Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
He shoves his hands in his pockets. He does that a lot around me. I watched him around town, and I’m the only one that he does it in front of. Is he worried that his big hands make him less attractive to me? Does he not want me to be reminded of the arthritis in his joints?
To me, it’s proof that my man has worked hard his whole life. See, that’s the problem right there. He’s not my man. The thought fills me with so much despair that it feels like my heart is breaking right here in front of him.
“Don’t know what’s wrong with her,” he growls out the words. Roman is a growler. I learned this early on about him, but it’s OK. Because I love the way he growls. I love his deep, raspy voice. I love the way it rumbles when he talks. It makes me want to curl up on his chest and put my ear over his skin so I can feel the vibrations.
“Making a funny noise today,” he explains.
He passes me the keys, careful not to let our hands touch. The moment I grasp the cool metal, an overwhelming sense of relief hits me. I have a place to sleep tonight.
Roman is often out of town for several nights in a row, which means I’ll crash at his place. We’ve never talked about it, and I haven’t asked permission. But one night, he gave me the keys, and I stayed there. It was after my brother’s friend wouldn’t stop trying to open my door.
I slept in Roman’s bed that night and woke up smelling like his cologne. It was the first restful sleep I’d had in months, so I left behind some baked goods for him to find when he came home.
Since then, anytime he goes out of town, I stay at his place. It’s not technically breaking and entering because I feed his fish, water his plants, and make sure that his cat has clean water. Then sometimes I wander through the house and clean it. I pretend that it’s my cabin too, that we’re together and he’ll be home any minute.
Of course, then my fantasies take a very different turn. He comes in with a stern gaze, exhausted from hours of work. He’s tense and in desperate need of a release, so he pins me up against the kitchen wall. He captures my hands in one of his and whispers filthy things in my ear as he takes me roughly.
It’s a fantasy that always makes me hot and achy. Every time I have it, I twist and turn in his sheets until I wake up soaking wet.
“Got a big client to impress?” I ask to distract myself from how hot he looks and all the fantasies of what won’t happen. When he is in town, I often drive the two hours to a hostel outside of Asheville and bunk there for a night. The commute is terrible, and sometimes, it doesn’t feel very safe either. But even then, I know it’s safer than staying at home.
“Only one person I ever cared about impressing.” He frowns as soon as he says the words, and I wonder who he worries about impressing.
I want to ask him. I want to ask him if when he goes away, he meets up with a woman. A woman that he spends long nights with. But I’ll never ask the question because I don’t think I want to know the answer.
He nods to the truck, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he said. “Get me an estimate.”
He’s gone before I can even agree with a nod, but that’s Roman. He’s abrupt and gruff. When he’s said what he needs to say, he stops talking. I wish I had that ability. There are a million words in my head, and I want to share them all the time. I want to share them with Roman.
With my brother too hungover to come in to work, the day feels like it lasts a year. We need more qualified mechanics, but we can’t afford to pay someone what they’re worth because of my brother’s debts.
As it is, we barely keep our heads above water. Sometimes, I wonder if my parents are looking down on me from heaven, and if they’re disappointed with me for not doing a better job of holding everything together.
I push back the sad thoughts as I park my old car in front of Roman’s cabin. He builds million-dollar homes for his clients and beautiful industrial complexes. But his own home is a simple cabin nestled in the woods. A person could almost miss it because the rustic log cabin blends into the surrounding forest so easily.
For a minute, I debate parking in his double garage then decide against it. No one is likely to see my car, given how remote his cabin is.