As I was coming around the other side of the house, I spotted Shelly jogging up the drive, both of her dogs with her on leashes. She saw my car first, then seemed to search the front of the cabin, her steps slowing to a walk when she caught sight of me.
Meeting her halfway, I placed a kiss on her cheek and fell into step beside her. “Do you want to go get some breakfast?”
“No, thank you. I have work to do.”
“Work?”
“The angels.”
“Ah, yes.” I nodded absentmindedly, a sense of panic flaring in my chest. Scrambling for a reason to stay, and not deal with the current hurricane of excrement in my life, I asked, “How are you? After yesterday?”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes.” Her tone was firm. “I’m okay.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
I felt her eyes on the side of my face as we approached her front door and she opened it. “Like what, Beau?”
I shrugged, following her inside, and was about to suggest I install some gutters for the cabin, when she bristled. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
No. But I do.
“I know.” I nodded quickly, trailing after her—along with her dogs—as we all moved into the kitchen.
She filled their water bowls while I filled their kibble dishes and I felt her frowning at me from across the room.
“Unless . . .”
I glanced up, finding her watching me with a squinty stare. “What?”
“Do you want to have sex?” Shelly asked, carrying the water bowls where I stood next to the dog food.
I reared back an inch. “Pardon?”
She set the water on the ground. “We should have sex.”
“Is that so?” I reached for her hand, bringing it to my lips, trying for charming even as my mind was working overtime to figure out how we’d arrived here.
“Yes.” Shelly sounded so matter-of-fact about it, that her other hand reaching for my belt buckle caught me off guard.
“Shelly—”
She stole a kiss, and with it my breath, then said, “Kiss me.”
I moved my grip to her shoulders, enjoying the feel of her skin too much. “You’ve been through a lot. I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
“No big deal. It’s just sex. It’ll be fun.” She’d made quick work of unbuckling my belt and had already moved to the button of my fly before I caught her hands.
Holding them until she gave me her eyes, my stomach sunk to my feet. What the hell has gotten into her?
“It’s a big deal to me.”
Her gaze searched mine, the muscle at her jaw jumping. “Is it a big deal because sex is a big deal? Or because it’s me?”
I hesitated, because this question sounded like a trap.
A woman trap.
The most perilous of all traps.
I could answer honestly, and say both. Sex was a big deal for me and I hadn’t been with anyone since high school, because I wanted to know. I wanted to be certain. I wanted assurances and promises.
And sex with her, with Shelly, was also a big deal. Because it just was. She was a big deal to me.
My life was overflowing with uncertainty at present. Almost two weeks ago, I’d stood on the edge of this cliff and wondered what was below. Now I’d jumped, and I was falling, and I needed to know she would be there when I hit the bottom.
In the end, I took too long to answer. And she took my silence as an answer of its own.
Shelly snatched her hands away and turned, pacing away from me.
“Can we—can we take the day off?” I asked, taking a step over the dog bowls and following her. “Can you give yourself some time to sort through what happened yesterday?”
She shook her head and crossed her arms. “No. I need to know why you’re here.”
I wracked my brain, trying to figure out what that might mean, and guessed, “I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”
“That’s not what I meant. I know you’re not hurt. I can see you.”
“Then what do you mean?”
She mumbled something that sounded like, “You don’t need anything from me.”
“What?”
“I’m not a refrigerator.” She turned halfway, giving me her profile but not looking at me.
“What are you talking about?”
“Those refrigerators, the ones you fixed up and donated, the first week I worked at the shop.”
I shook my head, unable to follow her train of thought. “I don’t think of you like a refrigerator.”
“Then stop making me feel like one.”
“I don’t understand, what—”
“I don’t want a babysitter. I want—” She turned abruptly, cutting herself off and pacing further away from me, toward her room.
Instinct had me reaching for her arm, bringing her into my embrace before she could get too far. She let me hold her, but she made no move to hold me back.
“Shelly. I don’t want to be your babysitter. But I’m not leaving you. Not until I know you’re okay.”
“Then you’ll leave me,” she said against my chest, her tone dull. “Like a refrigerator.”
“Honey—”
“Please.” She pushed out of my hold, turning her back on me and walking into her room, calling over her shoulder just before shutting her bedroom door, “Leave me alone.”
I stared at her closed door for a long while, debating what to do. Then I sat on her couch and opened up one of her blue-spined books. It was one our momma—Bethany—had made us read, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. I selected it because it was one of the only ones I recognized and I remembered liking the adventure parts.
But worry nagged at me.
Dr. West had said that Shelly wouldn’t self-harm after therapy, but what if she did? What if she already had?
Other thoughts, more selfish ones, also plagued me. What if she’s cured?
No. Not cured.
It was my understanding that people were never cured of OCD. But what if she’s in remission?
What if she could touch people now? Where did that leave us? Would she go back to Chicago? She was a world famous artist. Why in tarnation would she stay in nowhere Tennessee?
She wouldn’t. She won’t.
I thought back to seeing her angel sculptures for the first time, how she’d talked about what Mr. Tanner might do with the Quonset hut.
“When I go . . .” Not if. When.
Nothing was keeping her here.
The worrying became too loud for me to focus on the book, so I set it aside and walked to Shelly’s door, knocking softly.
“What?”
“Can I come in?”
“To have sex?”
I rolled my eyes, shaking my head at this infuriating woman. “No. To check on you.”
She didn’t respond, and at first I thought she wasn’t going to. But then I heard her footsteps approach rapidly just before the door swung open. I stepped back at the sight of her, dishonorable thoughts assailing me like thieves. She was in a white T-shirt and nothing else.
Shelly was so right. I wanted her.
Essential. Madness. Need. All consuming.
Fire burned in my lungs as my blood rushed south.
I wasn’t finished looking my fill—not by a long shot—but my brain gave me a swift kick, sending my gaze to hers. Two beats, thoughts scattered, no wits.
She glared at me. Then she lifted her arms, wrists out, continuing to glare. “See? No cuts. You can leave.”
In the next moment, she’d shut the door in my face.
Shit.
Which one of us was the refrigerator now?
* * *
“You’re drunk.”