I turn the door handle and tug on it, only to have it stop short when the chain lock catches.
I’m so fucking excited that this woman is on my doorstep that I forgot to undo the chain.
I close the door, unhook the chain, and open it again.
Maisey grins at me. “That was adorable.”
“That was embarrassing.”
“Adorable.”
I stop arguing and step back, gesturing her inside when I’d love to grab her by the waist, haul her against the wall, and kiss the ever-loving hell out of her.
But I don’t know why she’s here. If she’s alone. Even if she thinks she’s alone but June followed her.
She stops barely inside enough for me to close the door. “I just wanted to say thank you. Again. For bringing help. I feel—oof. I can’t even tell you how much better I feel having the barn mess all cleaned up.”
I nod.
I’m starting to understand herwhy. So it was a no-brainer to gather a few helpers from town to clear away the debris.
Maisey arrived here every bit as lost as some of the kids I work with at the school.
Looking for where they fit in and belong in this world, with not enough support at home. Their parents are often in over their heads, doing the best they can but not nearly good enough for what their kids need.
“So I was going to bring more cherry crisp to say thanks, but the truth is, I bribed Regina to make her recipe in Uncle Tony’s old dishes so it would look like I made it, and I didn’t have time to do that again today,” she says in a rush.
NowI’mgrinning. “Guess you’re useless, then. Get out.”
She gives me a playful shove in the biceps. “What I lack in cooking skills, I make up for with knowing how to use a hammer.”
Yep. Contemplating my cock as her hammer, and there’s nohalfabout how hard I am anymore. “I have some hammering that needs to be done.”
Those baby blues meet mine, go wide, and then smoky. Also smoky? Her voice. “That was terrible.”
“You alone?”
“Junie’s talking to friends on her phone. I told her I had to run to Charlotte’s to pick up a cookie platter for next week’s PTA Halloween party.”
“And she thinks you’re walking?”
“Ididgo to Charlotte’s. I’m back now.”
“Didn’t hear you go past.”
“Stealth mode.”
I crack up, but with every word she’s saying, I’m angling her deeper into my house.
It’s not big. A cozy living-slash-dining area with a table for two pushed under the window and a couch on the opposite wall, with my woodburning stove between them. A bare-bones kitchen with a small oven, small refrigerator, and no dishwasher. And the single bedroom just big enough for a king-size bed.
We’re headed toward the bedroom.
She rests her hands on my chest as I walk her backward, heat radiating from her palms. “I can’t stay long,” she whispers, “but I had to say thank you. Thank you is important.”
Can’t stay long.
That’s what her words say.
