Chapter 23 - asking

3 chapters posted today! Ch 23, 24, 25. You are reading ch 23.

Kara

Somehow things worked out. The fire had turned the office and the old bay into a pile of ashy memories, and after what seemed like a sea of paperwork were filed and processed, the rebuild had finally started.

The damaged parts of our building from the fire had been written off, and after the rubble had been cleaned up, the earth been dug, foundation poured, the shop was finally taking its shape.

Through the open window of my car, I heard the hammering and whirring of tools from our auto shop as I drove into our lot, tamped down the urge to look at the men in their construction gear. My dad's house was located behind our shop, and I continued driving until I parked in front of it.

There was no reason why it took me over an hour to get ready this morning, why I chose to wear a sundress the colour of sunshine when I was just going to my morning classes. And there was absolutely no reason now why I flipped the vanity mirror and reapplied my lip gloss, fluffed my hair, checked my teeth. But when I considered spraying perfume, I finally slapped my cheeks to sober up.

Bish, what the hell are you doing?

I took a deep breath.

Nothing, bish. I was doing nothing.

Feeling slightly combative from my thoughts, I grabbed my purse and the grocery bag close to my body like a shield and slid out of my car. The ground was slightly wet from the rain last night and already left traces of mud on my shoes. It looked like I stepped on cow shit. I stood in the same spot for a whole minute, contemplating whether I should go to the shop first or in the house.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath and stomped my way to the shop.

I pushed the tarp aside and entered bedlam. Workers milled around. There was a slight smell of chemicals mixed with sawdust in the air. The noise was loud, but that was good. It spoke of a new beginning, a shiny fresh start, and that was exciting and encouraging. And that was why I felt a tickle in my stomach. No other reason. None at all.

"Hey, Kara."

"Hey, Elijah."

He deftly flipped a hammer around in his hand and smoothly placed it back in his tool belt, looked up at me to check if I was impressed. I just shook my head, smirking. He reminded me of my brother sometimes. "Whatcha got there, girl?"

"You're going to fall down on your knees, cry and thank me today. Bought some delish grub at the store. I'll fix up some monster sandwiches for everyone."

His youthful face lit up. "Right on! Is there ham and cheese?"

"I thought you like egg sandwiches."

He made a production of throwing up. I rolled my eyes. Egg sandwiches are awesome.

"Fine. Ham and cheese, it is."

He grinned. "You're the best, Kara. 'Appreciate it."

"No problem. Have you seen my dad?"

He scratched his head. "That guy with the goatee came by. He's the detective who investigated the fire in your shop, right? I think they went somewhere to talk, but that's been over an hour ago. Your dad might be back at your house now though. Maybe?"

"I see." I chewed on my lip, looked at the open doorway behind him. "Everything looks good."

"It's coming along for sure." Then his tone turned teasing. "Looking for someone, ain'tcha?"

Before I could reply, a movement on my periphery caught my attention. I turned my head and looked up—and up, and up.

On the scaffolding stood Cameron Jeremiah Saint Laurent. His long, dark hair was covered with a hard hat and a tool belt was slung on his hips. He was with one of his crew, who looked tiny next to his towering height and muscle and was explaining something to him. But Cameron's intense blue gaze was locked on me. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His admiring look told me that my time getting ready this morning wasn't a waste.

"Hey, boss." He got a smack on the shoulder. "I need you to pay attention to this right now."

That broke Cameron's gaze away from mine. Waving goodbye to Elijah, who had a knowing grin on his face, I marched out of the site to my dad's house like a bat out of hell.

So, he was working today. I let out a huge breath, feeling my shoulders relax a little.

Since day one after the fire, Cameron had been an invaluable help to my family during the process of our insurance claim. He and my dad had somehow talked and planned, and Cameron had taken the role of our builder.

It definitely hadn't been easy, but after hearing advice and stories from people who had a similar experience and their warnings that it was going to be a long and overwhelming process, I realized just how much Cameron had protected and helped us. From providing estimates to communicating with our insurance and everything else he could possibly do for us, he'd taken care of it. It would have been a thousand times more stressful if it were just me and dad organizing everything. I was grateful.

And since day one, Cameron had always been present at the site. Always. Until yesterday. Elijah said Cameron had to go to the office for some paperwork. It made me uneasy—not seeing Cameron.

Cameron and I hadn't had a proper conversation since the night of the fire and he went to see me at my place. That night, he finally told me the reason why he had to leave me, and somehow getting the answers broke me apart a little bit more. I didn't know how to stitch myself back together. I hadn't been myself since.

