Page 33 of Rockland

It’s not just the sex. Though it was fucking fantastic.

Somehow, a simple grilled cheese sandwich eaten at the bar in her kitchen was the most fulfilling meal I’ve had in years.

When I’m in her presence, it seems as if no one else exists.

I shake my head. Rub my forehead. Slip out of my trousers. Change into a fresh pair of boxer briefs from my bag. Neatly fold and leave my clothes. I figured she’s had enough time to ready herself and I head back into the bedroom to face her.

I open the door, calling, “Are you decent?”

“Yes. I’m the only decent one in this house, thank you very much.”

I have to chuckle. When I enter the room, my laughter doubles.

The tiny little thing is lying in her bed, red hair spread over the sheets like a mermaid. Next to her she’s built a wall of pillows, dividing the mattress into two.

I ask, “You’ve built yourself an armor of feathers to keep safe from me?”

“What are you laughing at? My bed, my rules.” She gives me a long hard look, but then her gaze softens as her eyes explore my body. She looks away, muttering, “Don’t you have any decency? Do you people wear shirts out there in the wild? Geeze.” She throws herself over on her side, facing away from me.

I lift the covers, sliding into my side of the bed. I face away from her, the pillows pressing against my back. “This is actually pretty comfortable.”

She gives a snort.

For once, in years, I’m fully content.

But I can’t let it happen again.

I close my eyes, the soft scent of lavender pulling me into darkness.

Tess

It’s been five days since Rockland arrived. I barely had time to think after that first incredible night we had together. Though he explored every inch of my body, I felt shy waking beside him in the morning. After a quick jog—me more speed walking than running—we were both wrapped into the hosting of Brett’s second annual memorial service.

This second year, the memorial is always held in the home of the loved one. And it basically lasts an entire weekend. A sort of open house with people coming and going all hours of the day from Friday night till Sunday evening. Rockland and I were in charge of hosting the event. We had it catered and despite my complaints, there was no wine brought up from the family cellars for the event.

Too soon, he said.

Dozens of family members to greet and entertain. Well wishes, fielding curious questions about my sleep arrangements from the nosier Beauties. Brunches of meat and pastries. Lunch platters of finger sandwiches and fruit. Dinners of fish and vegetables. Roast and potatoes. Desserts, coffees. The food and people rotated in and out of the house all day and night. Friday and Saturday, Rockland and I fell into bed, exhausted. Sunday when the last guest left, Rockland took me in his arms, twirling me and dancing me across the kitchen in celebration.

We made an enormous bowl of popcorn, hot chocolate piled with heaps of whipped cream. Watched old movies and fell asleep together on the couch.

I was grateful for the distraction of the memorial.

I think I’m starting to have feelings for him. It sounds so childish, so middle school girlish, but it’s true. I’m not sure how else to put it. I’ve never been one to easily sort my emotions, placing them up on the shelf in neat labeled boxes; lust, desire, fondness… love.

Maybe I’m just a lonely widow, crushing on a good-looking man. One who cooks. Makes me laugh. Cares for me. Made my body quiver with delight.

I’m riddled with questions I’ll never ask him. Where do we stand? Did he enjoy the other night or was it just a part of him helping me to sort myself out? How long will he be here? Is he enjoying his stay or is he missing his people? Is he hiding his annoyance of having to deal with me? Ready to go home to his Parish?

Now that the memorial weekend is over, what will our lives look like?

And when will he touch me again?

Now I’ve woken nestled in his arms, my drool dampening his bare chest. I lay my head against him, listening to his soft, steady breaths, and gather my thoughts. It’s Monday morning and I’ve got to get to work. I quietly slip from his arms, letting him sleep. I tiptoe upstairs. Shower. Change for work. A pretty white slim cut dress and pearl earrings, my hair blown out into soft waves. When I emerge from the bedroom, the scent of cooking food greets me at the top of the stairs.

I come into the kitchen, feeling shy after waking in his arms versus my side of the pillow wall. He’s standing at the stove, his back to me, a white towel tossed over his shoulder. He’s cooking an omelet.

“Good morning,” I say. I take my seat at the bar—the same one I ate the grilled cheese at—and sip at the tan-colored coffee that’s waiting for me. A smile crosses my face as my taste buds confirm my suspicions. It has the perfect amount of cream and sugar added to it. “Thank you for the coffee.”