“I’ll leave you to change,” I say, and disappear again.
Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve grabbed the backpack from the front porch and finished loading the dishwasher, I still haven’t heard a peep from him, so I stop by the door and listen for a moment, then say, “Hello, is everything okay in there? Do you need anything?” There’s no response, so I open the door slowly and peek inside. A small smile crosses my face when I see him tucked under the blue comforter, fast asleep, his mouth parted slightly and his hands situated under the thick pillow. God, he must be exhausted. I step inside and grab his dirty clothes to wash them, then turn off the light and shut the door behind me.
As I change into my own pajamas and climb into bed, I have one thought on my mind. I hope I can get him to stay longer than one night, because the idea of him being out there again, knowing what could and probably will happen to him, is enough to gut me. I couldn’t save my son. I’m hoping I can save him.
ChapterThree
CHARLIE
I wake to the sun shining in my face and I’m incredibly confused when I realize I’ve slept through the night. No noise, no shivering, no rock hard ground underneath me, no being afraid. Not even one of my usual nightmares. Instead I’m laying in the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in, surrounded by thick plush blankets and a soft pillow. The room smells fresh, unlike me. I fucking reek. How long has it been since I showered? I don’t think I want to answer that.
I groan as my head throbs painfully, and when I blink open my eyes, I notice some pain relievers and a glass of water on the nightstand. He must have put them there either last night after I passed out or early this morning.
I still can’t believe I let myself sleep over at a complete stranger’s house. But after the night I’d had, it sounded pretty great. One night is fine. I just won’t make a habit of it. I’ll be on my way after breakfast and a shower.
I down the pills and the glass of water before pulling the comforter back. I blink down at myself when I realize what I’m wearing. My head is fuzzy with memories from the previous night, but I do recall the other man lending me his T-shirt. It’s practically a dress on me. Well, a very short dress that barely covers my bum. It’s insanely comfortable though, and it has his scent. A mix of pine and citrus.
I stand and run my fingers through my hair. Glancing across the room, I see my backpack resting on the chair near the closet. I can’t for the life of me figure this guy out. Why on earth he helped me at all, why he’s letting me stay here and not expecting anything in return.
Except for breakfast. Shoot, I was supposed to make breakfast.
I tear out of the room and down the hall to the open kitchen and living room area and skid to a stop, standing there in my oversized shirt and socks.
“Good morning,” he says with a slight chuckle when he glances over at me. “Did you sleep well?” And all I can think is, damn, Grandpa is fine. He’s wearing tight jeans that accentuate his amazing ass and a snug-fitting T-shirt that shows off his biceps and toned upper body. Fuck, who knew an old guy could be this hot? Gotta be something wrong with him, though, right? If he’s single? Maybe he’s a total dick. But he hasn’t been anything but kind to me so far.
“I, uh, yeah,” I stammer, and I notice his gaze lingering on my bare legs for a split second before he glances away, his cheeks flushed. I bite my lip. Was he just checking me out? I’ve got some kind of mixed feelings about that. Maybe I shouldn’t since I was just doing the exact same thing to him, but I’ve had way too many people use me for my body, and while it was my choice, it was also because I felt like I didn’t have a choice, and I’m tired of feeling like an object or a fucking toy. Still, he hasn’t made any advances, only cared for me so far. And the expression on his face just now wasn’t one of lust, more embarrassment.
I narrow my eyes at him. “I thought I was supposed to make breakfast. We had a deal.”
“I’m sorry,” he says genuinely. “I meant to let you, but it was getting late and I was hungry, and I didn’t want to wake you. You needed rest.”
I want to growl at him, be angry with him. But his words are so thoughtful and so sincere, I just can’t bring myself to be upset. I know I should thank him, but words won’t come out. He seems to sense my internal conflict and comes to my rescue.
“You like waffles?” I nod, my mouth watering. I can’t remember the last time I had a homemade waffle.
“Sit,” he says, and gestures to the small kitchen table. I do and he places a large plate with a warm waffle on it in front of me, along with a fork. Then he brings over syrup, sliced strawberries, blueberries, peaches, and whipped cream. Shit. I don’t even know where to start. My stomach growls so loudly I know he must have heard it but he doesn’t say anything.
He glances back at me from his place at the counter where he’s making a second waffle. “Dig in.”
“You feeling okay?” he asks a few minutes later as he sits across from me. My waffle is almost gone, I've inhaled it so fast. He glances at my plate and I swallow another bite, my cheeks flushed. Shit, am I being rude? I don’t know. Am I eating too fast, being messy, chewing loudly?
“Is something wrong?” I say.
“Not at all,” he replies, with a slight chuckle. “You just seem hungry. I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Here.” Before I can say anything he’s sliding his plate over to me with a soft smile on his face.
I shake my head. “I’m not taking your food.”
“I don’t have a shortage of waffle mix. I can make another.” He gestures to the plate with his head. “Eat. I’m making bacon and eggs, too. You want some coffee? It’ll probably help with your hangover.”
I sigh. I hate nice people. Especially stubborn, nice people. I pull the plate to me as he stands and heads back to the counter to turn on the Keurig.
“Coffee?” he asks again, and I nod.
“Yes, please,” I get out over a mouthful of waffle. He chuckles and I flush again. What is it about this guy? He’s fucking old enough to be my dad, I’m pretty sure, but I’m finding myself drawn to him. He’s incredibly sweet and generous, and he tolerates my sarcasm well, which is a bonus, because it’s about ninety percent of my personality.
I find myself staring at his back side as he moves around the kitchen. It’s quite a nice view. For an old guy, I mean.
“How old are you?” I blurt. I’ve never been one to mince words. Gets me in trouble sometimes, but somehow I don’t think he’ll mind my bluntness.
