by Katy Regnery
I’ve been here for over a week, and I know I’m not ready to go. I don’t even want to talk about leaving. If anything, I want to tell Stu at Stu’s Pools to go fuck himself, have Milo shipped out here, put my house on the market, and just . . . stay. For a while. Indefinitely. I don’t know how long. Maybe forever.
There’s something about this place—and about Cassidy Porter—that heals the roughest, jagged, most wounded parts of me, and I’m desperately unhappy when I think of leaving him and going back to the “real” world. Why can’t this be real?
Last night, when he picked up my foot and kissed it, I was so shocked and so aroused, my panties—oh, God, his mother’s panties!—were flooded with warm wetness, something that hasn’t happened to me in over two years. The hairs on my arms stood straight up. My breath caught. My eyes would have been black if I’d looked at them in a mirror.
But then, as suddenly as it happened, it was over. He got up and walked away, leaving every cell in my body longing for more, and my mind knotted with confusion.
He’s attracted to me—I know he is. I can feel it in my toes when his eyes catch mine. I felt it in the way he touched me last night, and a few nights before that, when he pressed his lips to my head. His eyes scan my legs, rest on my breasts, trace the curve of my hips. He licks his lips when he gazes at mine like he’s hungry and thirsty at once. His eyes darken. His breathing gets shallow and fast.
And he’s not taken—he’s lived here since he was nine years old. He hasn’t had access to another woman. He’s free to do whatever he wants with whomever he wants.
We’re young, but of age.
We’re untethered to others and attracted to each other.
We’re all alone out here in the middle of nowhere.
If anything, as soon as my stitches come out, it’s the perfect setup for two or three weeks of nonstop sex in every thinkable position. And whatever feelings we might develop for each other? Well, while it scares me a little to open myself up to love again, I’ve missed loving someone. I’ve missed being loved. I want to be with someone again. I feel like I’m almost ready to put myself out there again, and Cassidy, my sweet, hot protector, seems like the perfect partner.
And yet Cassidy, a lone mountain man with no responsibilities except to himself, doesn’t seem ready at all.
Why does he “wish things were different”? What needs to be different?
Does he fear that his lack of experience will turn me off? Because nothing could be further from the truth. I don’t care if he’s never been with anyone else. We could spend all summer learning about each other together.
Or maybe he was telling the truth when he said that he didn’t need anyone. Maybe he isn’t lonely. Maybe he truly is happy living off the grid, far from the complications of the outside world—from the mass shootings and the people who disrespected veterans like his grandfather.
Maybe these two or three weeks is all we have because it won’t hurt Cassidy to say goodbye to me the way it will hurt me to say goodbye to him. His life will just go back to normal, while I already know I will desperately yearn for this place, and for him.
My head starts to ache, so I push the covers down, swing my legs out of bed, and walk down the hallway, to the bathroom. The floor is wet, which means that Cassidy has taken an indoor shower today, and my mind wanders to dirty places, thinking about what he must look like naked.
His body is long and lean, chiseled with muscle. I know this both from sleeping against his chest and surreptitiously watching him swing an ax from the corner of my window. I close my eyes and think back to yesterday afternoon, when he chopped wood for an hour with his shirt off. His hips taper into a sharp V that slides into his jeans, and damn, but that V keeps me awake some nights. I know what it leads to, but I still wonder what the zipper of his jeans is hiding.
Opening my eyes with an unfulfilled sigh, I stand up and crank the toilet. Then I wash my armpits, hands, and face in the icy cold water that I’m still not used to.
For the first time, as I head back to my room, I realize that I’m not tired, and I don’t want to go back to bed. My incisions don’t ache anymore, and my face looks almost normal again but for some light yellow discoloration here and there.
I’d like to learn more about Cassidy’s unusual home, and, if he’ll let me, I’d like to help out a little too.
