place against the wall, he glanced over at me with an amused twitch to his lips. “You can stop glaring at me now. It doesn’t scare me.”
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just annoyed that you’re—”
“Helping you? I know. I’m such a punk. Now, head inside before you freeze.”
He was right. And that made me crankier than ever. But at least if I went inside, it would get me away from him, so I chicken-walked on my frozen feet in sopping wet socks back to my front door. Which I’d left hanging partway open. Wonderful. Now my house was going to be cold.
“Not very energy efficient.”
“Thanks for that observation,” I said. “It’s not like I meant to leave it open. I was in a hurry.” I opened my door and turned back to figure out how to end this conversation so I could shut the door on his face without being too rude. Something about his posture seemed too determined, however. “Did you need something?”
He stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets and gave me a lazy smile. “Well, I figured we could talk more about my cousin’s wedding.”
I blinked. I did that a lot around him. “I already told you no.”
“And I told you I wasn’t giving up.” He bent over and pulled his boots off, setting them neatly next to my door.
Apparently he was coming in after all. Ah well. Maybe we could hash this out once and for all. “Whatever. My feet are frozen, so I’m not standing in the door anymore.”
“Good idea,” he said, stepping forward and urging me inside with a gentle nudge on my elbow.
I was way too aware of his touch, and the feeling didn’t go away when he released me.
Damien, though, was looking around, eternally at ease. “After last night, I wondered if that would look better in daylight,” he said, his eyes glued to one of my paintings. “But I guess not.”
It was an abstract painting, like most of what I did, with a skinny female figure shrinking away from pointing fingers. After my dream last night, it felt more revealing than before. Still, it was on
e of my best, which was why I’d hung it in my living room.
I gasped. “You don’t like it?”
He scratched his stubble-covered jaw. “Do you?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”
I fixed my eyes on his and crossed my arms. “I painted that.”
He turned to study me as curiously as he’d studied my painting. “You did? I wouldn’t have pegged you for an artist.”
“What would you peg me as?”
He thought about it. “A detention officer?”
I narrowed my eyes and pulled my socks off. “Well, no one would mistake you for a comedian.”
His burst of laughter unsettled me. How was it possible to be this annoyed but still feel an urge to laugh?
Before he could make another annoying comment, I said, “I’m going to go put on some dry socks. Don’t make yourself comfortable.”
“What, like this?” he asked, flopping down on my futon and stretching his long legs out on my ottoman.
Hopefully, he was good at interpreting glares because that was all he got from me before I headed upstairs.
In my room, I put on the warmest pair of socks I owned and headed into the bathroom to brush my teeth, because if Damien and I were going to argue—and I was sure we would—I didn’t want to have dragon breath. Although, that might be one way to get him to stay away from me… I could lean in really close and let him have it.
No. Sadly, my pride wouldn’t allow it.
I’d just started brushing when my doorbell rang. I froze.
Was I expecting a package? That was literally the only time someone rang my doorbell because I hadn’t told any of my family where I lived and my only friends were artists I’d met online who didn’t live anywhere close.
But I was not expecting anything.
My stomach clenched. Surely not.
“Want me to get the door for you?” Damien called up to me.
I wanted to scream down to him that no, I did not, but my mouth was full of toothpaste. I spit it out and tried anyway. “No.” But my mouth was still full of foam, and my throat was tight. As I rushed to rinse, the doorbell rang again. Running headlong down the stairs like the place was on fire, I called in a whisper-yell, “No, don’t open it…”
But I was too late. Damien was already in motion, pulling it open. Hearing me, he paused and looked up at me and then back toward whomever stood outside.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have the wrong place,” I heard a woman’s voice say on the other side. My mother’s voice.
“That’s okay. Goodbye,” Damien said, shutting the door again.
I sagged in relief. Heaven must have decided to smile on me for once. If she kept believing she’d gotten the wrong address, maybe she’d give up and go away.
When I got to the bottom step, I crept forward as quietly as possible toward the small window set in the door, not even worrying that I was getting right up in Damien’s personal bubble.
“Who is that?” he asked as I peeked through the window.
“Shhhh!” I slapped my hand over his mouth and whispered, “That’s my mom.”
He pried my fingers away. “Your mom?”
At that moment, my mom turned around, so I ducked down again. “What’s she doing?”
Damien peeked through the window. “She’s looking at her phone and the address on the building.”
“Shoot. How’d she find me?”
“She’s coming back.”
“Don’t answer the door.”
“Well, that’s going to be kind of awkward since she’s staring at me through the window.”
“Excuse me? Can I ask you something?” My mom’s voice came through slightly muffled but totally understandable.
She sounded very determined, so I closed my eyes and gave in to the inevitable. I might be able to sneak off and find a new place to live. I might even be able to ignore her calls and respond vaguely to her texts. But I couldn’t leave her standing on my porch all day. Because knowing her, she wasn’t going anywhere until she saw me.
Bracing myself, I nodded at Damien and stepped back so he could open the door all the way.
My mom’s eyes brightened as soon as she saw me. Then she looked curiously between me and Damien, who had leaned against the door frame next to me, just as if he was standing in his own front door. Which is probably why my mom said what she did.
