Page 6 of Rescuing the Writer
“Maybe I am,” I murmured, the air between us crackling with a tension that was new, intriguing, and made my dick perk up and take notice.
Waylon stood straight, breaking the momentary stand-off, and checked his watch. “I have to head back to work now. Help yourself to anything—except the shirts.”
I gave him a halfhearted salute.
Waylon’s smile lingered as he opened the door, the bright midday light spilling into the entranceway. “Lock up if you go out, okay? And there’s beer in the fridge if you want one.”
“Beer, check. Lock, double-check.”
“See you tonight, Melbourne.” And with that, he stepped out, closing the door behind him with a gentle click that resounded like the final note of a symphony, leaving me alone with the echo of our banter hanging in the air and the quiet hum of a house that already felt more welcoming than any place I’d called home in years.
3
WAYLON
Exhaustion clung to me like the residual mud on my boots as I pushed open the front door. Today’s shift had been long and intense, courtesy of some escaped horses I’d had to wrangle. My lasso skills weren’t what they used to be, but I’d managed in the end.
The sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting a soft twilight glow through the windows of Mom’s old house—my house now—and setting the flowers in her garden ablaze. My muscles ached from the day’s work, but a smile tugged at my lips despite the weariness. Melbourne was here.
He’d been asleep the day before when I’d gotten home and still in bed when I’d left this morning, but I’d seen signs of life in the wet towels he’d left on the bathroom floor and the trail of crumbs from the cabinet where he’d found cookies to the dining table, where he’d set up shop. His laptop sat in the middle of the utter chaos of notebooks, sticky notes, pens, a dictionary, candy wrappers, and more. It should’ve annoyed me, this mess, but instead, I found it strangely endearing.
“Hey,” I called out as I walked in.
I took off my boots and put them on the shoe rack, then removed my gun belt and put my gun and ammo in the gun locker—the first thing I’d installed after officially moving in.
No response, but the faint sounds of a keyboard drifted in from the dining room. I peeked around the corner. Melbourne sat at the table, his shoulders hunched and his eyes narrowed. He didn’t look up from his laptop, his fingers flying across the keys in a writer’s fervor, lost to the world he was furiously crafting. A part of me envied that focus, how he could shut everything out and create.
I’d leave him be for now. Shower or dinner? I was a little sweaty, so a shower would be nice, but my stomach growled, so maybe dinner should get priority? Yeah, food first.
I quickly changed into shorts and a simple white T-shirt and headed to the kitchen, which embraced me with the warmth and scent of home. My mom had taught me how to cook, and I’d been an eager student, too much of a health nut to be content with store-bought meals. Home-cooked food was so much better…and healthier.
Besides, the domestic routine of cooking was comforting, familiar, and relaxing. It helped me unwind after a long day like today. Cooking was a kind of therapy, a way to regain control after a shift spent dealing with everything I couldn’t fix.
The sizzle and chop of preparation soon filled the room—onions diced into perfect cubes, garlic minced until its aroma seeped into every corner, tomatoes deseeded and cut into smaller chunks, bell peppers, carrots, and zucchini sliced with precision. I let the onions simmer until they were almost caramelized, added the garlic until the whole kitchen filled with the tantalizing smell, and then added the tomatoes and vegetables, all while browning the ground beef in another pan.
The pasta I chose was thick and hearty, designed to capture every nuance of the red sauce that simmered on the stove. A good red sauce took time and patience, like most things in life, but it was so worth it.
“Need help?” Melbourne looked up, his gaze warm under the disarray of his salt-and-pepper hair. There was a smudge of ink on his cheek, probably from one of his many pens, and the sight coaxed a genuine chuckle from me.
“Got it under control,” I said, stirring the sauce gently. “But you can keep me company.”
“Deal.” He closed his laptop with a decisive snap and leaned back in his chair, watching me with those keen brown eyes that seemed to see right through to my marrow. “How was your day?”
Such a simple question, yet joy blazed through me at the unexpected intimacy. “Good. Busy, but every incident I was called in for ended well, so that’s always something to be grateful for.”
“Did you always want to be a deputy?”
“I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, so I enlisted first. My dad served and always said he was grateful for the lessons the Army had taught him, so I figured I’d do the same. When I came home, I enrolled in a community college. Sheriff Frant asked if I was interested in becoming a deputy, and I said yes. Been doing it for four years now, and I love it.”
“It fits you. You’re very”—Melbourne gestured at me—“competent. And mature for your age ‘cause you’re what, twenty-eight?”
I nodded. “Guess I had to grow up quick.” I focused on the steam curling from the pot, letting it cloud the moment.
“Your mom?” Melbourne’s voice was softer now, probing the edges of a wound still fresh.
“My dad died when I was ten. Guy fell asleep behind the wheel of his tractor-trailer and hit him head-on. So after that, it was my mom and me.”
“That’s awfully young for a boy to lose his father.”