Page 11 of Feastin' with Fire
"This is you?" I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
"Built most of it myself," he says, and I detect a hint of pride in his tone.
He pulls up beside the house and cuts the engine. Before I can reach for the door handle, he's out and coming around to my side, opening the door for me. Such an old-fashioned gesture, but from him, it doesn't feel patronizing.
I step down, very aware of the shortness of this dress and how his eyes flicker briefly to my legs before returning to my face. That quick glance sends another rush of heat between my thighs. Fuck, I need to get myself under control.
As he leads the way to the front door, I can't help but notice the way his back tapers from broad shoulders to a narrow waist, the play of muscles visible even through his shirt. This man isn'tjust in good shape. He's solid, built for function rather than appearance, which somehow makes it all the more appealing.
"Come on," he says, leading the way to the front door. "I'll show you around."
I follow him up the porch steps, taking in the peaceful setting. The house sits in a small clearing surrounded by pine trees, with no neighbors in sight. It's private in a way that should maybe concern me.
I'm literally in the middle of nowhere with a man I barely know, but somehow, I've never felt safer.
The inside of the house is a pleasant surprise. It's masculine without being sparse. Comfortable-looking furniture, hardwood floors, large windows that let in natural light. The main room is open concept, with a kitchen along one wall and a living area centered around a stone fireplace.
"It's beautiful," I say honestly.
"Kitchen's through there," he says, pointing. "Help yourself to anything. Bathroom is down the hall on the right. And this—" he moves toward a door on the left side of the house, "—will be your room."
He pushes open the door to reveal a simple but comfortable bedroom with a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and a small desk by the window. The walls are a soft blue, the bedding crisp and white.
"This is perfect," I say, stepping inside. "Really, Jimmy, I can't thank you enough."
He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed by my gratitude. "It's just a room."
But it's not just a room. It's safety when I have none, shelter when I've lost everything, kindness when I most need it. Theemotion wells up suddenly, catching me off guard, and before I can stop it, I'm crying again.
"Shit, I'm sorry," I say, wiping furiously at my face. "I swear I'm not usually this weepy."
"It's fine," he says, looking distinctly uncomfortable with my tears. His hands flex at his sides, the muscles in his forearms tensing as if he's fighting the urge to reach out. "You've been through hell. You're allowed to cry."
I nod, trying to pull myself together. "I promise I won't stay long. Just until I figure things out."
He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe, and the movement makes his biceps bulge impressively, straining against the sleeves of his t-shirt. I wonder fleetingly if he has any idea what the sight does to me.
"Stay as long as you need," he says. "I'm not in any rush to kick you out."
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I believe it. I believe this can go somewhere than just friendliness. Or maybe I'm imagining it, projecting my inappropriate attraction onto a man who's just being kind.
He looks away first. "I'll let you get settled. Bathroom's all yours if you want to clean up. Towels in the cabinet under the sink."
"Thank you," I say again, because what else can I say to this man who's giving me everything I need when I have nothing to offer in return?
He nods once and turns to leave but pauses at the door. "Lily?"
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth, I don't think you're stupid for standing up to your parents. I think you're brave as hell."
With that, he's gone, closing the door behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of a stranger's guest room wearing a borrowed yellow dress and damp panties, with nothing to my name except the lingering smell of smoke in my hair and the memory of his blue eyes when he called me brave.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the clean white comforter. For the first time since the fire, I allow myself to think beyond the immediate crisis. What comes next? How do I rebuild from absolutely nothing?
I don't know the answer. But somehow, in this house, with this gruff, kind man nearby, the question doesn't seem quite as terrifying as it did before.
Chapter 7 - Jimmy
