Chapter 11
Sawyer
“There’s no slack in her rope.”
~ Grant Turner
I stood in Delilah’s expertly renovated guest bathroom and stalled. I’d never felt this off-balance in my life. Even as a kid struggling in school, I’d felt like I was on solid ground. That ground just happened to be that I sucked at school. When teachers handed out assignments, I wouldn’t be able to finish them without cheating, which I got really good at. Being a head taller than everyone around me had helped. I was never surprised by my lack of ability. I knew what to expect.
Today, that wasn’t the case. The only thing that was exactly as I’d predicted was just how damn distracting Delilah was. From the second she’d opened the door, it had been an uphill battle not to be completely preoccupied with how fucking adorable she looked. And that fight had only gotten harder, literally, when she’d removed the flannel that had been tied around her waist, revealing her perfect, large, heart-shaped backside.
I was an unapologetic butt man and Delilah Turner had, in my humble opinion, the best ass in the entire state of Texas. Just looking at it showcased in faded denim had been torture enough, especially when she’d sway in time to the music that she’d said helped her work. But when it brushed against me several times as we passed each other in the hallway during our many trips out to the dumpster, it had tested willpower I hadn’t even known I possessed. I broke out in a sweat because something was hard, and it wasn’t the labor.
But I’d expected to have those reactions to her. What I hadn’t expected was for her to have built her own cabinets. Which was sexy as hell.
Or to have rented a dumpster from the same company that I did because she’d read on their website, like I had, that they give ten percent of their profits to feed the homeless. Which was admirable as hell.
Or for us to work together with such ease and familiarity, predicting one another’s next move like this was our hundredth job instead of the first project that we’d shared. Which was crazy as hell.
Or that her house would feel so much like a home. A real home. It wasn’t just a place to live. It was a place to raise a family in. Which was scary as hell.
And I sure as hell had not anticipated her coming up with the strangest questions I’d ever been asked. She’d asked me when was the last time I’d sang to myself or another person and if I had a hunch of when or how I would die, and I’d answered her. At first, I’d only done it because that was part of the deal, but now it was kind of fun to see what she was going to come up with next. And damn if I didn’t like it, which was why I felt so out of sorts.
I turned the water on and dipped my hands beneath it as I stared into the mirror. I just had to keep my head on straight for the next thirty or so hours, and then I could deal with the fallout afterward. As long as I kept things professional—at least as professional as they could be when I was being asked if I lived to ninety and could keep the mind or body of my thirty-year-old self, which one would it be—then I might get out of this thing without doing or saying something that I couldn’t take back.
After drying my hands on the towel hanging beside the sink, I walked back into the kitchen that we’d made quick work of demoing and didn’t see Delilah, but I heard her sweet voice. Except it didn’t sound quite as sweet as it normally did. I crossed to the table in the small dining area where she’d laid out the food she’d had delivered. I saw Delilah standing with her back to me on the screened in porch talking on the phone.
“I’m sorry, Madison.” She shook her head back and forth. “I can’t today.”
I slid into the seat that afforded me the best view in town, a clear shot to Delilah from behind, and contemplated whether or not I should just start eating. I knew what the right thing to do was, but if I did that it would prolong our lunch and our workday. On the one hand, if I inhaled my lunch and got back to work it would be a stone that killed two birds. I would not only shorten our workday, I’d also get out of sitting next to her with no tools and work as a buffer.
As much as I wanted both those birds killed, I couldn’t bring myself to throw the rock. I set my elbows on the table and waited. I didn’t give two shits that people thought I was an anti-social asshole as long as I was okay with my behavior. I’d been raised right, with manners.
“I can’t tomorrow either.” Her back stiffened and her shoulders rolled back. “I told you, this is the weekend I’m renovating my kitchen.”
It was obvious from her demeanor and tone that this wasn’t a pleasant conversation for her to have. I didn’t know her sisters that well, other than that they were identical triplets that I always did my best to avoid. Not for the same reasons that I tried to avoid Delilah. No, I steered clear of them because whenever I spoke to one of them, I couldn’t tell which one I was talking to. Even if they told me who they were, I never trusted that they were telling the truth since they had a reputation for tricking people.
Delilah’s head fell back, her blonde hair falling to her waist as she let out a long, slow exhale before saying, “I’m sorry that you’re upset. But, you shouldn’t have agreed to make the cookies if you knew that you were planning on going out of town this weekend.”
She held the phone to her ear for a few seconds before saying, “Hello? Madison?” Her shoulders slumped as she lowered the phone and stared at the screen as she muttered, “Wow. Nice. I love you, too.”
Letting out a loud sigh, her head fell back again before she bent forward and draped herself over one of the cabinets. The ones that she’d assembled. When she did her ass lifted in the air, and the sight took me off guard. A male growl of appreciation rumbled in my throat. She must’ve heard it because she jolted upright and spun around.
“Oh! I didn’t hear you come back. Wow, for a big guy you sure can sneak up on a girl.” She stepped inside looking a little shaken and sat down. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”
Yes. I did.
