Page 31 of Made for Wilde
The shower stops. The sudden silence is worse somehow.
I strain to hear movement behind the bathroom door, the rustle of fabric, the sound of her drying off. My imagination fills in the blanks with vivid detail.
Fuck me.
This is wrong. This is Jason's little girl. The same kid who used to beg to go fishing with us, who cried when she caught her first trout because she didn't want to hurt it. The same girl who brought cookies to my mother's funeral, who sent me handmade birthday cards with glitter that got all over my truck.
Only she isn't that little girl anymore.
She's a woman now, with curves and smiles that make my heart race and my hands itch to touch her.
The bathroom door opens.
I stand up too fast, like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't. My blood pounds in my ears as Charlotte steps into the hallway.
My shirt is enormous on her. It hangs off one bare shoulder, the hem grazing her thighs, sleeves bunched up at the elbows. Her legs are pale and flawless, her toes curled against the hardwood for warmth. The ends of her hair are still damp andcoiled into soft, golden ringlets that make her look like she wandered out of a dream.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
I clear my throat and try again.
"Feel better?" I ask.
Charlotte tugs at the hem of my shirt, the gesture innocent but doing nothing to help my current state.
"Much. Thanks for the clothes."
Something primal and possessive roars inside me at the sight of her in my clothes. She belongs in them. She belongs in my cabin, in my space, in my?—
I cut the thought off before it can fully form.
"You hungry?"
"Actually, I'm starving," Charlotte admits. "I was so busy with my project I forgot to eat lunch."
"I'll make us something. Pasta okay?"
"Pasta sounds great." She steps closer, hovering at the edge of the kitchen. "Can I help with anything?"
"No," I say. The thought of her moving around my kitchen, bumping into me, reaching past me, it's too much. "I've got it under control. You should sit down, get warm."
She hesitates but moves to one of the barstools at the counter, perching on the edge.
I fill a pot with water, set it on the stove to boil, and try not to notice when a drop of water falls from her hair. It slides down her neck and disappears beneath the collar of my shirt.
I turn away before I can follow its path any further.
Instead, I focus on practical things. Heating a pan. Chopping vegetables. Opening cans of sauce. Simple tasks that require just enough concentration to distract me from the woman who's watching me with those blue eyes that see too much.
"Your cabin is so beautiful," Charlotte says after a while, gesturing around the space. "All of this. The stonework, the beams. You really built most of it yourself?"
I shrug.
"Most of it. Had some help with the foundation."
"Why up here, though? So far from everything?"
I debate how much to tell her. How much to reveal about the man I've become. The broken pieces I never managed to put back together.