I open the top drawer of the bureau against the right wall in my room and find two neat stacks of cotton underwear and bras on one side of the drawer, and a pile of rolled, white cotton socks on the other. Choosing a faded, light blue pair of undies and a matching bra, I slip out of my sleeping clothes and pull on the clean undergarments.
Opening the second drawer, I find T-shirts, also carefully folded in two piles. The one on top is light pink—a V-neck with some frayed threads around the neckline. It looks worn but soft, and I slip it over my head. Cassidy’s mother must have been a bit smaller on top than me because it pulls across my breasts a little, but a quick check through labels on the rest of the shirts tells me that I’m out of luck for a medium. Good thing cotton stretches. Besides, what other options do I have?
I pull open the third drawer to find jeans and denim shorts, all with the elastic waistbands favored by grannies the world over. Again, however, beggars can’t be choosers, so I slip a pair of shorts over my legs and tug them up. They fit loosely, doing nothing for my figure, but I’m able to pull them up under my breasts so that the elastic doesn’t press against my bandages. What they lack in fashion, they make up for in function, I guess.
The fourth and final drawer holds sweatshirts and cardigans, and I pull out a hot pink, zip-up sweatshirt that reads “Maine: The Way Life Should Be,” and shrug into it.
On top of the bureau is a hairbrush with a black elastic twisted around the handle. I brush out a week’s worth of snarls, almost grateful for the disgusting buildup of oil that acts as a detangler. I need to ask Cassidy about taking a bath or shower sometime soon.
There isn’t a mirror in the room for me to check my appearance, but Cassidy has seen me at my worst, so I figure this is at least an improvement on how I’ve looked since he met me. How I wish I had a little concealer and lipgloss, but I don’t think Mrs. Porter was much of one for beauty products. Either that, or they’re long gone by now.
Padding barefoot across the living room and into the kitchen, I open the tiny refrigerator and take a bowl of eggs from the cool, dark interior. There are only four, so I beat them all in the same bowl, then look around for a frying pan. I find one in the drying rack beside the sink and place it on one of two stovetop burners, but now I’m stumped. I have no idea how to turn it on.
“Battery ignition.”
I turn at the sound of his voice, a wide smile forming on my face in the moment between hearing him and facing him.
“Hi,” I say, sounding like a middle school girl who just caught a glimpse of her crush in the hall.
“Mornin’,” he says, checking out my outfit. “You’re dressed.”
“I hope it’s okay that I borrowed a few things.”
His eyes, which linger on my breasts for a second, eventually slide up to my face. It’s got to be pink because I feel my cheeks flush with warmth from the look in his eyes.
He nods slowly. “Sure.”
“I didn’t want to be useless today.”
“You’re not useless. You’re healing.”
“I feel good, Cass. I want to help . . . to contribute. I don’t want to be a burden to you. I figured I could do the cooking.”
“One, you’re not a burden.” His lips quirk up in a slight grin. “Two, can you cook?”
“Yeah,” I say, grinning back at him. “I’m not bad.”
“Really?” he asks, his smile widening, his eyes sparkling. “I haven’t . . . I mean, no one’s cooked here but me in a long time. And before that, it was Gramp, and he was just as happy with a can of beans warmed up over an open fire.”
I cringe. “Yuck?”
&nbs
p; “Double yuck,” he confirms. “What’s your specialty?”
“I thought we’d start easy, with scrambled eggs,” I say, holding out the bowl of beaten eggs. “I can get more fancy, but I don’t know what you have to work with yet.”
“We could . . . I mean, if you wanted to, we could go fishing later. If you’re up to it.” His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and I’m mesmerized by them for a moment. “Pond’s not far.”
I clear my throat and look up. “I make a mean brown sugar salmon.”
“Ahhh,” he sighs, and my insides clench. Damn it, but everything he does turns me on! “I don’t have brown sugar, but I’ve got lots of maple syrup. And I can’t get you salmon around here, but we’ve got yellow perch and brook trout.”
“I think I can work with that,” I say, feeling lighthearted. “Whatever you fish, I’ll fix. Deal?”
