Though Vada acted like my proposal disgusted her, I can read her like a newspaper. She’s secretly thinking about my offer while trying to talk herself out of it.
I can’t really blame her though. I’ve never done anything like this before, especially in my community where everyone knows of me, my family, and my studio. After Alana, everyone treated me like a broken soul. They weren't wrong. I was broken. Truthfully, I still feel broken from everything that was taken away from me.
Instead of dwelling on what happened, I buried myself into my work. Worked harder, faster, and longer. It was the only thing that kept me from falling apart most days, and even when I started to have success in my art, the fear of failing again never drifted.
One-night stands were strictly that—one night. I haven’t committed to anyone since Alana, and I doubt I’ll ever be able to.
The only priorities I have in life now are my work and family. I know my momma would like it if I settled down, but after getting the same response from me for the past few years, she’s learned to stop asking.
After Vada stalks out and I clean up the kitchen, I head upstairs to the tower and start my morning work routine. I don’t bother putting a shirt on because the sun is already beating down on me. With how the windows surround the tower, there’s no way to escape the heat. I could wait till after the sun sets to work, but I’m feeling oddly inspired today.
I gather up my materials, tools, and block of clay. Once I’ve prepared the clay and wedged and smacked all the air bubbles out, I sit down at the potter’s wheel and begin wetting my sponge. Pressing my foot down on the accelerator, I squeeze the sponge above the bat to wet the surface. I continue this until it’s smooth and free of clay from the previous use.
Once that’s all set, I throw my prepared block of clay as close to the middle of the bat as I can. This process used to take me a good half hour to get it centered correctly, but after doing it for years, it now only takes a few minutes. Wetting my hands, I begin centering by raising and lowering the clay as the wheel spins. Once it’s ready to go, I start my process for making a Paris mug. I push my thumb down into the middle to form the opening, and once I have it just the way I like it, I use my tools to etch and design the outside.
Once it’s ready to go, I use my cutting wire and slide it under the mug. I pick up the bat and set the entire thing on one of my shelves. Grabbing another bat, I repeat the entire process until I have twenty mugs complete. Next, I’ll add the handles.
Standing up and stretching, I crack my neck and twist my waist from side to side. Working on the wheel and slouching over tends to make my lower back muscles stiff and achy, which is why I usually take a long, hot shower at night.
I head downstairs and make another pot of coffee. While waiting for it to brew, I whip together a quick sandwich and eat before I head back upstairs. Staring out the windows, I overlook the property while taking sips of my coffee. I notice movement in the cottage and see Vada sitting at the desk, but her fingers aren’t flying across the keyboard like I expect. Instead, they’re massaging her temples in slow circular movements. She’s obviously frustrated. A moment later, she slams her laptop shut and leans back in the chair.
I imagine lots of cursing and groaning, and I anxiously wait to see if she’ll come to her senses about my offer. Wondering if she’ll take matters into her own hands again, I wait and watch as I finish off my coffee. She ends up grabbing a few things from her suitcase before locking herself in the bathroom.
Assuming she’s going to be in there a while, enjoying the handheld shower head sprayer, I get back to work for a few hours. Once I’ve put handles on the mugs and inscribe my Paris logo onto the bottoms, I break to freshen up and grab some water. My chest and jeans are covered in wet clay, as usual, but before I head upstairs to shower, I hear a shriek from the back garden.
“Go away! Stop chasing me!” Vada screams, and as soon as I see who she’s screaming at, I crack up and laugh my ass off.
“He’s harmless,” I tell her as soon as I open the back door and step out. “That’s how Henry shows affection.” I smirk, knowing she’s not seeing the humor in any of this.
“A rooster who wanders around your yard pecking at my ankles is not affection!” She scowls. “I nearly fell on my face running from him.”
“Stop running, and he’ll stop chasing,” I simply explain.
“Easy for you to say.” She steps closer to the house to avoid Henry. “Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to have a rooster-creature terrorize you?”
Scratching my fingernails along my jawline, I suck in my lower lip to hold back what I really want to say. “And you call yourself a writer.”
“Shut up. You know what I mean. Control your huge…” She lingers, and I don’t miss the opportunity to fill in the word for her.
“Cock?” My eyebrows rise.
She groans and rolls her eyes at me. “Seriously. This is why I don’t socialize with people.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s why you’re an introvert.”
“Hey, you don’t know anything about me, okay?” she reminds me, and it’s the truth, but I’m not going to let her off that easy.
“I might not know a lot about you, but I know some.”
“Like what?” She crosses her arms, challenging me. “What could you possibly know about me in just three days?”
