Dirty

He bent his head to run his mouth along my neck. “But other than that, you’ve broken the hearts of scores of fools who got attached to you.”

“I don’t like to think so, no. I’ve tried to avoid it.”

“Why? It doesn’t get you hot, thinking of all those broken hearts in your wake?”

“No.”

“Because…you’d feel guilty.”

“Yes…” The word became a hiss as his tongue stroked my skin.

“And that’s why you don’t date.”

“Haven’t we gone over this?” I looked at him, pushing him away a little to see his face.

“Don’t worry, Elle,” he whispered, pulling me closer again. “I won’t get too attached.”

How can I explain exactly how he made me feel? Even now, looking back, I can remember everything about that moment. The feeling of his hands on me. The scent of him, cologne and sex. The way his mouth curved at the corners and the way the first hint of stubble glinted on his cheeks. I hold a perfect picture of him in my mind: Dan in that moment. The moment he convinced me to stay.

Chapter 05

I had time to regret my decision the next day when I got out of the cab in front of my house wearing the same clothes I’d worn the night before. I’d showered, brushed my teeth, washed my face. But there could be no mistaking the crumples for anything other than the sort of wrinkles your clothes get when they’ve been tossed without ceremony on the floor because you’re about to get well and thoroughly fucked.

“Hi, Miss Kavanagh.” Gavin waited on his own porch steps this time, but as they were scant inches from mine it made little difference. “I thought you might need some more help today with the dining room.”

What I really wanted was to fall face-first into my pillows and go back to sleep. I gave Gavin a narrow smile as I put my key in the lock. He was already behind me.

“It’s so early,” I told him. “Don’t you have anything else you’d like to be doing today? It’s a gorgeous Saturday.”

“Nah.” He watched me fumble with my lock, which sometimes stuck on humid days. “Need some help with that?”

“I got it.” I didn’t. I was tired and he was crowding me, peering over my shoulder to look at the stubborn lock.

“Gavin!”

We both turned. Mrs. Ossley came out onto their front porch, her hands on her hips and a frown contorting what would have otherwise been a pretty face. She stopped when she saw me with her son. Her gaze swept me up and down. I owed her no explanation for my clothes or early-morning return, but that didn’t stop me from feeling I wanted to give her one. Her frown gave way to an insincere smile.

“Gavin,” she said, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth. “Leave Miss Kavanagh alone. You have to get ready to go.”

Gavin backed away from me a step, but didn’t go next door. “I don’t want to go.”

Her smile didn’t waver. “I don’t care what you want to do. Dennis has been talking about this all week.”

Gavin didn’t move toward her, though his entire body seemed to shrink in on itself. “I hate the Civil War, I don’t want to go to the Civil War Museum. It’s going to be boring.” He looked at me. “Besides, I promised Miss Kavanagh I’d help her paint her dining room.”

“Miss Kavanagh,” his mother said through her teeth, “is perfectly capable of painting her own dining room.”

“Yes, Gavin,” I said quietly, meeting her gaze without looking away. “I am. You should do what your mother says. You can help me after I get home from work this week. I’ll be taping off the moldings.”

He muttered and grumbled but hopped down my two concrete steps and took the ones to his house in one stride. He pushed past his mother without a word. She didn’t look at him as he went inside.

We looked across the narrow gap between our porches. She didn’t seem much older than I, despite having a fifteen-year-old son. She still smiled, and at last I relented and smiled at her with as much sincerity as she’d given me.

“Have a good time at the museum,” I told her, finally fitting my key into the lock and opening my door.

“We will. My fiancé, Dennis, is taking us.”

I couldn’t have cared less about her fiancé, but I nodded at her anyway and started inside my house.

“Gavin spends a lot of time with you,” she said, stopping me.

I turned to face her as I took my key from the lock and put it in my purse. “He likes to borrow my books. And he’s been very helpful with my renovations.”

She glanced inside before looking back at me. “I have to work long hours. I can’t always be here for him.”

I couldn’t tell if she was explaining herself to me out of guilt or warning me off. “He’s always welcome to come over here, Mrs. Ossley. I appreciate his help.”

She looked me up and down again. “I’m sure you do.”

I waited for her to say more and when she didn’t, I repeated my hopes they’d enjoy the museum, and I went inside. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment. We’d never shared more than a wave in passing before, even though we’d been neighbors for five years. I supposed there were better conversations we could have had. Then again, there could have been worse.

I didn’t care to ponder on it too much. My bed called me, and I went to it to seek a few hours rest before I got on with the rest of my day.

There was no hiding from Marcy on Monday. She took one look at me and squealed like she’d been stuck with a cattle prod.

“Ooooh, girl! You’ve done it!”

I kept my eyes on my reflection as I carefully applied sheer lip gloss and powdered my nose. “Done what?”

Marcy was touching up, too, though she’d brought a fully equipped tackle box into the bathroom. She had every color of eye shadow known to man and some I was convinced came from an alien planet, all with matching lip and eye pencils, blush, foundation and powder. She had so many lipsticks laid out the counter bristled like a coral reef full of tubeworms. She shook one at me.

“You’ve gone got yourself a man.”

Her words took me aback, so I smeared instead of smudged. “I beg your pardon?”

She raised a plucked-to-perfection brow. “A man, honey. Don’t deny it. You’ve got the FFG all over you.”

I shook my head, laughing. “What’s FFG?”

“Freshly fucked glow, honey,” she said, lowering her voice in deference to the bathroom acoustics, but only for a moment. “Spill it.”

“I don’t have anything to spill.” I swiped the sponge from my compact over my nose and cheeks, then tucked it and my gloss back in the small emergency kit I keep in my purse.

“C’mon. I told you about Wayne.”

She was right. The bonds of feminine friendship did require reciprocation. And truthfully, I wanted to talk to someone about Dan. Marcy, sad to say, was my only friend.

“His name is Dan Stewart. He’s a lawyer. I met him at The Blue Swan.”