by L. B. Dunbar
Why would she want to stay with a man like me anyway?
“I got it,” I say, more aggressive than necessary when Scarlett meets me at my tailgate. I tug each suitcase forward, recognizing the tension in my words comes from a sudden fear. She could leave. She could decide she doesn’t like me or learn he’s the father and return to him. She could walk away like all the rest of the women in my life have.
I’m not some self-deprecating sap. I know my assets. I’m dedicated to a fault and loyal despite everything. I’m openhearted, and that shit gets me in trouble too often.
I will not be falling in love with Scarlett.
It’d be easy to do and stupid of me. I’ve learned my lesson. Then again, I’ve had some time to reflect on my past mistakes and learn how each one of them wasn’t love. At least, not the long-lasting kind of love I wanted to have like my grandparents and parents did. I’m a love fast, learn later, kind of guy, and it has bit me in the ass too many times. It won’t happen again.
Scarlett heads to her car for a laptop bag and her purse. Then I point the way forward and follow her as she walks up the short path to the porch. The lights are on in my house, welcoming us home.
Could Scarlett see this place as a permanent home for her?
I can’t consider the thought. I didn’t live here with my wife, then I practically moved in with the next girl. And by my third turn, I’d learned some things about practicality, location, and romance.
Never bring home a woman who isn’t going to be a permanent fixture in your family.
I’m already breaking my own rules.
“There are three rooms upstairs,” I say, leading us in the direction of the staircase. “I use one as an office. Then there’s my room and a guest room.” I walk directly to the guest room and set the suitcases on the floor.
If Scarlett would prefer to be in my room, in my bed, she doesn’t mention it, so I leave her things where we are. Roommates, it is. I sit on the edge of the bed as Scarlett sets down her laptop case and scans the room. It’s light-colored and stark like the other rooms in my home. The furnishings are simple with a double bed and a wrought-iron headboard plus a maple wood dresser with a matching mirror over it.
“I’m surprised,” she admits, checking out the clean but sparse space.
“Too bachelor-ish?” I tease.
“Homey,” she says, surprising me.
“I want you to think of this as your home.”
“I really want to thank you again for this. It’s more than generous . . .” Her voice drifts, and I pat the space next to me, suggesting she sit.
“Wow,” she mutters. Still standing, she faces me, but she’s looking over my shoulder at the view out the window above the headboard. It’s a vision of slight hills and rolling fields. Twisting to look in that direction, I agree with her assessment as the early evening sunset casts a golden glow over everything.
“It’s probably not going to be enough for you,” I admit. She is from Boston. She lived in the busy city. Her suitcases alone suggest she was well off, and farm living isn’t for everyone.
“It’s perfect,” Scarlett says. She collapses next to me, our thighs brushing as we sit on the edge of the bed. Those dark eyes of hers look like freshly tilled soil, reminding me of earth and land, and how those objects make me feel. Home. Happy. Heart. “I’m so sorry again—”
My fingers slip into her hair, stopping her apology. Leaning toward her, I hesitate just above her lips, fighting the urge to kiss her. I want to lay her back on this bed, bury myself within her, and fill her again with my seed. The thought makes me smile. She could already be full from me.
God, please let it be mine.
Scarlett takes a short breath, and the air whispers over my lips like a soft caress. My mouth waters as my thumb strokes the side of her neck. Her skin is warm but delicate, and she smells floral, like a combination of meadow flowers.
“I think we should . . . keep our distance until we know something for sure,” she says although her hooded eyes say the opposite. “We shouldn’t be together . . . until we know more about . . .”
The baby.
She doesn’t want to be involved with me if it’s not mine, and I should agree. I do agree. I shouldn’t want to be mixed up with a woman pregnant by another man. Only, everything in me says this baby is mine. It has to be. Sitting here, stroking her skin, she feels like she belongs here. She belongs with me.
Still, I tip up my chin and try to tamper my eager dick. Slipping my hand free from her neck, I suggest I make dinner.
“You are going to spoil me,” she says thirty minutes later as we share a meal of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and a salad of spring veggies.
“I normally eat at the main house but figured tonight it’d be best to eat here.”
“Who lives up there?”
“My dad. This is his farm. Five generations of Eatons. Then there are my younger brothers Canyon and Blade, who you might remember from the bar.”
“I wasn’t exactly looking at other men,” she admits, and my chest swells at the confession. My grin matches hers.
“Canyon is three years younger than me, so thirty-nine. He has a child who is thirteen and lives with him. Then there’s my baby brother Blade, who is thirty-six.”
“And which one is which again?”
She’s referring to their creative talents. “Canyon writes songs and plays guitar. Blade fights but loves poetry.”
Scarlett smiles. “And what’s your specialty?”
“I milk the cows.”
She snorts. “I don’t think that’s it, and that’s definitely not what I meant.” She looks around the rooms open for viewing from the dining table where we sit. “I’d say working with your hands is your specialty.” She winks at me, and I fight the goofy grin creeping higher on my lips. I’d like to show her my special talent, but I don’t want to push. Tonight is about acclimating, getting to know one another in more than the biblical sense. Despite my disappointment she chose to stay in the guest room and stopped our kiss, I’m still excited to learn all I can about her.
