“I’ll be back in a bit,” he rumbled, winding his arm around me from behind and patting the back of my thigh. “Go get a shower, k?”
I swallowed and nodded, even though that was the last thing I wanted to do.
In fact, what I’d rather do was stay in his t-shirt and just crawl into his arms and stay there until I died.
That was possible, right?
“Good girl,” he said as he pulled away.
I didn’t move my head until the last possible second, not wanting to lose our closeness.
When he looked back at me when he was at the door, I could’ve sworn I felt his eyes on my breasts behind his sweatshirt.
He turned away without another look, and I stared at the floor of the living room.
Though it hadn’t looked like it at the time, it was bad. If I’d have seen the crime scene without actually witnessing the ‘crime’ I’d have assumed that a man had died here today.
Unluckily, he was alive and breathing when he left for the hospital.
Unfortunately, it now needed cleaned up.
I walked to the laundry room door and pulled out the mop, knowing where it was thanks to a thousand spilled drinks.
There must’ve been more talking on the front porch than just handing off keys, because by the time Haggard arrived back in the house, I was already finished cleaning up the floors.
I was working on the walls, crouching down on my tiptoes with my ass resting against my calves, when he walked in the door and spotted me.
“I told you to take a shower,” he growled, looking at me. “You should be wearing gloves.” He hesitated. “Actually, you should be doing as I told you and not touching that shit to begin with.”
I rolled my eyes, causing him to narrow his.
I stood up as I finished wiping down one particular spot and said, “I have gloves on, see?”
I’d found them underneath the counter.
They were kid’s gloves, and so tight and see-through that it didn’t look like I was actually wearing anything.
He sighed. “Good.”
I winked at him, causing his eyes to narrow.
“You okay?” he asked after staring at me for a few seconds.
I thought about that for a long moment before saying, “Honestly? I don’t know what I feel. I’m angry that the man scared the crap out of me. I’m annoyed that I didn’t think to have the garage checked when I knew for a fact that it should’ve been closed. I’m also stunned at the audacity of that man, thinking he could come in here and do whatever it was he was thinking of doing, without first thinking about the repercussions. And truthfully, I’m upset that he didn’t die.”
There was a long, strained silence before I saw the most beautiful thing in the world happen.
Haggard laughed.
He threw his head back, put his big, strong hand on his belly, and bellowed with laughter.
It was a thing of beauty, and honest to God, I wanted to listen to that sound replicated for the rest of my life.
Twenty-two years of life, almost twenty-three, and I’d never heard him laugh like that.
It made tingles spread out along my spine, and a feeling of euphoria zip through my veins.
I really, really liked his laugh.
When he was done, he started walking toward me, and his eyes lit on my feet.
I’d slipped my feet into his boots because they were the closest thing that I could find that I knew he wouldn’t care if I wore to clean up blood.
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave me a small smile.
Passing by me, he walked to the sink and pulled out another set of gloves, these ones were made for his big hands, and slipped them on almost expertly.
As if he’d done it a hundred times a day for his entire life.
Curiosity hit me as I watched him pop them into place—something not easy to do when your hands were big like his—and head to me.
He took the rag I had dangling in my hand from me and gestured toward the shower. “I’ll do the rest. You mind letting Body out so we can go to bed?”
I nodded and reluctantly let go of the rag, handing it to him without another word.
Five minutes later, I found myself in his shower—because I’m sorry, there’s no fucking way I’m using the same shower as a sixteen-year-old boy, ew—utilizing every single one of the showerheads.
A few years ago, when Trista had still been here, they’d redone the house from top to bottom to get ready to sell it—Trista had wanted a nicer house in a different city other than Intercourse. One with more things to do and offer than Intercourse provided.
Intercourse was a small town about twenty-five minutes outside of Paris, Texas, where the biggest ‘hub’ was. A hub where everyone had to drive to get their groceries and entertain themselves with movies or things to do.