Tenor
The meatballs tasted like sawdust. Having Ruby in my house messed with my head. This place was my safe haven. Anxiety clawed up my throat until I wanted to ask her to leave. Even worse, I wanted to show her that any poor sexual experiences hadn’t been her fault either.
She chattered about her day and I struggled to hold on to my humanity. The way her shirt molded over her breasts derailed my best intentions. And that goddamn skirt. It twirled over her lush thighs, teasing me with each move.
She hadn’t worn that skirt for me, but when she walked—and goddamn, when she bent over to wipe off tables—she became my own personal show. She performed just for me.
I had to be the responsible one here. I had power over her. Not just her job but with her reputation. I would never be like her ex—or like mine. Or like any of the other people in our past. Yet I was caught between wanting to toss her out in the dark and haul her off to my bedroom.
I stabbed a meatball. My appetite had fled as soon as she’d fluttered her eyelashes over her first bite. I was ravenous, but not for food.
This was what happened when I cut myself off for so long. No. I controlled my body. I could handle my urges.
“Your home really is beautiful.” This was the second time she’d gushed about the house.
“Thank you.” I shifted in my seat. My unruly dick kept trying to join the conversation.
“I can’t shut up about it, I know. I tend to prattle on about the things I like.” She crossed one leg over the other under the table and I bit back a groan. “Mom and I always lived in apartments. After I moved out and could support myself, she could finally buy a condo.”
While I was interested in her life, the first part had caught me. “Who said you prattle on?”
“Oh, um...” Her gaze flicked away and she dug her teeth into her lower lip. “Mom always laughs about it, but I never got the sense she was annoyed.”
“Brock?” I gritted out the name.
“Yes, him too. Other guys I dated. My dad. ‘You talk a mile a minute, Rubes. You don’t give a guy a chance to finish a thought.’” She gave me a tight smile before taking a drink and shifting her gaze away. “I only let Dad call me Rubes.”
My brows lifted. I’d been ready to hunt Brock down and tear his limbs off one by one. Her dad? Did he know she didn’t like being called Rubes? “I grew up in a house often filled with foster kids. Some would stay for days, some for months. My own sisters were fosters who my parents adopted. I shouldn’t be so shocked to hear about how parents treat their kids.”
She blinked. “He’s not that bad.” Her smile was self-deprecating. “But he has no patience. We get along better as adults.” There was a note of longing in her voice. “When he comes to visit, we play tennis.”
“I used to play.” My rackets were stored in the garage. None of my family played, so it was something I rarely talked about, except with a few friends from school. “I still do sometimes, with my old coach and when a friend comes home to visit his parents. Sometimes I’ll meet him in Billings to get a quick game in.”
“Is that your Wednesday nights?”
“No.”
Her expression was expectant like she was waiting for me to elaborate. I wouldn’t.
“I enjoy it,” she continued after a moment, toying with her fork. “Dad’s usually more relaxed when we’re playing. He learned to play in order to get ahead at his job.”
“They say tennis and golf are the best ways to network.”
She grinned. “He doesn’t have the patience for golf.” She set her fork down. “Maybe we can play sometime.”
I’d never played with a girl. I had joined tennis so I didn’t feel like such a loser with football stars as siblings. The last thing I had wanted to do after school was get slammed around by other kids. I’d had enough fear of that during my school day. So I’d joined our small tennis team. “If you promise to take it easy on me.”
“I’m not to be feared, don’t worry.” Her laugh curled around me. I’d never be able to rest within these walls now that I’d heard her laugh here. She finished her last couple of bites and stood, taking her plate with her. “You cooked; I can clean.”
I rose, nearly knocking my chair over. She was a guest. Mama taught me better than this. “No, I got it. I can show you your room. It’s the first door on the right.”
She hovered by the sink, her plate in her hand.
My heart raced. I had cleaned the house and put away everything that could possibly cause her to think or act like I was nothing but an irresponsible man-child. My hobbies were my own. I’d share my enjoyment of tennis and be a gentleman.
“Sorry.” I pushed a hand through my hair. I needed a trim. I usually did, but I hated the barbershop. Salons were worse. I wanted my hair trimmed with no chitchat. Between Gary, the barbershop owner who tried to get as much Bailey dirt as possible, and Riley at the salon trying to shampoo my hair with her tits shoved into my cheek, I just let the length go. “Mama made sure we’re proper hosts even though I told her no one was ever visiting or living out here but me.”
Surprise flitted over Ruby’s features. “You don’t want anyone out here with you?”
