“Thank you.” The words are too soft.
And the meek, shy girl is back.
I think I preferred her with a little fire.
Hell, I know I did.
The way my gut flipped, the way my cock twitched at her pouty fucking face and blazing eyes trying to shred me to pieces where I stood.
“Nope.”
“Pardon?”
“Not me you need to thank, remember?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Thank Iris for me if you would, please?”
I move toward the door where she stands, slapping a hand onto the frame. I’m almost in her space. But hell, she’s in mine, so it’s only fair. Her cheeks are flushed as her eyes dart around the small cottage. And her frown deepens with every moment that passes. “This is...”
“My space.”
I slam the door in her face. The echo of a little gasp hits the other side, and I scoff a laugh before turning back to put away my few items. Gravel crunches under her footsteps as she walks back to the house. The last thing I need is for Little Miss Meek-and-Mild to feel fucking sorry for me.
That ain’t happening.
Sand sprays up from each heavy footfall. Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down my face and neck before soaking intomy T-shirt. The sweatpants I wear are threadbare at best, letting plenty of the wind’s chill through to my skin. I pump my arms harder. The waves lap at my right, sending me faster. I’ve run for as long as I can remember. Whenever I have something I need to work through, that is.
Right now, I need to get that meek twentysomething’s pretty face out of my head. Those soul-eating deep browns of hers don’t belong there.Sheshouldn’t be there. The last time a woman got under my skin, she came off worse for wear.
Understatement of the century.
A familiar burn lances through my chest. I push my body faster through the sand that becomes denser as the tide comes in, but I fail to sidestep out of its way. Sands and foaming water slosh through my toes. The sun warms my right shoulder. Its slow rise is the only way to tell the earth is still spinning and the rest of the world still exists.
I have been content living on my own on this small piece of sandy land for over a decade. After everything that happened, it was a welcome solace. It still is, in a way. But having Miss Twentysomething here is a change I thought I’d hate. Surprisingly, I don’t.
Not getting attached to that idea. No fucking way. You get attached; people leave. One way or another.
That’s the only true thing left in this life.
I take a sharp left and power up the slope of the dune that meets the grassy island by the lighthouse. Air barreling through my charred lungs, I fold over and grip my knees at the top and let each breath sear me however it sees fit. I like the burn—reminds me I’m still here. The sun heats my back, the sweat cooling with the easterly, where my shirt clings. With a long, slow inhale, I stand up and walk toward the hut.
The fragrance of coffee swirls through the air on the breeze, and...
Is that bacon?
Not my bacon.
Not my house, currently.
With a sigh, I push through the small weathered door to the hut. God, I could use a shower. The small, chipped enamel tub I have to fill from the only running water at the vanity stares back at me. The scent of cooking bacon wafts through my tiny window.
“Right, that’s it.”
I grab my towel, toothbrush, and soap and stalk my way to the house. Without knocking, I stride inside, through the living room, and head for the stairs. In my periphery, I see a stunned twentysomething with a messy bun, her PJs still on under a long cardigan that reaches her knees. One of her shoulders is left bare as the cardigan and top slip when she turns suddenly with her mouth agape. The thin material covering her chest doesn’t put up much of a fight as the cold morning finds her skin, and her nipples pebble.
Eyes anywhere else, McCreary.
Fuck me.
