Page 8

MYRA

Staring up at the ceiling, I try to talk myself into getting out of bed. Nothing good will come of opening the drawer beside me.

My eyes still roll that way, fixing on the handle, tempting me to reach for it. But I can’t. I know exactly how this will play out, and it’s only going to make my life more confusing.

More complicated.

Clamping one hand between my thighs, I put pressure on the throb there, trying to calm it down. Smother it out.

Wrong move.

Instead of easing the ache that’s been building since I opened my eyes, the contact only inflames it. A quiet whimper slides free and I close my eyes, squeezing them tight as I try to reign in the surge of sensation.

But the second I close my eyes, all I see is Simon. The easy smile he offered so many times last night. The deep rumble of his voice. The broad expanse of his chest when he pulled me against it after saving me from taking a tumble.

The rough drag of his fingers across my skin as he held me tight.

What would they feel like in other places? Would they be gentle?

Or demanding.

Maybe both.

Before I can fully process what I’m doing, my hand is down the front of my sleep pants, fingers sliding to rub the spot I can imagine Simon touching. Stroking.

Possibly licking.

My breath catches as an orgasm slams into me, hard and fast, riding the mental image of Simon’s tongue swiping against my most sensitive part.

It’s one of many interactions I’ve never experienced. I’ve had sex more times than I care to consider, but every one of them was a whole lot like being jabbed with the blunt end of a stick—uncomfortable, but more annoying than anything.

I can’t help but think it wouldn’t be like that with Simon, but that’s probably just my romance novel fueled brain feeding me what it knows I’m hungry for.

“Ugh.” I fling back the covers, hating myself for the lack of restraint I showed. “You’re never going to be able to look him in the eye if you keep thinking of him when you masturbate.”

Trudging into the bathroom, I go through the morning motions. After peeing and washing my hands, I scrub my face and poke in my contacts.

I’m just finishing brushing my teeth when someone knocks on my door.

The only person who comes to my house this early is Lydia, and she lets herself in the back door, so my stomach flips at the sound. Not because of its unexpectedness, but because the possibility of who might be on my doorstep is pretty narrow.

After spitting the foam in my mouth down the drain and checking to make sure I don’t look as guilty as I feel, I head out of my bedroom and down the unfinished steps, swallowing hard at the tall frame visible through the frosted glass.

Pressing my lips together to smother out the smile trying to work across them, I open the door, eyes bouncing around the sight before me.

As I expected, it’s Simon. As I also sort of expected, he has food. What I wasn’t expecting was for him to also be carrying two collapsible chairs.

He lifts the plates higher. “Hungry?”

I angle a brow at him. “Maybe.”

Resisting the urge to feel my cheeks to gauge the blush creeping across them, I step back and open the door wider. I’m sure he won’t be able to tell what I was just doing.

Well, pretty sure.

Struggling to meet his gaze, I motion at the food. “Is this your way of telling me you really do want a tour of my house?”

“Possibly.” Simon steps inside, his eyes moving around the space a lot like they did last night. “It could also be my way of forcing you to keep me company so I don’t have to eat alone.”

“I was the best option you could come up with?” I close the door behind him then make my way down the hall toward the nicest part of my house. “You could have gone to Christian and Lydia’s. They have furniture.”

Simon grimaces. “I learned the hard way not to go over there in the morning.”

I cringe. “Me too.” I reach my kitchen and go straight to the coffee maker. “Now I make sure I stay right by the back door and yell really loud so they know I’m there.”

“Smart.” Simon sets both plates on the counter then swings the chairs off his shoulder. While he takes off their carrying covers, I go to work making us each a cup of coffee.

It’s an odd sort of situation. One I’ve seen occur, but never really experienced firsthand.

My marriage wasn’t a team effort. Like so much else, it was divided along uneven lines.

I was raised to believe there are things men do and things women do, and the two don’t generally crossover.

So having a man cook for me, not only once, but twice now, is surreal.

Especially when the man also wants to converse with me.

Asks me questions and genuinely listens to my answers.

The first cup of coffee finishes brewing right as Simon gets both chairs situated. I turn to him, angling a brow. “How do you take yours?”

Ignoring the chairs and the food, he comes toward me. Tipping his head at the mug in my hand, he shakes his head. “That’s not mine. That’s yours.”