I was tempted to ask her if she was okay, but, like all of the temptations that I’d faced today, I resisted it. Professional not personal. That was the line that I needed to keep firmly in place.
We both started unwrapping our burgers and I noticed that hers was missing something. “Did they get your order wrong?”
She looked down and then back up at me. “No.”
“Your bun is missing.”
“I ordered it without one.”
“Why?”
Her left shoulder lifted. “Because I try to limit my carbs.”
The only reason that I knew people did things like that was for weight loss. “Why?”
“Because those are empty calories.”
Yep. Weight loss. How was it possible that she didn’t know that she was perfect just the way she was?
It was none of my business.
Professional not personal.
I wished that things were different. I wished that I could tell her exactly how perfect she was. I wished that I could show her how perfect she was. But those wishes and a quarter would get me twenty-five cents.
We ate in a comfortable silence. I tried not to stare as she ate her fries. The way she licked the salt off of her fingers was inspiring all kinds of images of the things I wanted to do to her. Starting with clearing this table with one swipe of my arm, picking her up, laying her on it, stripping her out of her pants, spreading her legs, kneeling in front of her, and eating my dessert.
I shifted in the chair as my jeans grew uncomfortably tight as I envisioned Delilah laid out naked before me with my face between her legs as I feasted on her.
Sweat broke out on the back of my neck, and I finished off my second hamburger in three bites. I needed some air. I needed to take a walk and get my head on straight. I needed to get myself under control.
I crumpled up both wrappers and was just about to excuse myself to make a phone call, which was the only excuse my lust-addled brain could come up with, when she stopped me with another question.
“What three things do you think we have in common?”
This was the first question that she’d asked me today that had anything to do with her, which made me want to answer it exactly right. It didn’t take me long to come up with my list, but I didn’t say the first thing that came to mind.
I’d always had a pretty good idea that she’d had a crush on me since the day that I saved her on her senior trip. I’d seen the way that she’d looked at me like I was her hero. I wasn’t.
I hated thinking about that day. I’d been parked at my spot because my mom had asked me to keep an eye on my brothers. Travis and Trace tended to get into trouble. She’d told me to keep my distance, so they didn’t know I was there to check up on them. I’d been sitting there for about ten minutes when I saw Delilah, off by herself with her nose in a book. I’d always thought of her as the triplets’ little sister who was a cute, bubbly kid. But that day I saw her differently.
She didn’t look like a little kid anymore. She was wearing a red bikini top that looked about two sizes too small, causing her breasts to pour out of it, and jean shorts that were unbuttoned and folded over. Her long, tanned legs hung over the side of the bridge and swung back and forth.
I’d sat in my truck feeling captivated and also a bit like a pervert. She was legal, but just barely, having turned eighteen a few months before, which I only knew because I’d driven Harmony to her birthday party. At twenty-eight I was tipping the creep scales and forced myself to look away at the moment that she stood. The movement caused my attention to shift back to her just as her book slipped from her hands. She reached for it, lost her balance, and went head first over the railing.
I was out of the truck and in the water before it hit me just how serious the situation was. When I pulled her limp body from the river and saw that even though she was breathing she wasn’t responsive, the panic set in. I yelled at the partiers that had gathered to call 911 and started administering CPR. It felt like forever, but her eyelids finally fluttered as the ambulance was pulling up.
That day had taken years from my life.
Since I’d saved her and was the first person that she’d seen when she’d come to, it was natural that she’d attached a little hero-worship to me. But I kept thinking that she’d get over it. That she’d meet someone. That she’d move on. But, after she shelled out five grand for me to do a weekend project on her house, it looked like that hadn’t happened.
I thought it was safe to say that one thing we had in common was that we both wanted what we couldn’t have: each other.
Instead, I went with safer comparisons. “Family comes first. We’re hard workers. We like fries.”
“So,”—she sat up straighter—“for the record, you’re saying we share the same values, work ethic, and culinary taste?”
For the record? I wasn’t sure why this had turned into a cross-examination, but it was obvious she was building a case. “If I say yes will there be no further questions?”
“Be careful.” She grinned. “You don’t want me to declare you a hostile witness.”
“I’ve been declared worse.”
“I bet you have.” A smile brighter than the halogen lamps we’d plugged in spread across her face.
It was the smile that I wished I could see every day for the rest of my life. It was the smile that I wanted waiting for me when I came home from a long day. It was the smile I’d give a limb to be the last thing that I saw before I went to sleep at night and the first thing I saw when I got up.
A sharp pain stabbed my chest, and I realized that those thoughts were more dangerous than the ones of her spread out on the table as my own personal buffet.
Time for a walk.
Standing up, I tossed the crumpled wrappers in the trash in the corner. “I need to make a call.”
My sudden actions caused that smile to slip, and my heart wrenched in my chest. That pain reminded me that that was the reason I needed to keep things professional. It was better for her to be disappointed now, than destroyed if she got involved with me, which if history was an indicator, she would be. So I needed to keep my distance, emotionally if not physically. Even if it killed me.