Finding Kyle(45)

I feel oppressively hot and uncomfortable, almost to the point I can’t breathe. My eyes pop open, and I immediately remember I’m in Kyle’s bed. The clock on his bedside table reflects it’s just past eight in the morning.

Well, not exactly in the bed—more like lying on top of his bed. I’m hot and can barely breathe because he’s wrapped around me tightly. His chest is to my back with one arm under my head so it’s resting at an odd angle. The other is wrapped around my waist with his hand coming to rest in the center of my chest.

Even though I’m not in the most comfortable of positions—I’m sweating like a pig because of the body heat Kyle is radiating and my neck has a kink in it—I lie perfectly still and savor this experience.

Kyle is cuddling with me.

Even though I’d seen a softer side of Kyle break through on our day outing to Bar Harbor, and he said some sweet things last night when I got him to bed—although that technically was the alcohol talking—I never once would have thought Kyle was the snuggling type. Even after we’d had sex the other night, I never expected him to get back into bed and cuddle with me.

I knew he wasn’t that type of man.

Or perhaps I’m wrong about that.

Regardless, I’m content to lay here for just a few moments and feel what it’s like to be wrapped up securely in his arms.

Eventually, though, my need to pee outweighs my desire to cuddle with Kyle, so I attempt to break free of his hold. This takes some doing and isn’t easy, as he’s still clearly passed out and not helping matters. Somehow, I manage to get his arm around me to loosen and I’m able to slither out. I roll off the bed and look down at him sleeping. His face is so peaceful looking, so anti-Kyle, that I have to just watch him for a bit, which I’m sure isn’t as creepy as it sounds.

But then my bladder calls out to me, so I walk quietly down the hallway to his little bathroom where I do my business. I have no intention of going back into Kyle’s room because I had not intended to sleep in the bed with him last night. However, once I got him in the house and managed to get him into his bedroom, he had fallen backward on his mattress and passed out cold. He had mumbled something in the car when I woke him up about “hoping he didn’t get sick,” and that worried me enough that I felt compelled to stay and make sure he was okay. I couldn’t handle the thought of him drowning in his own vomit or something, so I reasoned to myself that I was being a good neighbor by lying on the bed next to him in case he needed help.

I certainly hadn’t intended to fall asleep.

Not bemoaning that fact either, but there’s no reason to stay now. Kyle is fine, and there’s really nothing that needs to be said. He made that clear last night at the bar. The icing on top was Barb Privett coming onto him—in a very familiar way that made it clear she had carnal knowledge of Kyle. That thought right there causes acid to surge in my stomach, and I walk quickly through his house to the front door. There’s not a doubt in my mind that had I not showed up last night, Kyle would have gone home with her. In fact, I’m not really sure why he came after me, because he’d told me not two minutes before that there was nothing to talk about between the two of us.

Yes, it’s best I get home and leave Kyle far behind.

Too much trouble.

Too much drama.

Not enough of the real Kyle to keep me interested.

?

I’m startled so much by the banging sound that my paintbrush slips a little in my hand, but not enough to ruin the stroke. I tilt my head to listen. It seems to be coming from my porch. It’s definitely not a knocking on my door, but something is definitely striking wood.

Bang, bang, bang.

“What the hell?” I mutter as I stand up from my stool and arch my back to loosen it up. I’ve been sitting in front of my easel for the last three hours—ever since I left Kyle’s house—and my muscles are screaming at me.

I follow the banging sound, which leads me from my back room/studio, through the living room, and to the front door. I open it up and see Kyle kneeling on the first porch step closest to the ground while he bangs a nail into the top step, which he’s replaced with a new board.

I step out and watch dumbfounded as he pulls a nail he’s holding in between his lips and hammers it in.

Three strikes. Bang, bang, bang.

“What are you doing?” I ask, and his head slowly rises.

He pulls the last nail out of his mouth. “Penance.”

“Penance?” I say with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah, for getting drunk and acting like an ass last night,” he says sheepishly. “And I noticed the top step was weak the other day, so thought I’d replace it for you.”

“So fixing my step is penance?”

“No, hammering nails when my head is already pounding is the penance part,” he corrects me, and then to prove his point, he drives in the last nail while grimacing the entire time.

“Did you take any aspirin?” I ask.

He stands up and shakes his head. “Nope. Got up, showered, and went straight to the hardware store to get the materials to fix your step.”

I shoot him an exasperated look and jerk my head toward the door. “Well, come on inside. I’ve got some aspirin, and I’ll cook you breakfast too.”

I expect him to decline because Kyle never seems to want to accept anything from me, but to my surprise, he merely climbs the porch steps and says, “Thanks.”