God, I wish I’d known more about what my family was into sooner. Since my father died when I was still in high school, I never understood the extent of our family’s affairs until the very end, and it was too late. To be honest, I thought my father was a Wall Street financier right up until a few months before their murders. I was too young to be let in on the family business before then.
“It’s adult business,” he always said. So, until I was eighteen and legally an adult, my father kept me in the dark.
Gazing out the front windows, a massive balled-up blue tarp suddenly burst from the shed doors and landed in the muddy yard with a splash. Betty followed, feet pounding the ground so hard she sent dirt sloshing onto her pants and shirt.
There was a shovel raised high above her head, and she began bringing the blade down on the mess of tarp, screaming and growling with each hit. With narrowed eyes, I noticed a few rats scatter from the tattered blue plastic. Betty chased after one, swinging the dirty shovel and missing sorely.
It would appear she’d located the nest. Good for her. But eradicating them was another story. Rats fled in all directions, escaping unscathed as they vanished into the trees.
On cue, Larry leapt from a nearby evergreen and darted across the yard, presumably in pursuit.He was like her tiny bodyguard, jumping to her aid where I couldn’t.
“Get‘em, Larry!” I could hear Betty shout, her voice muffled behind the glass.
I chuckled, unable to contain myself. She’d ditched the sweatshirt today, opting for a simple, form-fitting long-sleeved gray t-shirt and work jeans that bunched at the ankles above her untied work boots. She wore a pair of work gloves that were too big for her dainty hands. Any manicure she’d left New York with was long gone by now.
I couldn’t help but admire her silhouette, the curves that always sent a thrill through my groin whenever she entered a room, radiating confidence andfire.So much fire.
When I’d rescued her from the tub incident last week, I’d caught more than an eyeful of her bare silhouette. Until then, I’d almost forgotten what she looked like naked, skin soft and glowing, legs for days and the perfect ass, juicy as a peach. My mind still clung to the fresh memory, brandished on the back of my eyelids, now and forever.
She was… breathtaking. I couldn’t help it.
While she’d kept her distance all week, it felt like she was having to try harder to do so. She’d acted spooked since the night I’d boldly massaged lotion into her legs and feet after the debacle with the swimming rodent.
I recall the moment now.
Her intoxicating and uniquely female scent drifted off her skin in delicate waves of vanilla and orange as I pressed my thumbs across her muscles, mixing with the lavender lotion I’d infused over the summer. I could never smell that lotion again and not think of my weathered hands on her smooth skin—that shocking contrast?
My hands ached just thinking of it now.
She’d allowed me to care for her the way I longed to since she’d re-entered my orbit. It was a bold gamble to approach her as I had, as mean and snarly as she was, but I let the buzz and confidence of a beer drive me. Going in, I thought for sure she’d kick me away. It was a pleasant surprise when she didn’t. It was like taming a wild dog. She was spent after the adrenaline-induced tub drama, vulnerable enough to relax for one precious evening and let me care for her.
I wish our relationship could have progressed from there. She’d offered a tantalizing glimpse of a life filled with companionship, love, and trust, but it was fleeting.
The next morning, she dismantled the entire thing, placing all the unpacked emotions back into a box on the shelf, like one of my puzzles. When I tried again to make her coffee, she refused and kept a wide berth, leaving both the breakfast and drink untouched before leaving for the shed. She’d outpaced me yet again.
I desperately wanted the sensitive, open version of Betty back.At least I knew she was still in there, somewhere.
Almost two years had passed since the night we’d shared in New York. It felt like a figment of my imagination, as if it had never happened. We were different people now, changed by the harsh reality of life and the stark differences between us. The adrenaline-fueled high of the Rembrandt heist facilitated that passionate encounter, and while I clung to that high, the excitement made the memory hazy. It was like a scene from a film I couldn’t quite recall—from a life I’d forgotten to live and no longer felt real. If only I’d stuck around long enough for the encore.
Betty poked at the tarp in the yard with the shovel, stepping up to lift a corner with a gloved hand. She had a wide and ready stance, poised as if expecting more rats to leap out. After making sure it was clear, she methodically smoothed out the blue plastic and assessed its condition. I saw the moment she deemed it suitable enough to salvage; her whole body lurched into action. Corner of the tarp in hand, she dragged it to the riverbank and left it at the edge of the water.
Brushing her loose bangs back with her forearm, she hiked back up the hill and into the shed, re-emerging soon after with a climbing rope in hand. Fascinated by her cleverness, she secured the rope to the tarp’s grommets on one end and anchored it to a tree. She tossed the tarp into the river, letting the rapids catch it and pull the rope taut. I heard a sharp snap as the tree shook from the force. She let the river do all the work of washing and scrubbing the tarp for her. Smart girl; if she’d attempted to hold it and throw it in, she’d be halfway down the mountain by now, pulled by a drowning sail of blue tarp.
She watched it tumble over the river rocks for a few minutes, then gripped the edge and began pulling the water-drenched tarp out of the current. She put all her weight into each pull, feet slipping in the mud, working the cumbersome material until it draped over some clean rocks to dry.
Damn. That was hot.
She struggled to catch her breath as she climbed back up the bank. Hands worked to pull off her gloves, and she made for her water bottle on the fence post. After breathing deeply a few times, she put her gloves down on a rail, then drank with a ravenous thirst, water running over her chin in her haste. She wiped her mouth with her arm just as her chocolate-brown eyes met mine through the window.
Her gaze held mine in challenge, and she swallowed hard. With a flat expression, she raised her hand and flipped me off, unimpressed with my rapt attention. The bottle slammed down on the post, and she spun—her long, messy braid and wild bangs flying—stomping back toward the shed.
I grinned, a low,“Fu-uck,” rumbling from my chest.
I couldn’t help but notice how much she’d changed in the past few weeks. Even though I knew she wasn’t thrilled with things, I’d catch her in private, cuddling Mr. Beans and then Villainy, and she seemed secretly content. I knew our worlds didn’t fit, but she was convincing sometimes. Dare I say she was secretly loving this.
Her face seemed softer, more relaxed with each new day. There was more color in her cheeks from the cold, and a rosy tint on her nose. I saw freckles I’d never noticed, things she’d concealed with makeup. Her skin breathed for once, embracing the freedom from her usual products and taking on a natural radiance.
With each passing second, I craved her kiss more and more. I wanted to trace each freckle and chase away the chill on her cheeks with my lips.
