Ugh, well, I don’t feel much like eating, not when my stuff was just ransacked by strangers. I feel violated somehow—like I let them see a piece of me that they didn’t deserve to know.
I blink rapidly, sniffling loudly and feeling like curling in on myself as we make our way back to the car. I just want to have a good cry, but I don’t want to break down in front of Dean. I don’t want him to think that I’m some fragile boy that needs protection. I can take care of myself, and have been for many, many years.
“Avery, hey, come here,” Dean says softly when he sees me hunched over in my seat, my head against the glass of the window.
I peek over at him through wet eyelashes and see that he’s pointing to the middle seat of the Impala, right next to him. And suddenly, my tears are forgotten.
“What?” I squeak out.
“Come here,” he reiterates.
“You mean, like right next to you?” I ask softly, and he nods.
Well, like hell I’m saying no to that. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Without a second thought, I unbuckle and scoot over to the middle seat, and he wraps that big arm around me again, pulling me into his side.
Just when I thought he couldn’t be any more perfect, he goes and holds me when I’m upset. How does he know what I need without me saying a word? Now I’m even more in love with him. I’m marrying him in my mind. I’ve already picked out my wedding dress.
“You’re going to regret this,” I say, peeking up at him. “Now I’m going to expect cuddles every time I’m sad.”
He smirks and shrugs. “We’ll see.”
Yes, we will.
We drive back across town and grab some fast food before heading to his place. It’s a small, one-story house with a detached garage set off to the side. There’s nothing spectacular about it, just an ordinary residence, but immediately my mind is conjuring up the things I’d do if it were mine. I’d paint it a wild color, first of all, with a brightly colored door. Maybe blue and yellow. Potted plants would line the front porch, and I’d for sure add in some trees. Birch maybe, and some Canada Red Cherry trees. They aren’t really meant for this warmer climate, but they remind me of home.
I used to watch them lose their leaves in the fall and bloom in the spring.
“Home sweet home,” Dean says, moving his arm away from me and shutting off the car. He gets out, popping the trunk in the process, and grabs all my stuff, slinging the black plastic bag over his shoulder. I just stand there and watch this man carry all my belongings inside his house. Really, I’m ogling his back muscles that are clearly visible beneath his shirt and trying to regain my bearings. After all, I was just snuggled up against him for twenty minutes. I can smell him on me.
He didn’t even remove his arm when we went through the drive-thru—just acted like this was totally normal.
Nothing about my situation is normal.
Dean is straight. He likes women. Do not get any ideas up in that pretty head of yours, Avery Mitchell.
I grab the greasy bag of food from the passenger seat and follow Dean inside the house, looking around at the sparsely decorated space. It’s a total man cave.
I would toss some colorful paint on the walls and buy some throw pillows to lighten the space up. God, if this house was mine, I would give it the biggest makeover. You wouldn’t even recognize it.
Quickly, I shake those thoughts away because I sound ungrateful. I am so fucking thankful that I have a place to sleep tonight. Sleeping in a car is hell. I am so glad I’m not doing that again tonight.
“Back here,” he says, moving down a short hallway and pushing open a door with his foot.
“Here you go,” he says, carefully setting the box and bag down on the floor. A twin bed is pushed up against a wall and a small desk with a computer sits directly opposite. There’s a dresser shoved into the closet and a dead plant on the windowsill. The carpet is gray and the walls are plain white, paint chipping in some places.
I’d paint this room lavender.
“Where’s your bedroom?” I ask, turning to face Dean, tucking my hands into my overall pockets.
His hands are clutching the doorframe, his shirt riding up that muscular torso, showing me just enough skin to make my entire body break out in a sweat. Holy shit, he looks like he should be on a wall calendar. A sexy older man calendar.
I’d buy that in a heartbeat and jack off to it nightly, coming right across his face.
“Just over here,” he says, nodding behind him.
“That’s so…close,” I say, swallowing, and he smiles wickedly at me.
