Page 18
Eden
“ Y ou done?” Rhys says when he rejoins me, in front of a wonky pineapple block quilt.
His voice is brusque, his posture stiff. He’s the Rhys of a few days ago, distant and removed.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Everything’s fine.”
I don’t press. I know him better now, and I know that sometimes he climbs inside the remote shell. It’s a disguise, or armor. The way he meets the world when he doesn’t feel comfortable.
Knowing I’ve caught a rare glimpse of the real him does something to my insides.
Eden, I chastise myself. You were just engaged. He’s your ex-husband’s lawyer. He lives in New York.
There are tons of really good reasons why I shouldn’t take any pleasure in cracking him open. In having spent a day with the softer, more carefree version of him.
“I’ve seen everything I need to see,” I tell him.
The show was small, and while he talked on the phone, I finished admiring the last few quilts, soaking up what they had to teach and writing down the names of an artist or two I’ll follow up with when I get home.
“Shopping time, then?”
I nod.
We start off in the direction we’ve been pointed, following the instructions we were given.
I hurry my steps to keep up with his long stride.
I can tell already that at this pace, my shoes are going to be a problem, but I don’t ask him to slow down.
I know he will—but I also think he needs to be moving.
We turn onto the main drag, where a chain-link fence parallels the road.
He switches sides with me, nudging my shoulder, edging me toward the fence with the wall of his body, putting himself between traffic and me.
It’s another of his tiny acts of kindness, like cooking dinner, like making sure I have the bed, like stopping at the quilt show, and it—along with his body heat—melts me another few degrees.
We skirt a parking lot, and another. I’m breathless, maybe because of the speed we’re walking, but maybe because of the graze now and again of his shoulder against mine.
It feels like that side of me is alight.
I put one foot in front of the other so I don’t lean into the sensation. So I don’t turn and step into it.
There’s a long stretch of sketchy too-tall grass and weeds, and Rhys looks down at my feet. “I’ll give you a piggyback.”
“Why?”
“Because your feet are mostly bare and there could be glass or needles or who knows the fuck what in here.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll keep an eye and pick carefully.”
“Just take the piggyback,” he says.
I have my reasons for thinking it’s a bad idea, but when he crouches, I secure my hat, sling my purse cross body, jump, and let him catch me.
And yeah, it’s a bad idea. His hands are on my thighs, fingers spread wide and strong, and I have to squeeze my legs together to keep my seat.
Something in my low belly likes the feel of all of that way too much.
Then he strides forward, and I can feel the bunch and release of muscle.
Rhys smells so goddamn good, musky and spicy, the kind of good that makes me want to bury my face deep in the scent.
I lean my cheek against his shoulder, the brim of my hat folding between us, and grip him tighter with both legs and hands.
He lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.
I think that means he likes this, too.
Like maybe he’s as aware of the grip of my thighs on his waist as I am. Like maybe he can feel my nipples getting stiffer every time they accidentally brush his back. Or the way the seam of my sweatpants is hotter and damper than it was when I climbed onto his back.
Suddenly I realize we’re standing still.
“We’re here,” he says, and there’s amusement in his voice. “You can, um, get down.”
My cheeks flame. I slide off.
“Thanks for the ride.” My words are pitched too high.
“It was my pleasure.” His voice is rough—or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
I’m not looking at him, but I can feel him staring at me. I point at the store’s sliding doors. “I’ll just go—in there—and buy some—clean underwear,” I say.
Awesome, Eden. Awesome.
Table of Contents
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- Page 18 (Reading here)
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