Page 11

MYRA

Swiping at the bit of hair that’s fallen out of the messy bun I quickly crafted before rushing downstairs this morning, I carefully fold the omelet lining the non-stick pan in front of me.

It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked, so I’m a little out of practice, but I think I’ve still managed to whip up a decent breakfast.

When I opened my fridge last night after Simon left—planning to get a bottle of water to take up to bed—I discovered the stacks of wood and wire weren’t the only things he’d brought into my house while I was at work.

The once bare shelves were now filled with all sorts of grocery items. Vegetables, lunch meat, eggs, and cheese, packed the mostly unused appliance to the gills.

I stared at everything for a few seconds, shocked and not quite sure how I felt about it. I wanted to think Simon had crossed a line. Taken control I didn’t give him.

But warmth bloomed through my insides, seeping into all the frozen corners that iced over the day I discovered my life wasn’t my own.

No one has ever taken care of me before.

Not my parents when I was little—everything was always about my father—and certainly not my husband when I was an adult.

I recognize that’s probably not Simon’s primary motive here.

He’s going to be spending a lot of time in my house, so he probably wants access to food. But still.

He did this all on his own. He saw a need and went out and took care of it. And he didn’t even mention it. Didn’t want me to tell him how good of a boy he was. Didn’t need to hear how impressive it was he knew how to buy food at a food store.

That’s why, this morning, I’m doing something nice for him back.

I told myself I would never take care of another man. Never bring him his food. Never lay out his clothes. Never lay back and count the passing seconds as he quenched his husbandly thirst.

But this doesn’t feel anything like that. Simon isn’t my husband, and the caretaking isn’t one-sided.

That must be why I’m feeling a little excited as I finish plating up the food and head out my front door, hoping Simon can make at least halfway decent coffee in that ridiculous camper of his.

As I approach the door to his fifth wheel, I start to realize knocking on it isn’t going to be simple with my hands full, and I start trying to shift everything around in my hands. But before I can free up a set of knuckles for knocking, the door swings open, and I nearly swallow my tongue.

Simon stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, sinful lips pulled into a smile. Shirtless.

I knew he was attractive. Could tell he was well-built by the way a T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. I still couldn’t have come up with this. Not even in my wildest dreams.

And lately, my dreams have been pretty wild.

“Good morning.” His voice is deep and low and it snakes down my spine, warming me up just as much as the sight of my filled fridge did last night.

Only this warmth keeps drifting lower. It’s my own fault. Two mornings in a row now, my morning masturbation sessions have featured him. Front and center.

My body has apparently started associating him with getting off, which is going to be a problem. Because the throb in my clit as I take him in is more than a little distracting.

I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. “I brought breakfast.”

Simon’s lips slowly curve. “I see that.”

“Well, someone went to all the trouble of filling my refrigerator, so I figured throwing a little of what I found together in a pan was the least I could do.” I shift on my feet, feeling oddly vulnerable. This is a strange moment for me. One I have no precedent to compare to.

Actually, pretty much every interaction I have with Simon is unprecedented. He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever known. That’s probably why I feel so drawn to him. He’s the opposite of the men in my past, and that’s really flipping appealing.

“It looks amazing.” Simon steps back, stretching one arm out, palms spread wide as he braces the door open so I can enter.

Since the camper door opens out, he’s positioned on the stairs leading in.

It’s not a big opening, so my body brushes against his as I pass, making every nerve ending that receives contact light up along with my rogue lady parts.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment. What nearly thirty-year-old woman reacts to nothing more than a bit of casual contact?

One who’s never had a man touch her with the intention of bringing her any sort of pleasure, that’s who.

I was married for years, and not a single time could Matthias have cared less about whether I enjoyed my marital duties .

If the man knew what a clitoris was, he sure as heck didn’t show it.

I guess it’s not surprising, considering any woman who did enjoy something like that would likely be considered wanton.

Less desirable for it. Anything that may have brought any sort of happiness was designated impure or uncouth or ungodly.

And right now I’m feeling very ungodly.

Without his shirt on, the scent of Simon’s skin permeates the air, surrounding me with an oaky spiciness I wish I could bottle and spray everywhere.

By some miracle, I manage to sneak past him without dropping a plateful of a potato down the front of his well sculpted chest. Once I’m inside his camper, I go straight for the table and chairs, deciding they might be a better option than reclining on the sofa with a half-naked Simon only a few feet away.

At least this way there will be a big slab of wood between us.

I stop at the edge and carefully lower each of the plates to the surface. “It’s nothing fancy.” I peek over one shoulder, giving him a smile as I repeat the words he said to me about the dinner he made last night. “But it should keep us from starving to death while we work.”

“Fancy is overrated.”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the nearness of Simon’s voice.

The only thing that keeps it from happening is that the entirety of my body is in the process of melting at the rumbly tone in my ear.

He’s so close I can feel the warmth of his body at my back.

We’re not touching, but all it would take is a slight shift on my feet and our bodies would be pressed together.

And that’s way more tempting than it should be.

“Sometimes fancy is nice.” I force my brain back to the conversation and away from half-naked Simon. “Champagne is pretty great. It’s also fun to dress up sometimes.”

Simon pulls out the chair closest to me, tipping his head toward it. “Do you go to many events where you get to dress up?”

“Not as many as I’d like. But the day spa where I work hosts two galas a year, and the next one is in a few weeks.

” The first one I attended was held right when I started—back when I was in training and didn’t really know anyone.