Leaning my body against the doorframe, I smirk and think back to last night and how her body sang after she got herself off. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind actually.
“I know you’re as uptight as you look. City girl, isolated, with a lack of social skills. You have your guard up even when it’s not merited. You don’t let people in because of something that happened in your past, more than likely. You’d rather form relationships in your books than in real life.”
“I’m not uptight.” She tries defending herself, but I continue anyway.
“You’re so uptight you have to touch yourself to relax. I know it took you approximately three minutes to get off. You know just where to touch and how you like it because it’s the only relief you allow yourself to have. You arch your back just when you feel it coming, and I know you’d enjoy it more if you’d actually get fucked hard like you need.”
Her jaw drops, her eyes narrowing as she stares intently at me. I can tell she’s trying to find the words to respond, but she closes her mouth and swallows.
“Come in.” I smile. “I’ll make dinner.”
I don’t wait for her to reply and turn around to go back inside the house. She follows behind, silently, and when she closes the door, I glance back at her and can see her mind racing a million miles a minute.
Digging around the fridge, I pull out two chicken breasts. She watches me as I wash and cut them into cubes. We stay silent as I move around the kitchen and prepare dinner. Adding a box of rice to the cooked chicken, I cover the pan and let it simmer.
“Do you cook for all your tenants?” she blurts out as I grab two plates from the cupboard.
“No,” I say, grabbing the utensils next. “I haven’t cooked for someone in a long time.”
“Why’s that?” she urges.
“You really want to know?” I ask, directing my eyes at her in warning. She won’t like what she hears, but I won’t lie about it either.
“Yes.”
Clearing my throat, I set the plates and forks on the table where she’s sitting.
“Most tenants don’t stay around the cottage all day. They’re usually here to explore and go to the beach. They eat out, and I only see them at check-in and check-out.”
“Okay?” she says as a question. “What about family or friends?”
“Not really. My mama and aunt are usually the ones to bring me food. Not a lot of time to socialize with friends.”
“Which means you have none.” She grins.
“I do. Most of them come over after dinnertime.”
“Ohh…you mean, chicks. You could’ve just said that.” She tries to keep a straight face, but I can tell it’s close to breaking.
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
“So if you don’t cook for tenants or booty calls, why do you cook for me?”
“Because even though you’re an uptight city girl, I enjoy your company.”
“That almost sounded like a compliment.” She smiles.
I shrug with a smirk and get up to check on the chicken and rice. I turn the burner off and bring the pan to the table.
“Thank you,” she says after I plate her food and set it down in front of her.
“You’d probably starve without me,” I tease her.
She chuckles, not denying it. “Probably true. The writer’s diet is no joke. I’m either eating everything in sight, or I forget to eat entirely.”
“Sounds like my entire college career,” I admit, remembering all the times I’d be scraping for change.
Halfway through dinner, I bring up my offer again. Mostly to taunt her, but also because I’m hoping she’s changed her mind. I can’t get the image of her touching herself out of my head, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about the way she tastes when she comes.
“Even if I was desperate enough to sleep with you, which I’m not, I don’t have sex with guys I just met.”
“Even good-looking ones?”
She starts choking on a mouthful of food, and that’s all the answer I need.
“That’s what I thought.” I stab my last piece of chicken and shove it into my mouth as I watch her expression tighten.
“I was choking because you think so highly of yourself, not because I was agreeing,” she clarifies, and though she’s trying to sound serious, I see the corner of her lips tilt up.
Standing up, I take our plates to the sink and rinse them off. I feel her walk toward me and take the opportunity to spin around and face her.
“So how do you know if you’ve never done it before?” I ask, taking a step forward when she takes a step back.
“Know what?”
“How do you know you wouldn’t enjoy yourself?”
“Because I know myself. I need to know someone to be intimate with them on a physical level,” she explains, although I’m not convinced.
“You sure about that?” I ask, closing the gap between us until our bodies press against each other. Before she can respond, I cover her mouth with mine, and though she’s taken off guard, only seconds pass before her body relaxes.
Slipping my tongue between her plump lips, she moans as I devour her. Cupping her cheek, I hold her in place as I taste her sweetness. Our bodies lean against each other, and a smirk forms on my lips when I feel her fingers digging into my hips, craving more.
I sink my tongue deeper, hearing another hungry moan release from her throat. I knew she’d taste good, but fuck, her moans and sweetness are better than I imagined. My cock throbs against the inside of my jeans, begging to be released.
Pulling back, I feel her heavy breathing against my chest. She looks up at me with swollen lips as her chest moves rapidly.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” I wink, releasing her body and walking out of the kitchen.