Page 3 of Redeem

I was irritated by him, at least partially. It was pretty presumptuous of him to do that, and I hated the idea that a stranger would look at me, think that I wasn’t perfectly capable of handling something, anything, on my own. But another part of me, the one that annoyed me to no end, was impressed.

I looked at him again, again saw that calm aura, and I realized that wasn’t the best description. He wasn’t calm, not exactly. There was an undercurrent of something, but not nervousness, and I struggled to think of what I would describe it as.

Aware.

Yes, that was it.

He was so acutely aware of everything around him.

I was no exception.

When people looked at me, I knew what they saw. Five foot nothing, average-looking, closer to plump than curvy. A chip on my shoulder that I tried so hard to make them think was attitude but that hid the last bits of vulnerability that I hadn’t been able to smother yet.

He probably saw that chip too, but something told me he could see past it, probably glimpsed the things I tried to ignore myself and worked even harder to prevent others from seeing. This man, he saw them, though. I knew that deep in my heart.

The thought should have terrified me, would have on most days. I didn’t want anyone to see me, didn’t want anyone to know me. But something told me that he could, and I couldn’t shake the crazy feeling that I wanted him to.

I ignored that, wouldn’t even begin to let that thought take hold. Instead, I refocused on the road, determined I would grit my teeth and take his help, return him to where I had found him, and not think of this again.

The thirty-minute drive to my house passed in a blur, the increasingly bumpy road telling me I was getting closer. A few minutes later, I turned down the long drive that led to my house.

It had been a farm once, but was now grassland, the property wild, unkempt. Every time I looked at it I felt peace come over me, a feeling I so desperately sought. A feeling I had so seldom found anywhere else. I didn’t know what it was about it, the land wasn’t especially fertile, the property wasn’t prized, but it was mine. My home. No one else was welcome here.

I loved it.

Out here, there was nothing but silence, silence loud enough that it sometimes drowned out my own thoughts.

I pulled up in front of the house and parked, looked at him as he looked at my home, that awareness still evident. He had no visible reaction, which was surprising. Most people looked at the house and had some reaction to its shabby state, gave some reaction when they saw the peeling paint, the saggy porch, the front of the house that was highlighted by sheets of wood where broken-out windows had been boarded up.

He had none.

Instead, he jumped off the back of the truck and landed lightly, seeming unbothered while I did my level best to ignore the way his muscles flexed.

“Where do you want it?” he asked.

Everywhere.

That thought popped into my head out of nowhere, and I struggled to keep my expression blank. Instead, I looked up at him, not allowing my gaze to linger, though doing so was a feat.

I focused on his lips, remembered how quiet his voice had been. Wondered if that had been intentional. Then I stopped that train of thought. Reminded myself that I didn’t wonder about anything. That I didn’t care.

“There, next to the porch,” I said curtly.

He didn’t say anything, and I kept my gaze on the spot he had vacated, listened as his footsteps moved close to the tailgate. Then, somehow managing to look in his direction without actually looking at him, I walked toward him. I reached out, intending to grab a corner of one of the sheets, but was stopped by him.

His broad shoulders started in my peripheral, but a beat later he had shifted, putting himself entirely between me and the truck.

“I have it,” he said in that quiet, almost whispered voice. Then he proceeded to grab two of the sheets, remove them from the truck as though they were nothing.

I, however, was stunned into place.

He had barely touched me. The back of his arm had only just grazed against my breast, hardly more than a phantom touch. But that minimal contact had the force of one far deeper, more explosive than I had experienced before. My entire body felt alive, near explosive with the faint memory of where he had touched me.

Worse, it craved more. I craved more.

An unacceptable result for reasons I knew far too well.

Still, my skin started to prickle, a low hum starting to churn through my blood, my reaction to him intensifying. As I watched him, I was reminded of his huge size. He had at least a foot and a half of height on me, and though I was no lightweight, I wouldn’t be able to put up even a token fight against someone with his strength. I would be of no match for him, would be completely at his mercy, something he seemed to know, even though it had only just occurred to me.