“Yeah,” he says, stepping forward and reaching around me to turn on the burner under the frying pan. “Deal.”
His knuckles graze my hip as he withdraws his hand, and I feel it all the way to my toes.
“I . . . I want to be useful,” I say, my voice sounding husky in my ears.
“You already said that,” he rumbles, not moving away.
My mouth waters. “It’s . . . it’s true.”
“Well, okay,” he says, standing so close to me, I can smell the soap he uses and the sweat on his skin from whatever chores he was doing this morning. “But don’t go too fast, huh?”
“I’ll take it slow,” I murmur, and for a split second, holding his eyes as I am, I wonder if we’re talking about my recovery or something else entirely.
“Slow’s good,” he says. Then, suddenly, he lowers his head and backs away. “I’ll wash up outside.”
My heart is racing so fast, I feel dizzy. But giddy too. I guess I feel gizzy.
Turning to face the stove, I grab a wooden spoon hanging from a nail on the wall before pouring the eggs into the pan.
***
The walk to the nearby pond, which Cassidy tells me is called Harrington and is about a tenth of a mile from his homestead, is tougher than I expect.
I’m out of breath quickly, and my stitches pull uncomfortably even though it’s a flat, relatively well-worn path and Cassidy walks slowly and carefully in front of me. But just when I’m about to tell him that I think we should turn back, there it is: a small pond, sparkling and cool under the summer sun.
I freeze, taking in the loveliness of it.
Barkless trees and high grasses surround the water’s edge, and a buzz of cicadas makes for a summer symphony. I breathe deeply as Cassidy turns around to face me.
“You want to stop?”
“I’m just . . . it’s really pretty.”
He looks over his shoulder at the pond, then back at me. “Small, as ponds go.”
On his other shoulder rests a fishing pole, and he carries a bucket and a tackle box in his hand.
“I don’t care. I like it,” I say, looking back at the little water hole.
“You were out of breath as we walked,” he notes.
I nod. There’s no use denying it. “I guess I’m still healing.”
“Why don’t you take a nap?” he suggests, gesturing to a large glacial rock with his chin. The flat gray surface, bathed in sunshine, is oddly inviting. I bet it’s warm. “I’ll wake you up after I’ve caught a dozen.”
“A dozen,” I scoff, taking a couple of steps through high grass to reach the rock.
“Well, well!” exclaims Cassidy, who is squatting over his open tackle box and pulling out what appears to be a fly lure. “Do I detect a challenge, Miz Cadogan?”
I lower myself to the rock, six or seven feet away from him, and stretch my legs out before me, leaning back on my palms. My eyes zone in on the bare strip of tan skin where his T-shirt has ridden up.
Damn, but he is all man.
“You think you can catch twelve fish in this little pond?” I say.
“My record’s twenty-six at this spot,” he says, grinning at me as he stands up to cast his line. “So yeah, I think less than half that is possible.”
He’s bragging and it’s adorable, but he’s also sexy as hell standing there at the water’s edge, casting and reeling. For real? I could watch him forever, except that I feel a huge yawn coming on, and my eyes feel so heavy, I can barely keep them open.
The sun is high and strong, so I shrug out of the hot pink sweatshirt, rolling it into a makeshift pillow.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I tease him, lying back on the rock, the sweatshirt heaven under my head.
“What was our deal again, sassy-pants?” he asks.
Sassy-pants. I chuckle softly, eyes closed, “You catch ’em; I cook ’em.”
“You better get some sleep, then,” he says, all cocky, “’cause you’re going to have a heap of cookin’ to do later, angel.”
The sun shines down on my face like a blessing, and I fall asleep smiling.
Cassidy
It takes me about two hours, but I’m not about to stop until I have an even dozen. And then, just for the hell of it, I catch one more. Maybe to show off a little.
I took an hour-long walk in the dark last night, just to cool down after kissing her foot like that. I don’t know why I did it. I guess because I felt this desperate, insane urge to prove to her that her presence was an honor, not a burden.