“So what about you? What’s your specialty?”
She shrugs, looking off toward the double doors leading out to a small patio area. “I don’t really have a talent.”
“Of course, you do,” I say. “Everyone does.”
“According to my parents, I don’t. I wasn’t exactly the journalist they’d hoped I’d be after journalism school, nor was I the society wife they thought I’d grow accustomed to being with the good doctor. This is just one more thing I’ll have fricked up with them.” I ignore the mention of her husband as Scarlett rubs a hand over her belly where there isn’t a trace of her condition. She lowers her head.
“I don’t really see how being a mother is a frick up.” I chuckle at the term.
“It’s the way it might have happened.” Her eyes drift. “Either I slept with my husband after he impregnated another woman, or I got pregnant from a one-night stand. I haven’t told them about my condition yet.”
One-night stand does sound like a dirty deed at this point, and I reach across the table for her hand. “Scarlett, let’s count this as night two then.”
She looks over at my outstretched palm and slowly lifts her hand for mine.
“Night two,” she whispers.
“To many more,” I say, lifting my water glass, and her smile cautiously returns.
“Many more.”
When we finally arrive at bedtime, we circle one another as the only bathroom upstairs is outside my room. Scarlett is good at this, and it’s evident she’s recently been living with another man. We work around each other brushing teeth and finalizing bedtime rituals, but something is unsettling about it. We’re ships passing in the night, and I want to moor her to me. I want us to move in the same direction, toward my bedroom, toward my bed.
She pauses outside her new bedroom door, leaning against the jamb with half her body in the room and half in the hall. She’s wearin
g long flannel pants but a tank top for a shirt. Her breasts are heavy in the skintight material, and her nipples peak under my gaze. My mouth waters for another taste of those succulent globes.
“Good night,” she whispers, her voice husky and low, and the soundwaves travel directly to my dick, long and hard in my own pair of flannels, which I’ll be removing as soon as I crawl into bed. I’ll need to relieve myself, taking matters into my own hand tonight to take off the edge.
“Good night,” I offer with a wave and then want to kick myself once she closes the door behind her.
Waving? What an idiot. I should have rushed her and kissed her senseless to remind her of our night together. That would be a good night salutation.
Because deep down, I don’t want to be just roommates with her.
“Morning,” my dad says to me as I finish cleaning up after the milking by spraying down the concrete flooring of the barn. We handled one hundred and thirteen this morning. Not bad for one morning, I consider, fighting my thoughts from wandering to a woman warm in a guest bed in my house.
“Got a guest?” Dad asks. My dad’s an easy enough going man. He claims my mother softened him over the years. Currently, as a houseful of men, we’re well past incriminations, but I’ve never brought a woman to my home.
“Yeah. She’ll be staying with me a bit,” I say, not looking up, afraid of his disapproval. I don’t need his permission, though. He’d be the first to tell me it’s my life, and I can make my own choices. I chose the farm before anything else. We had trouble a couple of years back, and I could have walked away from it all, but I didn’t. I stuck it out same as I have for some twenty-five years.
“Going to explain more,” Dad wonders.
“Nope.”
“Keeping things in perspective?” He’s referring to my past relationships. Most people assume I’m in a rush to marry, and they wouldn’t be wrong. I want what my parents had, what I witnessed between my grandparents, which was a total commitment and dedication to one another. Love. Marriage equates to such a thing, but I’ve been known to be wrong.
I give my dad one glance before turning away from him.
“Okay then. Good talk,” he mutters, slapping me hard on the back and turning for the office. I’m certain I’ll be a topic of discussion at the breakfast table, but I’ll be skipping that meal, heading back to my place to check on sleeping beauty. My internet research on pregnancy informs me a woman can sleep a lot during her first trimester. Scarlett’s considered high risk as she’s over forty. It’s not the most optimal age to be pregnant, so I won’t be doing anything to disturb the rest she needs.
Returning to my house as soon as I can, I find Scarlett standing in my kitchen staring at my coffee maker.
“Whatcha doing, sweetheart?”
She jumps at my voice, turning to face me in the tight tank and flannel pajama pants ensemble.
“I’m willing that coffee machine to work.” Her hands land on her hips as she looks up at me, sleepy-eyed and rumpled
She’s cute in the morning, and I once again regret missing out on waking next to her at Green Rocks. As my eyes have a mind of their own, they lower for the fullness of her breasts and the dark nipples protruding from the thin white material. Her nips peak, poking at the soft fabric, making me lick my lips.
“Bull,” she whispers. My name is like a breathless call in the night. However, I fight the urge to plunder her mouth, tug down that neckline, and suckle those supple swells screaming for attention.
“Bull,” she says sharper, crossing her arms, which does nothing to distract me from wanting those lush breasts. Snapping out of it, I glance up to see a knowing smirk on her lips. Busted, buddy.
“Coffee?” she questions, and I lean around her, brushing my body against hers. I hold up the plug.