The days following that had been too hectic. There were too many things I had to prioritize. There wasn't time to sit down and talk to him, much less even think.

I could use the shop as a reason, and it was true. But I knew it was also because I had been avoiding being alone with him. Avoiding thinking about all of it.

But when he wasn't there yesterday, I found myself looking for him. In just a short time, I had begun to expect seeing him everyday at the site, I had come to look forward but never gotten used to the stolen glances he sends my way, I had started to look for that moment when he enters a room and know that the first thing he'd do is look for me.

But he hadn't asked me again for my answer, he hadn't pushed.

Did you or did you not tell him you need time?

I did. He'd been nothing but helpful. He'd given me time and space. That was exactly what I asked for, wasn't it? So why did I feel frustrated, itchy, dissatisfied?

The wood steps creaked and gave as I climbed up to the front door, the railing loose when I gripped it. I wondered briefly if we had the budget to replace or repair them and stepped inside. "Dad! You home?"

But all the lights were off. He was probably still hanging out with Detective Dean. They had become good friends.

My childhood home never changed. Surrounded by trees, it was a small, yellow barn house with pale-blue trim converted into a two-bedroom, one-bathroom home. The open concept and generous windows made the place feel bigger than it actually was. Standing at the front door, I could see everything. The living room with the same sofa and white curtains. It was separated from the kitchen by a long counter where we have our meals. It was a comfort that some things stayed the same.

I put away my shoes and purse, glanced at the clock. The guys would be on break soon. It wouldn't hurt to fix them sandwiches now. I bought enough ingredients to make for everyone.

I turned the air-conditioning on and went to the kitchen, washed my hands, glared at the dishes in the sink. Dylan was in-charge of them today. He should be back soon. I'd make him do them when he got back.

I opened the fridge, scanned the contents, wondered briefly if I could make something else with the sandwiches. After two seconds, I decided against it. Cooking a meal was like doing CPR on a zombie for me. Impossible. So, "Sandwiches it is."

The screen door opened. Thinking it was my dad, I turned. The smile on my lips disappeared.

Cameron Jeremiah Saint Laurent stood in the doorway, the top of his head nearly grazing it, his shoulders nearly as broad. I noticed now what I hadn't earlier. He was wearing a black Henley shirt, jeans, and steel-toe boots. He took off his hard hat. Dust and debris had clung to his long, dark hair. Behind him the wind whistled and blew his loose curls on his mercilessly beautiful face. He pulled it back impatiently, ran his fingers through it. I wondered why he didn't tie it today. His lion eyes, heavy-lidded and piercing blue, met mine. There was a smudge of dirt on his left cheek.

He was dirty.

So, what exactly was it that I found so appealing about him in this moment?

"Kara."

Butterflies dancing. On my hair. On the back of my neck. On my fingers. Everywhere.

What the hell was he doing here? Since the rebuild started, he'd never sought me out—certainly not when I was alone. I knew he knew I was avoiding him, and he'd been good at respecting my wishes by keeping his distance. Until now.

I gave him the side-eye. "Is knocking not a normal thing people do anymore?"

He propped his shoulder on the doorjamb, and without removing his eyes on my face, knocked two short raps on the wood. "That good?"

I rolled my eyes, trying to appear blasé, but inside I was a wreck. I had no idea why in this moment it almost felt like this was the first time we were meeting each other, as though we didn't know each other. He was just a man who was standing outside my door, waiting for me to invite him inside. And the only thing I knew about him was that his beauty was intimidating. And that I was inexplicably drawn to him.

If only.

I turned back to the counter. "What are you doing here?" I asked the lettuce.

"Want help?"

"Help?"

"Heard you're making sandwiches for everyone."

"No, thanks," I said. "You're filthy."

When he didn't reply, I looked at him over my shoulder. His head was bowed low, but I could tell there was a smirk on his mouth.

I bit my lip and closed my eyes for a second, two, gathering my bearings. Why couldn't we have a conversation without hurtling us back to the past? Already tension was circling in the air, and he hadn't even entered the room.

When I opened my eyes, I found him watching me. The smirk was gone. There was something in his eyes that I didn't want to delve deeper into so I turned back to the task at hand. Could I really risk being alone with him?

