How the hell was I supposed to stay trapped in my house for that long doing fuck all?
“Depends,” was all he responded with.
“Wow, how informative. You know, you should really start giving formal lectures. People could learn something from you.”
He kicked the door shut behind me, an arm coming around my midsection in a surprising show of gentleness. “I hate public speaking.”
My face burned, pressed against him, and feeling his body move with mine was weirdly erotic. Touch-starved wasn’t in my vocabulary, not when I had a clingy three year old demanding attention and to be held every waking second. If anything, I was touched-out.
Yet, none of that mattered when Silas’s hand drifted down to my waist, sneaking past the parted flaps of my coat and underneath my shirt to touch me. His fingers were no longer cold like they’d been back in the grocery store. Here, they were molten hot, burning me with every shift of my hip as we made our way to the back door.
It was open when I tried the handle and easily pushed open with a quick shove. Ellington Heights had less crime than both Palmertson and Edgewood combined, a statistic that still made me double take it every time it came across on the precinct’s monthly reporting.
Amelia had been happy to hear that fact over dinner on our third week living here, and ever since, was more than eager to live life like we were in the country, far away from any kind of civilization that would require us to lock our doors while there was still daylight out.
My habits, unfortunately, were much harder to kill.
“Guess they’re still out,” I said, letting the door swing shut behind us.
He was quiet next to me, his gaze roaming around the small breezeway leading up into the rest of the house. Shoes were scattered on a mat by the door, jackets and coats hung uphaphazardly next to the hook where our keys were usually tossed the moment we walked through the door.
A small bench was set against the wall, beat up and well-worn from use, that had a stray sippy cup on top of it. Long forgotten in the flurry of energy of us getting Ainsley in the car this morning.
Two photos were hung up right by the entryway into the rest of the house, one of Ainsley and Amelia the day she was born and one of the three of us on our first day moving into this house, posing in front of it with all of our faces stretched wide with smiles.
Whatever Silas saw, the life I lived with my sister, he didn’t comment on it. Gave no indications as to how he perceived me, or judging me for our vastly different lifestyles. Without knowing what he had going on at home, I had a high amount of confidence that his living space was far more well kept than this.
I doubted there were faint water stains on his wood furniture or marks along the wall from a child dragging their toys along it while being chased by their guardians.
He was probably as meticulous with his living space as he was at work: uniform and with everything having a place. Unlike the mess of what we were walking into now.
Hell, this man probably had a maid come around once a week to deep clean his place, if his car was any indication of his wealth.
“Bedroom,” he finally said.
Swallowing back my residual vulnerability, I nodded for the doorway. “Just down the hall.”
Taking two steps up into the main part of the house, we quickly moved through the living room, bypassing the dozens of toys scattered around, and down the hallway to the bedrooms. Mine was at the end of it, directly across from my sister’s, whileAinsley’s was kitty-corner to hers. All of them were small, but honestly, neither my sister nor I were complaining.
Coming from a studio in the city to a house with three entire bedrooms and a separate living room had us feeling like we were living the high life.
I flicked on my light, bathing the room in a warm glow as Silas guided me inside. There wasn’t much to it in here, at least not out in the open for young eyes to see. Just a full sized bed, a dresser next to it, and a closet with doors that were,thankfully,pulled shut.
No one needed to be getting a good look at my personal wardrobe, especially the stuff I kept pushed to the very back of it.
After stripping me free from my jacket, he laid me down gently, flat on my back, and then grabbed both of my legs to lift them up onto the bed. My pillows were fluffed behind my head with the same kind of robotic care he’d shown me in the hospital; a little funny considering what an imposing figure he was crowded inside of my small room.
“I’m not that fragile, you know.” If anything, surviving being almost killed was kind of a testament to my resilience and will to live.
I had too much shit to do to be lying around like a glass slipper, waiting for someone to come around and polish me pretty again.
Then again, maybe thatwasthe entire problem—or rather, my weird attachment to my surgeon who’d been spending a great deal of time already taking care of me, overindulging me to the point of coddling.
My absolute weakness.
Even with the gruff words and lectures, I still liked it. Still liked his hands on me and him spoiling me with attention, even when he clearly had a plethora of other things to do that wereway more important than tracking down a wayward cop hell-bent on making his recovery miserable.
“What, you don’t like to be pampered?” he shot back, reaching around to adjust the pillow trapped next to my hip.