“Helps if you plug it in.”
She shakes her head, looking up at me. With us this close, I could kiss her. I could lean down and take her mouth, but she wants distance, and I can respect that—sort of. I plug the extension into the outlet and turn on the machine already primed to make coffee. I must have unplugged it to move it around the counter when I made dinner last night and forgot to return it to the outlet after washing dishes.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask, still crowding her in against the counter.
“Like a baby. That bed is too comfortable.”
I wouldn’t know as I’ve never slept on it, but I want to sleep on it with her.
Settle down.
Glancing up at the coffee machine as it hisses to life, I ask, “How do you work in a coffee shop if you don’t even know how a pot works?”
“Oh, well, I’m not a very good barista.” Her face pinkens, and I sense a story.
“Tell me more,” I tease.
“I just wanted a job, something to fill my time.”
“Did you work before coming to Vermont?” Her eyes meet mine, and she quickly looks away.
“I worked for an entertainment company.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like a television station.” I’m not much for television, preferring movies on occasion and a hockey game on the regular. She waves her hand, dismissing the topic, and turns to face the coffee machine as though she can make it work faster. As she presses her hands against the counter, strumming her fingers, I reach over her for the cabinet. My chest meets her back. The front of my pants hits the seam of her flannels.
She stills, and I inhale the sleepy-scent of her neck.
“Coffee mugs,” I whisper, blowing air at her moist skin, and she shivers. Opening the cabinet over her head, I pull down two mugs with one hand. Resting the other on the opposite side of her body, I cage her in. My nose trails up her neck. She doesn’t move away from me like she did yesterday. So much for distance. After I set the mugs on the counter, my mouth hovers over her neck, and she tips her head, allowing me better access. Her body is begging me to taste her. Breathing her in, I lift my hand for her belly, landing over the spot where one day soon she’ll swell. The idea of it causes me to inhale, and her breasts heave. Those nipples are so ripe, teasing me for attention.
“Knock, knock.” The soft click of the front door tells me someone entered. Dammit. Everyone has a key to my place, and I might need to impose a no-entry policy for the length of Scarlett’s stay. Instantly, I step back and turn toward the entry door, placing myself in front of Scarlett in her revealing tank top. However, there’s no way to disguise the raging hard-on in my pants.
“Heard we have a visitor.” My youngest brother’s teasing voice lets me know he’s here to scope out the situation. Nosy bastard.
“What do you want?” I snap.
“Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?”
“Good thing I have another one who can take the spot,” I groan, needing a second to cool my thoughts of Scarlett, the kitchen counter, and what I’d like to do to her against it.
“Hiya Red,” he says, tipping his head to look around me.
“Please don’t call me that,” she whispers behind me, and the sound of her voice tells me she doesn’t like that nickname. It’s more than disliking a play on her bright hair but something deeper.
“Blade, this is Scarlett Russell. Scarlett, my pain in the ass, little brother Blade.”
She waves around my arm.
“Carly sent me down to tell you to bring your guest to breakfast.” Guest. I am not liking that word, as I want to claim Scarlett as more, but I can’t.
“Ever heard of a telephone?” I mutter.
“Where’s the fun of walking in on something if I called?”
Sometimes I want to strangle my brother.
“Who’s Carly?” Scarlett asks, leaning her chin against my bicep.
“Carly is our cook, housekeeper, and all-around woman about the house.”
Scarlett doesn’t respond, and I hear the coffee behind her percolating. “We’ll figure out breakfast ourselves today.”
“Dinner tonight?” Blade
questions, knowing Carly likes to be informed if people are going to miss a meal.
“I’ll consider it,” I say, speaking for both Scarlett and myself.
“Dinner for two then. Wonderful,” Blade adds, making the assumption I won’t be at dinner. He sees himself out, and Scarlett presses the top of her head into my shoulder blade.
“Is that what you want in a woman? Cooking, cleaning, a person about the house?” There’s a softness to her question, and I turn to face her again. Her head remains lowered, and I lift her chin so she can look at me with those rich, dark eyes. “I didn’t really do those things in my past life. I ate out a lot. I had a cleaning service. I hardly did my own laundry as most things were dry-cleaned.” She looks toward the chimney of the wood-burning stove behind me. “I sound shallow, don’t I?”
Unable to stop myself, I brush back her hair at her forehead, tracing her hairline to push the reddish strands behind her ear.
“Not shallow, just different.” Focusing on my fingers, I scoop around her ear again.
“I have a feeling we’re a bit of Green Acres here. Farm loving and city living coming together.”
“Is that bad?” I ask.
“No, just different.” She smiles up at me, and I want to kiss her so badly I ache. The beep of the coffee machine saves me from pushing my luck.
“How about eggs?” I ask, assuming she doesn’t know how to make those.
“I’d love them,” she says, sounding relieved at the offer. She turns to reach for the coffee pot, giving me a look at her perfect backside while she pours us each a cup. Teasing me, she hands a mug over to me. “At the very least, I can pour coffee.”
Exposé