Maybe I took too long to tell him to go away or maybe I didn't really want him to leave, but before I could decide, he was already taking his place in front of the sink beside me. I froze, watching as he pulled up his sleeves, exposing tanned muscular forearms. He turned the faucet on. He was close. One shift from either of us and our shoulders would touch.

I moved as far away as I could on the counter, but the room felt too small with him here. That had never changed: his forceful presence that was impossible to ignore. Whether he was standing still or working, his powerful energy filled the room. Only this didn't bring comfort to me.

After all, I was trying to fly away from the black hole, not get sucked by it and never be able to leave again.

"I'll wash the dishes," he offered.

"I don't—"

"Either you put me to work or I'll just stand here and watch you. Take your pick," he said. "But I'm not letting you carry all of this by yourself to the shop."

His tone was non-threatening, even friendly. I looked at him suspiciously. We both knew there was no reason to refuse. If I insisted, he might think this meant more to me than I was letting on. So, I said, "If you promise to close your mouth and try not to talk you can clean the tub too."

"Anything else?"

"The Quiet Game starts now."

"Yes, ma'am."

I pressed my lips together, trying not to smile. He had to have the last word. I liked the way he pushed and tested and challenged boundaries—most of the time. Because that was my way too, and only a few people understood or appreciated it. Or matched mine like he did. Maybe we were just both stubborn.

I was planning on ignoring him (for my sake) while I prepared the food and he washed the dishes. A lot of what I felt for him was still buried and I hadn't dug out yet, but, as usual, I overestimated my self-control again when it came to him. I had a basis for this confidence: I did great during the rebuild and not once did I give in to my... weakness to come to him.

But we weren't alone like this. And we weren't this close. He was like a microwave with an insistent beep after the timer was done. I was compelled to open it to stop it from bothering me, grab the food inside and shut it.

Why don't you?

Because the food is still cold. I need to heat it a bit more. I'm not ready to take it out. Not yet.

But the more I tried to ignore him, the more I pay attention to the way he breathed, calm and steady and strong. The way he moved his hands, capable and in control. Every shift of his powerful body while he was standing there beside me.

Sound was drowned out by the fast beating of my heart until it slowly came back, trickling slowly in my ear. The rush of running water from the tap, the splash of it against the sink, the clink of plates. The stray droplet that jumped on my skin felt so intense.

"You can barely see the flower," he murmured.

"Wha—" I cleared my throat. "What?"

"On your dress. The tiniest flower... right there." His eyes shifted down to my shoulder. I felt his eyes on my skin like a caress, felt the warmth of his gaze even when he removed it quickly.

There was a tiny rose sewn on the strap of my dress in very light colours that blended with the fabric. Unless he was looking carefully it was hard to spot.

I'm always looking at you.

Gritting my teeth, I reached for the cutting board on the counter on his side without thinking. Our shoulders brushed. I saw him clench his hands around the mug he was washing, paused for a moment. I wanted to look at his face but stopped myself. I heard him take a deep breath, let it out, then went back to his task.

Was touching him an accident or was it deliberate on my part? Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe I wanted to see his reaction.

I finished with the sandwiches and put them in a big container. I wiped my hands, walked around him to the already open cupboard to his right, and grabbed a glass so I could drink something. My throat felt dry.

I shot him an exasperated look. He turned his head toward me, eyebrows raised.

"There is a wet glass in the cupboard," I accused, shoving the glass in his line of sight.

"Yeah. I just washed it," he pointed out uselessly.

"This isn't dry yet."

"It will be." He pushed his tongue against his cheek. "Eventually."

I threw him a look that said are you serious? Then a small laugh escaped from me, but it was gone quickly. Then I just looked at him. He looked back.

After a moment, I said in a hoarse voice, "Why didn't you ask me again?"

His eyes darkened. He knew exactly what I was talking about. That night of the fire, when he came to my place and told me why he broke up with me, and that he wanted me back. Why didn't he ask me again what my answer was.

I knew it was unfair to ask him this question, especially when I asked him to give me time. But I wanted to know if...

If what?

He finished the dishes, reached for the kitchen towel, and dried his hands. Then he faced me.

"Do you want me to?" he asked softly.

I stepped away, wanting the conversation to stop. What was wrong with me?

"What would you like to know, Kara?" He took a step closer. "That I can't stop thinking about you? That I haven't stopped wanting the fuck out of you everyday? Right now, I can't stop thinking about what you look like under that dress."

My breath caught in my throat.

3 chapters posted today. Chapters 23, 24, 25. You are at the end of chapter 23.