It was fun, but I think this one will be a totally different experience because now I have friends and don’t feel so out of place.

“It’s not black-tie, but it’s close.” I slide into the chair Simon is still holding onto, giving him a small smile.

“I probably need to start looking for a dress to wear, now that I’m thinking about it. ”

Simon settles into the seat across from me, picking up his fork. “Sounds like you have a lot on your plate.”

Do I? I don’t feel like I do. In fact, I purposefully shove things off of my plate because I don’t quite know how to make them fit. There’s plenty of room, I just can’t wrap my head around the way they need to be served.

“Not really. All I do is work, honestly.” My face is turned toward my plate, but I peek up at Simon through my lashes, feeling a little exposed when I admit, “I wish I had other things on my plate, but I guess we can’t all have what we wish for.”

Simon motions to my fork, lifting his brows until I pick it up and take a bite. Once I do, he finally digs into his own food, shoveling in a mouthful of fried potatoes before asking, “What do you wish was on your plate?”

I take a deep breath, realizing I’ve probably admitted too much.

I haven’t confessed my deep desire to have children to anyone—not even Lydia—and it feels weird admitting it to Simon over a casual breakfast. I decide to keep my answer as neutral and uninteresting as possible.

“I’d like to get my house a little more livable for starters.

Probably look into building a garage or maybe a carport in the back. ”

Simon nods, listening intently to my half-assed aspirations. “Those are both really doable things.” He lifts one shoulder, letting it drop like it’s not a big deal. “All you need is a plan.”

“I’m not so great at planning.” I wish I was. It’s the discovery about myself that I found the most embarrassing and frustrating.

Matthias always acted like I wouldn’t be able to live without him.

And while I’ve proven that belief wrong, I haven’t really shown I’m capable of living well without him.

Life is hectic and loud and chaotic. Making decisions is stressful and confusing and hard.

It’s easier to just not do it. But then I end up stagnant.

Like I am now.

“I guess it’s your lucky day then, because I’m famous for my ability to make plans.” Simon shovels in another mouthful of the breakfast I made him, looking a little smug about his—admittedly enviable—talent for adulting.

“I feel like you’re rubbing that in.”

When he points at my plate, I take another bite, managing to enjoy my food while it’s hot because he keeps me focused.

That’s another thing I’m not great at. Keeping my train of thought.

At work, I’m fine. Everything moves so fast I don’t have the chance to lose track of where I’m at.

But at home? I’ve walked around for an embarrassingly long time wearing only one shoe because I kept forgetting to put the other one on.

I’ve almost peed my pants because every time I went to use the bathroom, I found something in need of my attention.

Almost all my clothes go through three fluff cycles before I manage to get them out of the dryer.

Then one more before they get folded.

Who I am now is such a stark contrast to who I had to be when I was married, that some days it’s hard to believe past me even existed.

Maybe she didn’t.

“That doesn’t sound like me.” Simon offers another grin. “I’m the humble sort.”

My eyes wander, working their way over his shoulders and pecs. “You probably shouldn’t be.”

Even though I hear the words, it doesn’t register I’ve said them out loud until Simon stops chewing, his gaze darkening where it rests on my face.

I can barely breathe as his eyes hold mine. No one’s ever looked at me the way he is now, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

That’s a lie. I know exactly how I feel about it.

The fire licking over every inch of me is impossible to miss.

But I don’t know how I should feel about it.

Just like the fridge full of groceries and the way he keeps gently ordering me to eat, this is another thing I feel like I should hate.

Another thing that should remind me of where I used to be.

But it doesn’t. And I don’t know how to unpack that.

Simon’s intense gaze finally leaves mine, dropping away as he shifts in his seat. “I should go finish getting dressed so we can get started.”

I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

I run my clammy palms down the front of my jeans as he disappears up the small staircase into the front of the camper. The last few minutes have been intense. Not only have I had to face down a few of my confusingly contradictory thoughts, but I also had to face down a half-naked Simon.

And I know damn well he’s going to be making an appearance in my brain every morning from now until the end of time.

“Ready?” He comes back way before I’m ready, and damned if he doesn’t look just as good in a worn T-shirt hugging his biceps and chest like a clingy girlfriend.

Not that I can blame it. If I was wrapped around his body I’d probably be pretty clingy too.

“Yup.” I stand, reaching for our empty plates, but Simon beats me to it.

“I’ll carry these.” He stacks them together before straightening, his dark eyes as soft as the smile curling his lips. “You make a damn good breakfast, My. I might have to sleep in a little more often.”

I can’t stop the way my shoulders straighten, spine stretching as his praise bolsters the broken bits of me.

I try to pretend I’ve fixed them, but I haven’t.

Not really. All I’ve managed to do is slap on a coat of paint.

Hiding the worst of the damage behind highlights, cute clothes, and a few liberating-looking tattoos.

But not a single bit of it did as much for me as Simon calling me a good girl and complimenting my cooking.

Simon balances the plates on one hand as he lets us out of his camper. Once the door is closed behind us, he moves in at my side, leaning into my ear. “Is it okay if I keep one hand on you in case you try to eat the sidewalk on me again?”

My eyes fall to his free hand, stomach flipping at the thought of it being on me. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

My breath stutters when his wide palm spreads over my lower back, searing into me like a brand. It’s warm and steady and there to keep me safe and has me all sorts of fluttery inside.

But it’s the way he asked before touching me—instead of acting like it was his right—that has my belly twisting like a pretzel.

And my mind conjuring up all sorts of other places I’d like him to ask to touch me.