“Krista. I never would have guessed you moved out because you wanted to live in sin.” Then she gave Damien another obvious up and down glance. “Not that I blame you.”
Was it too late to shut the door again?
Chapter Five
“Mom! I’m not living in sin.”
“Not yet,” Damien said, clarifying things.
I glared at him. “Don’t be helpful.” Then I turned back to my mom. “He’s not even my boyfriend. He’s my landlord.”
Her brow lifted. “Sweetheart, that doesn’t make it any better.” But even as I froze in horror at her new misconception, she swooped forward and pulled me into a tight, clutching, heavily scented hug. “I’m just so glad to see you and know you’re okay.”
After holding still for as long as I could, I pushed back, trying to unhook her talon-like fingers and surprisingly strong arms. “I guess you want to come in.”
“Well, of course.”
Damien stepped back and walked ahead of us down the hall into the living room. If he’d had a particle of decency, he’d have left. The only thing worse than having to talk to him about going to his cousin’s wedding was giving him a front-row seat to the circus that was my mother.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked as she sat down on my futon. “I, uh, have some tea in the fridge.”
“I’d love some.”
But when I turned toward the kitchen, Damien held up a hand to stop me. “I’ll get it,” he offered.
I pressed my lips together. As much as I wanted to argue with him, I didn’t have the head space for it right now. So I turned back to my mother. “Okay. So, you found me. Now what?”
“Well, now we can see each other like a mother and daughter should.”
“Mom. We’ve never done anything like a mother and daughter should.”
And then she sniffed while big, glimmering tears rolled out of her eyes. The woman had a talent for crying on demand. I was never sure if she did it to manipulate me or if she was sincere, but either way, I had long, long ago learned to lock my heart against it. She was crying now, but she’d soon move on to some other big emotion. I braced myself.
“I just don’t understand why you left,” she cried, her voice shuddering, her words spaced by gasping breaths. “What did I ever do that was so wrong that you would run away? Was I that terrible of a mother? Didn’t I always give you everything you need? Haven’t I always worked and slaved to give you a good life?”
I folded my arms across my chest and let her words flow around me.
When I didn’t answer, she tried a new tactic. “Martin keeps asking where you are. What am I supposed to tell him? That my own daughter is hiding from me? Do you know how that makes me look?” She broke down for a moment, clutching her hands to her mouth and rocking back and forth. “I’ve been so worried about you—whether you’re eating enough and sleeping well.”
Damien came quietly in from the kitchen, a big, gentle presence that eased my tension. I narrowed my eyes and studied him. He wasn’t looking at my mom like she was a crazy person. He wasn’t running for the hills. Instead, he put a glass of iced tea on the coffee table in front of her, along with a tissue box. She looked up at him, her eyes red and puffy but curious.
“Thank you,” she said. “Looks like Krista found herself a nice young man.”
I blinked. I knew how pointless arguing with her was when she worked herself up into this state, but I couldn’t let her continue to think like that. “Mom, this is Damien. Like I said, he’s my landlord—and nothing else.”
&nbs
p; She’d been in the middle of wiping her nose and eyes, but she paused, raising one sharply plucked eyebrow. “Do most landlords hang out with their tenants this early in the morning while you’re both wearing pajamas?”
I looked at Damien, standing in his flannel pajamas, hoodie and socks, then down at my leggings. Also, I remembered for the first time that I wasn’t wearing a bra. Luckily, I wore a black T-shirt, so it was doubtful that either my mom or Damien could tell, but it suddenly seemed totally indecent. I folded my arms even tighter across my chest. “He helped me get my trash down to the road and then…” I paused. My explanation sounded weak to my own ears. “You know what, Mom? You’re right. I’m having a rip-roaring, steamy affair with my landlord. I can’t get enough of his hot body. In fact, as soon as you leave, I’m going to drag him up to my bedroom and have my way with him. For the second time this morning.”
“Krista!” my mother exclaimed, standing up so fast she nearly knocked her iced tea over.
I made the mistake of glancing at Damien. His eyebrows could not have gone any higher or his eyes any wider. But I’d gone too far to worry about his reaction now.
“And since I’m clearly so happy with my amazing new life, there’s no point in you trying to talk me into coming back home. So if there’s nothing else…”
She rushed around the coffee table with a move an NFL running back would have envied and pulled me into a fierce hug. “Oh, honey. Don’t you know this kind of thing won’t last forever? He’ll get bored and move on and—”
“Boredom won’t be a problem,” Damien interrupted, a gleam of unholy amusement in his eyes.
I flashed a glare at him and focused on my mom. “I’m not here for him anyway. I’m here for me. I want to live my own life. There is nothing you can do to convince me to go back home.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice now as sweet as cotton candy. “I understand that you want your own place. I mean, you’re twenty-four, after all—”
“Twenty-five,” I corrected.
“And,” she waved her hand at Damien, “you want your privacy. But why not come back to work for Martin and I?” She gestured to my painting. “Instead of wasting your life like this.”
Oh, Keep Your Shirt On: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Shaped By Love Book 2) Page 3