He cocks his head. “That’s insulting.”
“It’s accurate,” I argue, not wanting to inflate his ego too much.
In reality this food is to die for.
Best meal I’ve had in a long time.
He watches me as I take another bite and waits for me to say something. “Okay,” I admit. “It’s really good.”
He beams. “There it is.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. I’m actually smiling. And that’s when I realize I haven’t thought about leaving since I walked in here. I haven’t been counting the minutes and I’m not currently planning my exit. I’m just…here. With Shepherd.
And I don’t hate it at all.
It’s raining outside but something about the rhythmic sounds on the roof of this little house is calming. My weather app has been warning us of an unstable night ahead but it’s Portland. It rains all the time and right now there’s no storm. Just a gentle rain that smells heavenly as I let my front door hang open.
My body aches and by all means I should be tired, but I’m not. Something about today—a rare day with no work—has left me feeling strangely alive. The cottage gleams from hours of scrubbing, and through the barely open windows drifts the scent of rain-soaked earth and untamed forest that makes me want to breathe deeper than I have in months.
For once my chest doesn’t feel tight.
For once I don’t feel like I’m bracing for something.
I have a roof over my head every night. I’ve eaten warm meals with Shepherd every night that he’s home thanks to his affinity for cooking too much food, and he’s a kind and compassionate man who keeps me company more often than not. For once, life doesn’t seem so bad.
There’s music playing softly from my Bluetooth speaker and instead of turning it off and relaxing into bed with a book and a drink, I turn it up. Just a little.
Then a little more.
And before I can overthink it I start moving. It’s not graceful and it’s not planned. It’s just…me. Bare feet on hardwood, hair falling loose from its tie as I spin once, then twice, laughing under my breath at how ridiculous I probably look, but I don’t care.
I don’t stop because dancing feels…good.
I feel…free. Unstressed.
God, when was the last time I felt like this?
My walls are crumbling and I’m not thinking ten steps ahead like I used to. I’m not always looking for an exit and that thought makes me beam. I know this is because of Shepherd Haynes. Somehow in these past couple months the universe decided to place me in his path and he hasn’t asked me to step out of his way even once. His compassionate nature is astounding and his patience admirable. Despite my lifelong eyeroll at millionaire athletes who get paid obscene amounts to chase balls around fields, I can’t deny that something shifted in me the night Shepherd Haynes walked through the door of my bar.
I really like him.
Like…really, really like him.
And so here I am, dancing it out because I’m in a good mood and because those signs in gift shops always say to dance in the rain, right?
Well, here I am, world.
Dancing in my kitchen like nobody is watching.
Alive in my own body.
I lift my arms, letting the air brush over my skin as I sway to the music, the faint rumble of thunder rolling in the distance like a quiet promise. My reflection catches in the darkened window and for a second, I don’t even recognize the girl looking back at me.
She looks lighter.
