Page 5 of Rescuing the Writer
I trailed behind Waylon as he led the way from the guest room to the kitchen, my gaze lingering over his broad shoulders, appreciating the way his muscles flexed under the fabric of his uniform shirt with each step he took.
“Thirsty?” Waylon asked, opening the fridge and revealing shelves lined with an army of organized health foods and drinks.
I was. For him. “I’ll take a seltzer.”
As he handed me the can, our fingers brushed, sparking a jolt of electricity that ran up my arm. I caught his gaze for a moment, and there was a flicker there, something unreadable. Was it curiosity? Interest?
“Thanks.” I cleared my throat, taking a sip and trying not to dwell on the warmth of his touch. But it wasn’t easy when he stood so close, his presence filling the room like a tangible force.
As I drank, he moved around the kitchen, putting some almonds into a container with several compartments and then adding cheese and a handful of grapes. In between, he stole glances at me—quick, darting looks he probably thought I didn’t notice. But I did, and each one sent a ripple of anticipation through me.
Deputy McSnack was definitely interested in men…and in me.
“Something on your mind?” Much to my surprise, I’d drank the entire can of seltzer. Maybe I’d been thirstier than I’d realized.
My question hung between us, a challenge wrapped in casual curiosity.
He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Just making sure you’re settling in.”
“Settling and intrigued…”
Waylon paused, a dish towel in hand, and met my gaze. There was a depth to his blue eyes that suggested layers and mysteries, and I found myself wanting to explore every single one. He held my stare for what felt like minutes but must have only been seconds before he turned back to his task.
“Good to hear.”
Could he hear how fast my heart was beating? Did he realize his effect on me?
Waylon glanced at the wall clock, his brows knitting together. “I gotta head back to work.”
Hmm, maybe he wasn’t as affected by me as vice versa. Pity. I wouldn’t have minded exploring the chemistry between us.
“Please, make yourself at home.” Waylon’s voice pulled me back from my observations, his tone imbued with a trust that felt like it should have been earned over years rather than offered freely. “Seriously, you can use anything you need. There’s food in the fridge and the freezer, the TV remote is on the coffee table, and the Wi-Fi password is on the yellow Post-it on the fridge.”
“Thanks,” I said, still processing the extent of his openness. It wasn’t only his house he was sharing—it was a piece of himself, and that kind of vulnerability wasn’t something I encountered often. It stirred something in me, a flicker of warmth in a place I’d long thought cold.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” I asked, curiosity piquing as I imagined all the ways this could go wrong for him. “I mean, aren’t you worried I might…I don’t know, help myself to your stuff?”
His laugh was easy, unforced. “Melbourne, if you find anything in here worth stealing, I’d be shocked. I’m not exactly living a life of luxury.”
“Nothing at all?” I teased, gesturing broadly to encompass the entire cottage. “Not even your collection of…well-pressed uniform shirts?”
“Especially not those,” Waylon shot back with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look boyish. “But feel free to prove me wrong.”
“Challenge accepted.”
“Seriously, though.” Waylon tossed me a spare key across the granite countertop. “I know who you are. If my well-pressed shirts go missing, I know who to track down.” His tone was light, playful even, but a glint in his eye suggested he wasn’t entirely joking.
“Is that a threat, Deputy Rozzell?” I asked, the key cool and heavy in my hand. It was a tangible symbol of trust—or maybe a clever ploy to keep me in line. Either way, it hooked me in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
“Let’s call it an insurance policy.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“Good thing I’m more of a lover than a thief then,” I said, the words spilling out before I could rein them back. There was something about Waylon’s calm assertiveness that made me want to push, to test the boundaries he effortlessly set.
“Is that so?” Waylon leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. His tight uniform shirt did nothing to hide the sculpted muscles beneath. I indulged myself by allowing my gaze to linger.
“Absolutely. Besides, you’d probably handcuff me before I could make it past the driveway.”
“Only if you’re lucky,” he shot back, and I swallowed hard, a surge of heat coursing through me at the unexpected innuendo.