Page 32 of Moonlight and Mischief
“Marigold, don’t make me throw you over my shoulder.” My thoughts fill with the image of her ass in the air, legs dangling, while I grip her thighs to keep her steady. Not helpful, but better than the image of climbing into the bath with her.
“Fine. But I’m washing dishes tonight.” Rolling her eyes, she starts to lift the hem of her shirt.
Blood rushes in my ears as I shut the door and lean my back against it. Of course I knew she’d shower in my bathroom, but the idea of her soaking in that steaming bath is too enticing to dwell on.
This amazing woman bends herself into a pretzel caring for everyone else, encouraging them with her bright smiles and boundless energy. But after living with her, I see the exhaustion underneath. She deserves someone taking care of her. And until I’m forced to stop, that job is mine.
Dinner is a chicken stir-fry with snow peas and carrots over rice. I’ve had similar food in town, but my parent’s pack would never have served anythingso flavorful. I set the plates on my chunky wooden coffee table and locate one of the bottles of Sauvignon Blanc that the internet had said was sweet and mild.
Waiting for her, I attempt to read a few more pages, but all thoughts of reading fall out of my brain when she emerges wrapped in only a towel and tip-toes to her room. Freckles cover the expanse of skin across the top of her chest.
Make-up free, hair wet, but now flushed with heat from her bath, she’s the most attractive woman I’ve ever seen. She comes out in the same oversized sleep shirt she arrived in the first night.
“Oh, I love stir-fry night,” she says, grabbing the plate further from my seat and nestling down beside me.
“Yeah, it’s great,” I say, barely remembering to grab my own food.
She leans her cheek against my shoulder briefly. “Jasper, that really did make me feel a hundred times better. Thank you.”
My eyes are on her shirt. There’s something about the faded design that bothers me. It seems masculine, which is fine as long as it’s hers. But what if it’s not.
She dives into her food, stopping only to take a long sip of the wine.
“You like it?” I ask, smiling over my own glass.
It clinks as she sets it down on the table, and her hand drops to my thigh, squeezing. “It’s delicious. I didn’t know you’re a wine connoisseur.”
Shaking my head, I set my own glass down so I can wrap my arm around her waist. “I’m not, I have the internet on my phone.”
“I’ve heard of that. Something the teenagers have,” she jokes.
It’s easy to laugh with Marigold. “Something like that.”
“You are younger than me,” she says, cooly, though a teasing smile begins to curl her lips.
“Not by much.”
“Young hoodlum,” she says, scrunching up her face into a scowl. She’s adorable.
“At least I know how to use the internet.”
Marigold snorts, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’re ridiculous.”
We lapse into companionable silence, and I finish my meal before she does. Eating quickly was a survival technique growing up, and those habits are slow to unravel. But I’m happy to enjoy Marigold’s warmth soaking into my side as she takes tiny bites and savors the last of her dinner.
When she stands, I stand too, but she pushes me back down. “I get the dishes, remember? You agreed.” She refills my wine glass.
It’s not a bad view. She sways to music in her head while she washes up the two plates and sets them on the counter. They belong to the diner, not the cabin.
Despite the fire, the chill of the rain seeps into the living room too. Once she’s satisfied with the kitchen’s cleanliness, Marigold ducks into her room.
A moment later, she lets out a little shriek.
I scramble around the coffee table and have her half in my arms before she lets out a laugh.
A slow drip falls from the ceiling right into the center of her bed. The leak has spread across her bedspread and surely soaked down into the sheets.
“Ah, shit.”
