Split(36)

“I should’ve looked away.” My face ignites and I’m sure she can—I suck in a breath as her hand grabs mine.

Her eyes are gentle with compassion and understanding. “It’s okay, Lucas.”

My fingers squeeze hers without my permission and it brings a small smile to her sad face.

Pride pounds behind my ribs. I’m glad to erase even a tiny bit of her grief.

She holds up the Styrofoam container. “Can I put this in your fridge before it goes bad?”

I nod, and fear that this means I have to let go of her hand.

Her warm, firm grip is reassuring. Comforting. I don’t want to lose it.

She moves and—“Oh shit!” She leaps behind me and her hands fist my T-shirt at my sides. “What the f*ck is that?” Her arm shoots forward, her breasts pressed to my back. I fight the weakening in my knees at the overload of her touch. “There! Under the deck! Oh my God, it’s a mountain lion. Is it a mountain lion?” She claws at my abdomen, tugging me backward. “Is there a gun in the truck? We need to get—”

“No.” The mention of a weapon snaps me from the fog of her touch and intoxicating floral scent. “It’s a dog.”

“What!” Her muscles relax, but her grip on me tightens. It’s almost enough to make me laugh. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I place my hands over hers at my waist. “It’s okay. Far as I can tell, he’s harmless.”

“Oh, okay.” Her forehead presses into my shoulder blade and she exhales hard. “Right. A dog. I’m good.”

She drops her hold and steps back. I immediately miss her heat and the suppleness of her body, but it’s for the best. She bends over and picks up what’s left of the fry bread taco in pieces over the ground.

“May I?” She motions to the dog. “Figure you’re not going to eat it now.”

“You can try. He’s not mine.” I follow her as she walks to the porch and crouches low. “I’ve tried to get him to come out, but he won’t budge.”

“You scared, little guy?” The light, almost singsong tone of her voice is tender and calming.

“I call him Buddy.” My face warms for some reason I can’t name.

“Hey, Buddy.” She holds out the food. “I won’t hurt you.”

She waits and I drop to sit on the step, leaning back on an elbow to watch her try and entice the dog out with her gentle encouragement. I close my eyes for a moment, listening to her voice and enjoying this peek into her personality. Such a contradiction to the cursing, teasing, tenacious woman I’d glimpsed before.

“Atta boy, come on.”

I push up and see the dog has his nose and two front paws poking out from beneath the deck.

“There ya go, boy.” He licks Shyann’s fingers and waits while she grabs more. “Oh, you’re hungry.”

The dog inches out a little more and I take the opportunity to inspect him for injuries. His snout is filthy, chest and neck the same, but I don’t see any wounds or dried blood. His coat is longer than I originally thought, but he doesn’t seem to match any particular breed, probably a mutt.

I lean in, propping my elbows on my knees. “How’d you do—”

The dog retreats back into the shadows.

“Sorry.”

She twists around and grins. “It’s okay. He’s skittish. Probably a man who traumatized him. He seems okay with me.”

“Yeah.” Funny, I find it’s women who are far more dangerous.

“I’ll just leave this here.” She dumps what’s left of the taco in the dirt. “Mind if I toss this in your trash?”

My heart pounds. Shyann in my house? “Uh . . . sure.”





TWELVE



SHYANN


My fingers are covered in dirt, dog slobber, and the remnants of a green chili taco. Probably not the best meal for a dog, but he seemed hungry and I couldn’t let the food go to waste. Chances are, if that dog has been homeless for as long as his dirty fur dictates, he’s probably eaten much worse.

Lucas gets up from the front steps and walks stiffly to the door.

I assumed my dad had rented the river house to one of his buddies, down and out, probably kicked out by his wife for being a drunk *. It would take someone as defenseless as Lucas, young and desperate but hardworking, to crack my dad’s protective shell. Looking back, Lucas living here makes perfect sense.

I trail behind him and the wood deck creaks beneath my weight. I try to push away the images of my mom laying each plank by hand with a nail gun. My dad would say, “Don’t f*ck those hands up, darlin’,” then kiss her on the head. Little did he know there was something way worse working inside her that would f*ck up a lot more than her hands.

“It’s under the sink.” Lucas stands in the open doorway and studies me through narrowed eyes. “Garbage.” He nods to the messy Styrofoam in my hands.

“Right.” I step into the open living room and my breath catches.

The wood floor has been stained, the walls painted in an earthy taupe that accentuates the bright white molding. A woodstove acts as the centerpiece, loaning its rustic look to the modern space. My muscles release a bit of their tension.

“You do all this?”