Probably not kissing her and grinding into her until I blew in my pants would have been a great start.
Or not making her sit on the edge of my hot tub so I could eye fuck the way her bathing suit violated her.
“I don’t mind. It’s”—her hand waves around in front of her—“whatever. I felt bad for Luke. You work hard all day. You didn’t need to walk into a barf-covered house.”
“You’re not a maid, Willa.”
Her lips quirk up and her eyes narrow. I’ve noticed this look. It comes right before she says something inappropriate. “I was a sexy one for Halloween one year.”
I scowl at her. Internally I’m scowling at myself because my first two thoughts were:
1. Does she still have that costume?
2. How do I track down and kill every guy who saw her wearing it?
She snickers and I ignore her. It’s what’s best for both of us. “You cleaned my entire house but left your own vehicle saturated with vomit?”
Her head wobbles from side to side. “Well, yeah. It seemed like a problem for another day. I’m going to get it detailed. It’s not a big deal, so you can stop reenacting that porno anytime now.”
“I’m almost done, Willa. It seems like the least I can do for you,” I grumble, ducking back into the Jeep, needing to stop staring at her and seeing her lips part on the word porno.
“Cade, stop. It’s seven a.m. and you were home late. What time were you up? Don’t you have work?”
“I don’t sleep in, Red. And I’m taking the day off to take care of you guys.”
She doesn’t respond. I hear the front door shut and let out a sigh, relieved she walked away. I get lost in shampooing the seat, watching the bubbles form and turn into a white foam.
It’s a pleasant escape. Manual labor has a peculiar way of stilling my mind, easing my worries—keeping me on track and focused on the things that matter.
I'm lost in thoughts of things that matter when I feel a soft hand press against the center of my back.
I squeeze my eyes shut—hard—because I know who I’m about to face and I need to play it cool.
But when I turn to Willa, I feel the pads of her fingers trail along my ribs. And then she’s standing before me, holding a steaming mug of fresh coffee. Wide green eyes look up at me—a hint of confusion in them. So many questions. And a softness that I want to pull out and wrap myself in.
She holds the cup out to me. “Here. Seems like the least I could do.”
And I realize that taking a moment with my eyes closed to give myself an internal pep talk will not keep me away from Willa Grant at all.
I need to try harder because she’s quickly becoming one of those things that matter to me. And I’m not sure I can handle more responsibility.
17
Willa
Luke has managed to keep water, ginger ale, and some soda crackers down over the course of the day. He’s also snuggled the hell out of me on the couch, and I am living for it.
At first, I wasn’t sure. Because with Cade around, I felt he should be the one soaking up the cuddles. But he’s kept himself busy, and I’ve caught the occasional soft look he’s given us on the couch.
Luke’s propped against the end with his legs slung over my lap as he leans into my shoulder. He’s been twiddling my hair in his pudgy fingers for a while now—reminds me of his dad.
We’re watching some cartoon, and I wish I could say what it was about, but I’m altogether too aware of Cade puttering around the house. Cleaning. Fixing stuff.
He literally washed the baseboards.
I’ve never known a man to be so tidy. But he’s also driving me insane. Sitting around while he works makes me twitchy.
When he pulls all the food out of the fridge to wipe things down, I break.
“Cade, you’re giving me a headache. Please come sit and watch some silly, mind-numbing cartoon with us.”
“Hey!” Luke pouts up at me like I’ve just insulted some sort of Oscar-worthy performance rather than something that only holds children’s attention because it’s bright and flashes non-stop. It’s the music that kills me. It’s so bad.
“You saying my mind could use a little numbing, Red?” Cade grumps from the kitchen without even glancing up at me.
“Yes. You’re giving me anxiety.”
“I’ll cook you something. You’re always less peppy when you’re full.”
I snort. “Dick.”
The sizzle of something in a pan hits me first.
Then the smell of butter.