“Good,” I said, bending down to press a kiss against his neck. “Because I need to tell you how fantastic you look in that shirt.”
His eyes flicked up, sultry and heated. “You already have. Several times.”
He’d finally ordered some clothes of his own, and as much as I loved seeing him in mine, this particularly fitted shirt did things to me.
“Let me clarify.” I trailed my lips up behind his ear. “I need to tell you how fucking hot you look in that shirt. You’re packing it, right?”
He turned to capture my lips in a heated kiss, fingers tugging on my collar to yank me closer. “As long as you pack those hiking pants of yours.”
Sorting through laundry the other day, I found an old pair of pants I’d left at Dad’s after visiting with Josh a while back. They fit tighter in the ass and crotch than I was used to, and I hadn’t felt good in them.
The way Charlie stared, though, dragging his eyes over my body in a way that had me all sorts of hot and bothered when I tried them on, made me feel good.
Very good.
“Already in my bag,” I said, breaking the kiss before we got carried away.
Dad had taken off work to be there for me and help settle us both in after I was discharged from the hospital, which I was so, so grateful for. He’d embraced the weirdness of how Charlie and I met better than I could’ve hoped for.
The fact that he was thrown into the deep end with the whole ghost thing via Charlie magically knowing where to fly the helicopter to save me, helped.
Starting off on the right foot, and all that.
However, in the two weeks we’d stayed at Dad’s, we shared the pull-out sofa mattress in the living room while he slept in the open loft upstairs.
It had not been conducive to any activities that required privacy. Or for great sleep at all, really.
“I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” I said, dropping a kiss into his hair and straightening up.
He snagged my hand and smiled. “Me too.”
I squeezed once and let go, making my way out the back door. I could limp around now without a crutch, but I wanted to give my ankle a rest after the strength exercises.
Daylight filtered through the trees, a stark contrast to the harsh floodlight illuminating my nightmares of that night. Despite the warm sun on my back, a chill ran down my spine as I made my way over to the open shed where Dad rummaged around.
“Hey,” I greeted, noting the tension in his back.
He dropped an armful of tools into a box and straightened to face me. “Hey there. How was PT?” he asked, wiping his sweaty brow.
“Hard. But fine,” I said, scuffing my foot through the dirt at the entrance. We both knew why I didn’t come inside.
Dad joined me in the daylight, skirting around the spot Leonard had trapped me. “I,uh,I can’t stop picturing it,” he said gruffly.“The police came and went while you were still in the hospital, and I’ve tried to go back inside ever since, but I just can’t. I’m moving everything out now to tear it down.”
“Can’t you rearrange instead? Maybe throw a rug down?” I asked, attempting a joke.
For as long as I could remember, Dad and I had danced around the subject of the bear traps. In the weeks since I was released, we’d danced around that night, too.
Maybe it was time we finally talked about it.
He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “No, a rug isn’t going to cut it. I can’t be in there, knowing what happened to you. What he did to you.”
I stared at my feet, unable to look at him. “After Charlie remembered stepping on the bear trap… When I came back here and saw them in the shed…” I shook my head. “I’m sorry.” The words had choked me for too long and needed out. “Everything had gone to absolute shit that day, and I was so confused, and I thought—I wondered if you were the one who?—”
I couldn’t finish, but it didn’t matter, because Dad was already hugging me. “Oh, Reece, no. It’s okay. It’s okay.I’mthe one who’s sorry.”
Shame colored his words, emotion swelling as he spoke. “If I’d listened to my gut, if I’d been a better man and reported what I knew all those years ago, what I found…”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, stepping back, but he shook his head and interjected.