I huff out a little laugh, because I’m not sure how to react to that. Honestly, I’m not sure how to react to most of what Simon says and does. “You made breakfast. The least I can do is give you the first cup of coffee.”

Simon picks up the second mug I pulled out and loads it onto the machine.

“No. The least you can do is sit down and start eating.” After dropping in a coffee pod and setting it to run, he turns to me, leaning back against the counter, crossing both arms over his chest. “You have to work today. I don’t. ”

“I don’t have to be at work until eleven.” It’s a pretty decent argument, but it doesn’t get me anywhere.

Simon points to the chairs. “Sit and eat.” It’s the first time he’s demanded I do something, and I expect it to annoy me. Assume it will take the edge off the fascination I have with him and begin the process of popping the bubble I’ve put around him.

It doesn’t.

Unlike the men of my past, he’s not demanding I do something for him. He’s demanding I take care of myself. And I’m faced with a scenario that’s never been put in front of me before. Again.

Since I don’t really know what else to do, I find my feet moving to the chairs.

When I sit down, I lift my eyes to find Simon watching me, an almost pleased expression on his face. Like watching me take precedence brings him some sort of satisfaction.

I clear my throat, trying to move past the odd feelings brewing in my gut and tightening my chest. “Thank you for breakfast.” It’s what I always wished I’d heard, but not a single time did it happen. Why show appreciation for someone doing their duty?

But catering to someone else isn’t a duty, no matter what controlling men claim.

“Don’t thank me too soon.” Simon pulls his coffee cup free and swallows down a mouthful of the scalding hot liquid. “It’s actually a bribe.”

I’m holding a piece of toast in front of my mouth, and I pause before taking a bite. “A bribe?”

Simon comes to sit next to me, slowly lowering his big body into the seat. “That’s right. I figure if I butter you up with enough food, you’ll let me talk to Christian and see what he’s got on hand that I can use to putter around this place.”

I stare at him, a little confused over why he would want to work when he’s off work. “You really don’t have to do that. I’ll get around to it.” Eventually.

“I know I don’t have to do it, but I don’t sit around well. Now that Tate’s house is done, there’s not really anything else to do around here.” Simon gestures to my plate. “Eat.”

Out of habit, I do as I’m told. The food is in my mouth and half-chewed before I realized what I’ve done, and it hits me like a bag of bricks. Makes me mad at myself and disappointed in my progress. But then Simon says something that changes the entire moment.

“Good girl.” The approval in his tone makes me want to sit up straight. Preen a little.

Compliments were in short supply in my previous life. Nonexistent, really. Especially from men. And—like having Simon cook for me and listen when I talk—I’m shocked at how good it feels.

“If I promise to only use materials I can get from Christian for free, would you be willing to give me a couple of rooms to work on so I don’t go completely crazy while I’m here?”

I press my lips together, working my way through this little conundrum he’s presented me with.

A big part of why I hadn’t continued renovating my house was the expense.

I’ve already bought this building and a car.

Spending more of my limited savings stressed me all the way out.

Even if I could get the materials from Christian for free, I would never let him—or any of his employees—do the work without me being the one to foot the bill.

Man-hours add up quickly, and the scope of the job is pretty big, so I knew no matter what, the cost would be significant.

Part of me wanted to believe I would dig in and learn some new skills. Tackle a few of the projects on my own. But that hasn’t happened. For a variety of reasons. Reasons that might be more excuses than anything.

“I can’t let you do all that work without paying you.” I dutifully take another bite of my eggs after Simon looks at them pointedly before fusing his dark eyes to my mouth and angling a brow.

As I chew, he makes a rumbling sound that might be indicative of his approval.

“You will be paying me. You’re paying me in company.

” He tips his head toward the street outside.

“Keeping me from having to stare at everyone else going about their happy little lives while I’m sitting alone in a camper. ”

I wrinkle my nose. “It is kind of annoying.”

Simon’s gaze once again turns assessing. “Now you see why I’m never here.”

He’s offered a surprising amount of insight into who he is, and instead of quenching my thirst for information about him, it’s only left me wanting more. “Is that the only reason you stay gone?”

Simon’s expression is intent, all his focus on me when he says, “No. It’s not.”