His broad shoulders fill out his jacket perfectly. Long limbs. Stacked muscle. I bet he has abs hiding beneath his tee. Despite his size, he moves with the grace and agility of someone lighter, smaller in stature. Maybe he learned that to disarm people. Am I disarmed?
I’m not sure if it’s him putting me at ease or my own life experience telling me I’ve been through so much bad shit, this couldn’t hold a candle to it. Whatever it is, he doesn’t scare me. Even if he was to demand my brother’s payment from my body, fear isn’t something I feel in this moment. It’s like I’m floating outside my body, watching the scene unfold before me rather than actually being a part of it. He doesn’t feel like a stranger. Maybe it’s just me waking up after being asleep in my life for so long. I’ve never been allowed to socialize with people, so it feels special to be around another human being who isn’t watching me, monitoring my movements just to feed information back to my brother.
“Willa?” He says my name like it’s been on his tongue a million times before. My heart skips a beat.
“Yes?”
“Do you want me to order something?”
“Oh, I can make something from what you have. It’s not a problem,” I offer, needing to busy myself.
“Okay. Don’t be afraid to help yourself.”
“Okay,” I tell him, taking a few things from the cupboard.
“I’m going to grab a shower, and maybe after you’ve eaten, I can show you the room you’ll be staying in.”
“Sure. That sounds great. Thank you.” I offer a smile and watch him leave the room, checking back on me over his shoulder.
I could leave while he’s showering—run—never stop running—but there’s a spark in my chest, a fluttering of something I’ve never felt before: hope.
Seven
Gabe
The smell of food hits my nostrils as soon as I step out of the shower and into my room. It’s weird having a woman in the house cooking. Even though I bought this place in the hope to fill it with a wife and kids, I didn’t expect to bring home a stray, as Jameson put it, yet here we fucking are. He was just yanking my chain, but I do have a habit of stepping in when I think people are being treated unfairly or struggling with pain. The funny thing is, Jameson is the exact same way. He was the one who took my broken ass under his wing in school and gave me someone who believed in me, pushed me, fucking loved me. We’re big, bad bastards, but even animals like us need someone who’s got their back. We’d die for each other, and extending what he taught me, showing compassion toward those who fucking need it, is something I’m willing to do.
Slipping on some sweats and a tee, I make my way through the house to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. Willa is at my stove humming to herself as she stirs something in a pot. Smells Italian: herbs, garlic, tomatoes. Her body sways to her own beat, the fabric of her dress thin and short, showcasing a long pair of tan legs.
“Smells good,” I announce. She doesn’t appear surprised by my presence. This girl is used to not having privacy.
“It’s just pasta.” She shrugs, turning down the stove and opening cupboards in search of plates. Pushing off the doorframe, I go to show her where they are. We end up reaching for the same handle, our fingers brushing.
“Sorry,” I pull back abruptly.
She laughs at my overreaction. It’s genuine and really fucking pretty. Musical.
“I’m not going to break if you touch me, Gabe.”
“I know. Sorry.” I shake my head to clear it. “I just don’t want you thinking…” I smile as I trail off, feeling like an idiot.
“Thinking what? That you want sex from me?” she says, so blatant and honest. I’ve never met a woman who just speaks what she’s thinking. “Because you’ve already made it clear I don’t have to do that.”
“Right, okay, I’m sorry. I’m not used to this.” I point to the stove and us.
“This?” She raises a brow. “Didn’t Jasper say you always pick up strays?”
“Jameson,” I correct. “And he was just being a dick.”
“So you don’t go around picking up random women, offering them food and a place to crash?” she teases…at least I think so.
“I don’t make it a habit.” I grin, taking the plates from her hand and placing them on the table with some cutlery. She seems so at ease moving around the kitchen, like she’s lived here longer than I have.
“Beer?” I question, opening the beer fridge and twisting the cap off one. Unlike my food fridge, this one is full. Priorities are a little off kilter.
“Sure. Why not?”
She places the pot of pasta in the center of the tiny, four-chair, circular starter table, and we both take a seat. I didn’t think I’d need a bigger table with it only being me living here, but now it feels too small. We’re so close, her intoxicating scent washes over me. I’m mindful not to touch my big clunky legs to hers, not wanting to spook her or put out the wrong impression. “This looks amazing. Thanks for cooking.”