But the feelings it conjured up? The way my blood started rushing so hot and fast, my heart pumping it like crazy? The way my pecker stiffened almost painfully? I’ve never felt these feelings before, but I recognize them instinctively. I’m wildly attracted to her. If we were animals, I’d want to mate with her. Because we’re humans, I want to make love to her.
Love.
A word that keeps entering my mind lately.
And I know it’s not possible, because of promises I intend to keep, but I can’t help the way I feel.
With my thirteen fish swimming around in the bucket, I reel in my line and remove my favorite lure, tucking it back into a safe place in the tackle box. I close and latch the top, then lean the rod against a tree trunk.
Moving as quietly as possible, I step through the high grass to the rock where Brynn is sleeping.
Since I’ve known her, I’ve probably seen Brynn asleep more than awake. I’ve had a lot of opportunities to watch her sleep. But not like this. Not with her face turned up to the sunshine, her freckles on full display, her lips slightly parted and tilted upward just a touch. Like she’s happy. Like maybe being here with me makes her happy.
This is an image that will torture me when she’s gone, but I can’t force myself to look away because, in my whole life, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as this woman. If I didn’t know better, and if it was allowed, I might even think that I love her.
And there’s that word again, I think. I trace the lines of Brynn’s face, finally resting on her mouth. I wonder what it would be like to kiss her, to press my lips to hers. They’d be warm from the sun, and soft. What would she taste like? How would her body feel in my arms if I clasped her to me as our lips touched? Would I be able to stop after a single kiss? Or would I need more?
A terrible thought occurs to me, and I wonder if my father ever looked at my mother like this. In fact, Mama could have been wearing that very T-shirt and jean shorts, and my father could have looked at her with desire, with want. I don’t know if he loved my mother or not. When I think back, it feels like he did. It feels like they loved each other, as unbelievable as that sounds. Because how could he feel one way for my mother and still do what he did to other women? How could he feel love for her but a few days later, go kill someone else? It scares me. God, it scares me so bad that I lean away from Brynn, searching my mind for indications that my appetites run similar to his. I search and search, but I can’t find anything but protectiveness and tenderness for the small, sleeping woman in front of me.
“I’d never hurt you,” I murmur, the words so so
ft, I can barely hear them. I’d never hurt anyone. But there is that tiny part of me that isn’t convinced, that reminds me of who I am. I don’t know what genes lurk inside me, biding their time to make themselves known.
Sighing with the bleak unfairness of it all, I reach for her shoulder and shake it gently.
“Hey, angel,” I whisper. “Time to wake up.”
***
For two days we eat all manner of brook trout, cooked up in so many mouthwatering and creative ways, I swear I never knew how delicious fresh fish could be.
Brynn wasn’t kidding when she said she wasn’t a bad cook.
We’ve had fillets with a maple syrup reduction, the whole fish dredged in eggs and flour and fried with fresh herbs, and tonight she made some sort of spicy tomato sauce that caught my mouth on fire, but tasted so danged good on the flaky white meat, I couldn’t stop eating.
She’s taken over my greenhouse, babying the tomatoes and trussing up overgrown herbs. It’s come alive under her care and makes me smile every time I step inside.
Speaking of smiles, I live for hers. As if on cue, she looks up at me and grins.
“You okay? I might have gone overboard with the horseradish.”
“Is that what’s burnin’ my mouth?” I ask, reaching for my glass of water.
“. . . he asks after three helpings,” she says, winking at me.
“It was good,” I say, leaning back and patting my stomach. “You’re going to make me fat.”
“Impossible. You work too hard to get fat.”
“How do you stay so little if you eat like this at home?” I ask, replacing my glass.
“I don’t eat like this at home,” she says. “Eating like this is only fun if you’re sharing it with someone.”
I nod, realizing that she learned to cook like this for Jem, probably, then stopped when she lost him. That she would share her skills with me sends a shock of something wonderful through my body.