Page 31 of Something Like Shelter

Usually, it was the opposite. I wanted to finish a project, get paid, and move on to the next one. My business worked because I was efficient. The faster I worked, the more jobs I could take. The more jobs I could take, the more money I made.

There was no logical reason for me to want to slow down now, when I was busier than ever.

Except there was nothing particularly logical about the way I’d been feeling since I’d walked through Willa’s front door.

I liked being there.

I liked hearing her talk.

I liked watching her with Adelaide.

I liked Tuna getting spoiled by both of us.

And, apparently, I liked the idea of having a reason to come back tomorrow.

That last part probably should have concerned me more than it did.

CHAPTER NINE

Willa

The bathroom was almost done.

Every time I thought of that fact, I felt as queasy as I had during my first trimester.

I was someone who always prided myself on being independent, someone who enjoyed her solitude, who didn’t need anyone else for company, who wasn’t bothered by a quiet house.

I guess I’d gotten accustomed to his presence. The noises in the bathroom. The conversations we shared. Sometimes, it was just about bathroom fixtures or mirrors. Other times, we’d share coffee or a meal and talk about his childhood, mine, about Tuna, or what his house was like.

I liked it.

The domestic rhythm.

The comfort of another person in my home.

And, yes, fine, the nearness of a man.

Every weeknight when he would show up, his fluffy dog in tow. I would leash Tuna up and take him on a walk, sometimes sit by and watch him swim laps in the pool. Then I would order ‘too much food’ and invite Owen to share it with me.

He came on the weekends too, spending long spans of time working while my occasional guests cooed over his dog. And I fielded the comments my cousins or aunts made about the hot guy upstairs.

The hot guy that had started to do more than make my conscious world just a little more pleasant. Because now he was in my dreams. Though, in that quiet, private place, he wasn’t just fixing my bathroom and having dinner with me. Oh, no.

He was grabbing me, yanking me into the bathroom, and pinning me to the wall as he kissed, touched, squeezed, licked, and slid inside me.

He was pulling me into the bedroom, pressing me into the mattress, and coming over me.

He was grabbing me on the couch, pulling me over his lap, and telling me to ride him. Which I did. Happily. Greedily, even.

Honestly, a part of me was almost relieved to feel desire again. I’d been afraid that I might never feel comfortable or safe enough with a man to have that again.

Was it appropriate to be having steamy dreams about my handyman? Probably not. But it felt, I don’t know, healthy. Normal. Validating.

In a weird way, fantasizing about Owen gave me an identity back that wasn’t, well, ‘single mom.’

I felt less like a sleep-deprived, diaper-changing, milk machine and more like, well, a woman again.

It made me shower more often. Occasionally do my hair or my makeup. Make sure I wasn’t always in pajamas.