Page 4 of Savage Keepsakes

He spins on his heels and goes to the bathroom down the hall, slamming the door behind him.

I roll my eyes, already regretting letting him move in with me.

Is the farmhouse rugged? Yes. Are there missing shingles and broken boards? More than a few. I don’t care that the property needs work. From the moment I came across the listing, the place spoke to me. It needs me as much as I need it.

Pipes rattle, and after a few seconds, water runs for Miles’ shower. Sighing, I get off the bed and cross the room to the window facing the back of the house. With decaying branches covering most of the yard, overgrown and-uncared-for is a recurring theme here.

The setting sun gives an eerie glow to the old garage and barn further back on the property. Bothbuildings are not safe, according to the realtor, because of rotting wood and sinking foundations or something. I couldn’t care less about them. The house and furniture left behind by someone who loved this place are all that matter to me.

“Can you quit daydreaming for three seconds? We have to get ready for dinner with my parents. I don’t know where my clothes are.”

I turn, seeing water droplets fall off Miles’s dark hair. He stands at the door with a towel around his waist. Muscular arms cross his chest as he glares at me.

“I’m not an idiot, and you don’t have to look at me like I am one. They should be in the duffel bag. We have plenty of time before we have to meet your folks.”

I open the lid on the nearest box, finding it filled with pillows. Miles must have packed this. Who the fuck packs cushions in a box?

Shaking my head, I can’t help but wonder why his parents need to dine with us on moving day? If they were nice people, I wouldn’t mind, but the thought of sitting through dinner with his mother turns my stomach.

Barb has always taken digs at me. She claims I’ll never be good enough for her son, even after high school and me rising from the trash I grew up in to become a paramedic. In her eyes I’ll never suffice for her burger-flipping son, which is laughable but still hurts.

“We’ll barely have enough time to get to the restaurant once you’re done making yourself up. I’ll go find my clothes,” he says. I move to walk past him on my way to the bathroom, and he reaches out andcaresses my cheek. “It’s been a stressful day, you understand. I’m sorry.”

It’s always about Miles and how he wants to run the show. I lower my gaze to the worn wooden floor, and whisper, “I know. I won’t be long.”

After I close the bathroom door, I let out a deep sigh. Exhaustion from moving all day and feeling emotionally exposed has my stomach in knots. Stripping out of my dirty clothes, I look at my reflection in the large mirror. I used to love my curves, the way my thighs dip in the sides and the stretch marks that cover my stomach. In the past year, Miles has eroded the confidence I had. His words echo my father’s haunting remarks.

Linoleum flooring is cool under my feet. Wiping the droplets that Miles left everywhere, I turn the dial as I wait for the water to warm. The realtor said the well was good. I hope she’s right, because the pressure sucks. Using the soap on the perch, I clean the dust and sweat off my body.

Once the temperature runs cold, I pull back the plastic shower curtain, step out, and reach for the empty towel rack. Shit, there isn’t another towel. Refusing to use the one on the floor, I lean against the moldings of the window. Opening it, I try to air-dry from the breeze. I love that the closest neighbour is three miles away.

Miles bursts open the door. “Do you know where my belt is?”

Jumping, my heart races as I look at him. “No.”

“Get dried off and dressed. We’re going to be late.”

“I don’t have a towel.”

He leaves the door wide before reappearing with the one he used. I take it from him and finish drying off. Using it to wrap my hair up on top of my head, I grab my dirty clothes and hurry past him. I’ve always been uncomfortable with him looking at the entirety of me, laying bare all my flaws and imperfections. His gaze never strays below my face, and I have a powerful urge to cover my plus-sized figure.

I walk into the bedroom, rummage in my suitcase for a pair of jeans, and wiggle into them. Looking through the bag I packed, I run my hand over the shirts and grab a soft yellow one.

“Is my belt in there?”

“Why didn’t you pack a suitcase like I did? It’s going to take me days to unpack everything,” I say to him as I reach for a hairbrush.

“What do I need to pack for? I have my work uniform.”

His gruff tone hits me in a place I’d like to forget. My father would point the finger at me, claiming I wasn’t doing enough and insinuating that I was lazy or not working as hard as he expected.

“Should have booked the time off, if it was important to you,” I tell him, walking back to the bathroom. His large hand grips my upper arm and stops me in my tracks.

“Don’t get smart with me,” he scoffs.

My body freezes, muscles tensing under his touch. As I school my features, showing my normal tight-lipped smile.

“Sorry, I’m just stressed.” His tone becomes neutral.

---