Page 87 of Into These Eyes
I want to confront him, but I have no evidence, no witnesses. He’s always careful that way.
With an ick lurking in my stomach, I have an unsuccessful chat with Eric about the permanent deletion of files. Leaving the mystery unsolved, I give myself an unprecedented early mark soI can get home and start Liam’s affidavit from scratch, grateful I have the recording on my phone.
As I pull into the driveway and wait for the garage door to rise, I study the security camera Gavin and Benny installed. It’s now one of many covering every angle on the outside of the house. As Gavin pointed out, they can’t stop a crime, but they’re a deterrent, and evidence should something happen. He’s also booked in the installation of an alarm system, but that’s still a few weeks away.
Pulling into the garage, I press the remote to lower the door and instantly notice that the usually squeaky door is almost completely silent. Yet another thing Gavin’s fixed.
As I grab my laptop satchel, the buzz of a small engine revs to life. Glancing into the corner where I store the mower, I discover it’s missing. Warmth and gratitude wash over me. I’d been dreading mowing the lawns again. It’s lovely having someone do a chore I hate. And I didn’t even have to ask.
Apparently, I’m not the only one Gavin’s made an impression on. When I spoke to his corrections officer and not only explained the situation, but also told him about my father’s confession, he wasn’t surprised at all. Of all the parolees he’s dealt with, he knew Gavin was different. Which is why he’d been surprised when Gavin hadn’t shown for his job. I’d set him straight, explaining it was all my fault. By the time I hung up, I had the distinct impression we probably wouldn’t be seeing too much of him.
Heading inside through the internal garage door, I’m hit with the smell of something delicious. By the time I make it along the hallway, my mouth is literally watering. I dump my satchel on the dining table, slip off my heels and head into the kitchen to investigate.
Opening the oven door, I’m blasted with heat and the unmistakable aroma of lasagne. Covered with foil, a pan sits onthe middle shelf. Last night it’d been steak, the night before a Thai stir fry.
An unexpected lump grows in my throat. I can already feel myself getting far too accustomed to this. For the first time in my life, I actually look forward to coming home, to being surprised by what’s for dinner, to being cared for.
But more than that, I look forward to coming home to Gavin.
Because we get along, I tell myself, that’s all.
Grabbing a couple of bottles of water from the fridge, I carry them into my bedroom, zoning into the sound of the mower. As I slip out of my work dress, I stare at the two bottles of water on my nightstand. I really should head back to my laptop and get started on Liam’s affidavit, but it seems like I’ve already made other plans. If Gavin’s mowing the lawn in this heat, he’ll need a drink.
Slipping into a pair of cute shorts and a loose V-neck t-shirt, I pad out of the bedroom in bare feet and head toward the back of the house.
As I carry the bottles through the family room where Anika spent most of her time when she had friends over, I reach for the sliding glass door, and freeze.
He’s almost done with the lawn. Only a strip of long grass remains and he’s making the turn for the final leg.
I take a step away from the glass, knowing he can’t see me in here where it’s darker.
As the mower eats up the lawn, I take in his sunglasses, the sweat trickling down the sides of his face and neck, the damp t-shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest.
Before I can study him further, he reaches the end of the grass strip and cuts the engine. But he doesn’t head back to the rear of the garage to put it away like I expect. Instead, he leaves it where it is and strolls over to one of the sunbeds.
Now’s the perfect time to go out there and hand him a bottle of water. He certainly looks like he could use it. But I wait, anticipating what he’ll do next.
Sure enough, he toes off his runners and peels off his socks, tossing them on the sunbed. Turning his back to me, he yanks off his t-shirt, his sweat-slicked back shining in the afternoon sun. My heart picks up pace when his thumbs dig beneath the waistband of his shorts and draw them down with his underwear, giving me an excellent view of his tight backside. I stare, wondering why I want to sink my teeth into one of those cheeks.
Shit. I shouldn’t be ogling him in secret, let alone having those thoughts. It’s just not me. Even though I’m standing here all alone, the burn of embarrassment climbs my neck. But it’s not because I’m spying. It’s the memory of the time I’d been making a coffee in the lunchroom at work and some of the lawyers started a discussion. A discussion about how long someone can go without sex before being seen as either pathetic or a frigid bitch. With my back to them, I’d listened with dread when the consensus came back. Needless to say, I qualified as both.
And I’d shrivelled into myself as they’d laughed and joked, paranoid they somehow knew how long it’d been since I’d had sex. Paranoid the whole conversation was aimed at me.
I remind myself that they’d never understand the trauma of not only suffering the murder of a parent, but discovering the secret that parent had kept. Learning that my mother cheated on my father taught me something I found hard to shake. My father’s confession only reinforced that belief. Relationships are filled with lies and deception.
All my life I’d been told how much I look like my mother, how similar our personalities are. The thing about that is, I’ll never know why she wanted to leave us for a new life with another man. If I could only understand why, I might understandme.
As Gavin strides toward the deep end of the pool, I’m thrust back to the present when his perfect, unmarked skin and rippling muscles gain my full attention.
Reaching the deep end, he turns toward the water, giving me a full-frontal view. Although I want to take in everything that makes up his spectacular body, I pause at his chest.
Damn. He’s still too far away to decipher that one and only tattoo. If I had any guts, I’d march out there and hand him the water so I get a proper look at what he’s permanently marked on his skin.
Instead, for the few seconds I have remaining, I study him in awe, running my eyes over that strong chest I’ve rested my face against far too many times, over the light smattering of brown hair and the way it thins as it travels down his torso. As he steps to the pool’s edge and curls his toes over the tiles, every movement he makes shows how profoundly comfortable he is in his own skin. If only I could be like that.
Raking my eyes over every part of him, I appreciate the fact that he’s not covered in tattoos. He’s raw, naked, exposed. He’s not trying to hide his true self behind ink. He’s bare, and beautiful. He doesn’t need to be blanketed in inked art. Heisthe art. At least on the surface. It’s up to me to find out who he is beneath that amazing exterior.
And I think the key to knowing what’s going on inside him is that single tattoo.
