“Okay.”
My eyes widen at his approach, his steps soft but purposeful as he strides toward me. Words aren’t exchanged as his hands lift toward my face and he gently traces the scar running across my cheek. I wait for the disgust, for the revulsion I’ve seen in so many others, including my mother, but it never comes. Instead, his eyes shine with some emotion I can’t read.
Then, before I know what’s happening, Devyn leans down and presses his full lips against my cheek, against my scar, and for the first time I don’t feel immense pain from the scar tissue and nerves. Instead, I feel a tingle so soft traveling all the way down my body.
I stand there staring up at him as he steps back. I can tell he wants to say something; he has that look in his eye, one that looks as if he’s found a mystery to solve.
Devyn continues out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him and it takes me a minute to get my wits about me. If a kiss on the cheek from Devyn feels like this, I can’t imagine how it would feel on my lips or a place even more intimate.
My jeans feel like sandpaper against my heated skin as I struggle to tug them up my legs. Hooking my bra in place, I notice that my breasts feel heavy and confined behind the cups. Yanking the yellow shirt over my upper body, I grab my towels and head back into the bathroom to run a brush through my hair and dry the ends.
A few minutes later, I step out of the bathroom and back into the living room to find Devyn sitting at my kitchen counter scrolling through his phone. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he gazes at the screen.
“Miss anything important?” I ask as I approach.
Immediately he locks the screen and places the device on the countertop. “Naw, just movie stuff.”
“Oh.”
I let my comment linger because it’s another reinforcing remark that he is so far out of my world.
“Hey, come here,” he requests, holding out his arm inviting me up against his body, between his legs on either side of the stool.
I take one step, then two, until I’m just within his reach and he yanks me forward. His strong arms practically encompass my entire body as he wraps them around my back. I do the same around his trim waist, reveling in the feel of my body pressed against his. I already know that I’ll miss him when he leaves. I’ll miss the way that he lets me feel like I’m important, even if it’s just for a moment.
My head tucks into that space between his shoulder and neck and I’ve never felt a spot where my head has fit so perfectly. Not until this very moment.
I want to nuzzle closer, inhale more of his signature scent, but I remain still, silently savoring this chance to be close to someone.
Then I feel his hand slide upward until he reaches the back of my head. Wordlessly he fingercombs my hair and I purr at the sensation. His answering chuckle proves that he heard my sound of enjoyment.
“I love how soft your hair is,” he says reverently.
“Thank you,” I murmur in return, the feel of my breath warm against the skin of his neck.
I don’t dare tell him that it took years to grow it out after the accident. So much of it had been cut away during the surgeries.
“Can you skip work today? I kind of like having you like this.”
I want to tell him that I wish I could, but I can’t. Uncle Jeff needs me, and when Devyn leaves, he’ll be all that I have.
Standing back, his hands fall to my waist and I have to force myself to ignore how good they feel there.
“No, they need me.”
Our gazes stay secured on each other, another wordless interaction where we both want to say something more.
“Okay,” he whispers, finally breaking the spell we’ve found ourselves in.
CHAPTER SEVEN – DEVYN
The lunch crowd has dimmed but I barely notice. I’ve been back in the kitchen with Larsen doing whatever I can to make her laugh. That beautiful melodic tone is like music to my ears, the most addictive drug you can imagine in musical form. I honestly believe she could wipe clean all of the world’s turmoil with just her chuckle.
“Oh my gosh, Devyn. That is not how you crack an egg,” she explains between her fits of giggles. I have been showing her my hibachi skills, attempting to throw an egg in the air and slicing it in half with a spatula. Unfortunately, more of the eggshell lands on the griddle than the egg itself. Most of the membrane and yolk end up on the vent hood.
“Surely you can see my technique is there,” I try to justify as I try it again, the mechanics following the same routine. Larsen laughs so hard that she bends at the waist as she tries to catch her breath.
A waitress peeks into the kitchen area. “Can you keep it down in here?” she asks, but I look over to find her smiling warmly at Larsen’s back. “Someone may think you’re having too much fun in here and feel left out.”