“Where are your wellies?” Annie called to me, barely visible amidst the thorny bramble.
“They’re with my stuffed animals.” Grown men didn’t wear rain boots.
“You have to wear wellies when you garden.”
“Who said anything about gardening? I’m here to stop you from doing anything stupid. I don’t want to have to call an ambulance.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She emerged from the shrubbery, a large twig caught in her dark blonde hair. I thought about telling her to lean over so I could gently pick it out, maybe graze my finger along her cheek as I did it. But it was entertaining, too, to see it dangle there. “The only thing that needs emergency care,” she continued, “is this garden. It’s so overgrown! It looks like a crazy man lives here.”
“I am a crazy man.” Had she not noticed?
“Pffst.” She dismissed me with a wave of her gloved hand. “You’re sane enough. Now help me prune.” Slapping a pair of clippers into my hands, she wandered off into another section of the garden.
I had no idea what I was doing, but I started clipping and cutting things. Whatever annoyed me, poking out, looking gnarled and useless, I laid to waste. I didn’t know if I was helping or hurting, but it did feel satisfying to trim off the dead parts.
Working steadily, I made my way toward the stone wall. Once I reached it, I noticed a sketchpad on the top. It had to be Annie’s.
Slowly, bracing myself against the wall for support, I stood and grabbed the pad of paper. Leaning there, I opened it up. In pencil, she’d drawn a scene from the garden, capturing detail in the tangled mess of growth. I flipped through, looking at her sketches of the ocean, the stone wall, moss on boulders. She was good. Really good.
At the next page, I stopped. Thick hair swooping over a brow, dark eyes gazing out a window, I realized she’d sketched me. It was a flattering portrait, drawn by someone who found me attractive.
“What are you doing?” Annie arrived on the scene, her hand shooting out, trying to snatch the sketchpad out of my grasp. But I was too quick, catching her wrist in my firm grip instead. I stepped closer, enjoying my height advantage, my size, too. She was so womanly, much smaller than me, and now she looked up with wide eyes, caught. “That—that’s not yours to look through,” she stammered.
“No?” I set the notebook back on top of the wall. Closing the distance between us, I brought her wrist up behind her back and pinned it there. Her breath came quick, her full lips parted as she looked up at me, the flush on her cheeks from embarrassment and perhaps something more. “Have you been drawing me, Annie?”
She shook her head “no.”
I leaned down slightly, taking my index finger and grazing it lightly along her cheek. “Tell me the truth.”
“Yes,” she whispered. Confession sounded good from her mouth.
“Why have you drawn me?” I rubbed my thumb along her inner wrist, her skin smooth and warm. Even dressed for winter, I could see the rounding of her breasts, full and pressing against her coat.
“I…” She tried to look away, but I wouldn’t let her. I took her chin between my thumb and forefinger, locking her in my gaze. So close, it would be easy to dip down and sample the honey of her lips. Nervous, her tongue darted out. My grip on her wrist tightened.
“Do you like how I look, Annie?” My voice sounded low and rumbling as I trod onto dangerous ground.
“You’re…It’s that…” She looked panicked, desperate for escape, but I wasn’t having it. I’d trap her there as long as I wanted. “You’re interesting to look at,” she finally admitted, biting her lower lip.
“Oh, be careful, little Annie.” I moved my hand up to her cheekbone, brushing my knuckles against it, so soft. “Be so careful what you wish for.” She looked up at me with mixed emotions in those blue eyes. I could see desire blazing in her, even if she didn’t fully understand or admit it to herself. She wanted me.
As if I’d been burned, I dropped her wrist, ripped my hand from her cheek. Down in my wheelchair, I turned my back and left without another word.
“You’re not…?” she called after me, sounding far too bereft. “There’s much more to be done!”
I gave her a brief, dismissive wave as I retreated, heading back inside away from her. It was for her own good. She might not want the distance from me, but she needed it. She had no idea how much.
* * *
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* * *
The next day it rained, dark and stormy. I had no idea she’d gone outside until she came back in, clattering in through the front door, drenched to the bone.
“What the hell have you been up to?” I wheeled into the foyer, then stood from my chair, reaching out to her. “Christ, woman, were you trying to drown yourself?”
She looked up, heavy drops of rain plastered to her lashes, a stunned expression on her face. “I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t, did you?” Anger flashed through me at the thought of her losing her balance on the slick rocks in the garden. Past the crumbling stone wall, it was a steep slide. She could have gotten hurt and I might not have had any idea where she was.
“When I went out I swear it wasn’t coming down so hard.” She unzipped her coat, letting it drop to the floor as her teeth started chattering. The rain had somehow gotten inside her jacket, too. She was drenched. Her shirt was plastered to her, fitted to her form, the swell of her breasts accentuated in perfect detail. Her nipples pressed out in two firm pebbles. My mouth watered.
“I’m soaked!” She ran her hands over her shirt, started to lift it up from the bottom, then froze, realizing what she was doing. I could see a patch of skin, wet and pink, her stomach and belly button. I could warm her up from the chill. My tongue would do the trick, tracing a hot trail down.
“Um, I’ll just…” She bit her lip, letting go of her shirt, but it was too wet to fall. It stuck to her, clung to her waist, still revealing her skin.
“You’d better run now and dry off,” I warned her, forcing myself to stay where I was. “Better go quick.”
She ran.
* * *
§
* * *
In a large house, keeping different hours, it was amazing how little Annie and I could manage to see each other. I kept to myself, holding my handful of local friends at bay, not wanting them around the house with Annie there. They weren’t friends, really, not in the true sense. They liked to party, I liked to drink, and sometimes our mutual interests coincided. But I didn’t want them around Annie. It wasn’t that I cared what she thought. At least I told myself I didn’t. Either way, what I was most concerned about was how they’d treat her.
She wore her innocence like a neon sign around her neck. The kinds of guys I hung out with, coming over and sometimes spending a night or two, shades drawn, drinking and more, they wouldn’t leave her alone. She’d be too much of a novelty, too tempting. The thought of them ogling her, propositioning her, making her uncomfortable, maybe even laying a hand on her? I’d lose my mind.
Not that I was reforming my ways. My father had given me an ultimatum and a timeline. By the time I turned 30 in December he needed to see a change. I could make that happen. It didn’t necessarily involve my changing, per se. I could simply create the illusion of change, give him the proof he required so he wouldn’t do anything stupid like sell the distillery or ancestral estate. He’d regret both those decisions. They’d been in our family for generations, put the Douglases on the map. He shouldn’t throw all that away just because his only son wasn’t up to assuming the throne.
Saturday evening, I felt strangely good, little to no pain, more clear-headed than usual. I had the strangest impulse to wash up for dinner. Maybe even shave. When was the last time I’d thought about doing that?
I still shaved from time to time, frankly because beards felt itchy more than any desire to make myself presentable. But with Annie there, I wondered if she’d notice? Would she do a double-take if I shaved and combed my hair, gav
e her a rakish smile? I’d like to see her flustered, unsure, maybe a flicker of arousal in those blue eyes.
I found her in the kitchen, cooking up a storm yet again. You’d think she was feeding an army. The fridge was already stuffed with leftovers.
“You inviting a rugby team over for dinner?” She seemed to be roasting a whole chicken, along with maybe two dozen carrots and potatoes.
“I’m used to cooking for my family,” she laughed. “I think my brother Brian could eat a whole chicken by himself.”
Over on the kitchen table, she’d left her sketchpad open. She’d drawn a still life, a bowl with some apples. They looked ripe and real enough to grab and bite. “Where have you studied?” I asked. With an artistic eye like hers, what was she doing stuck in a caretaker job with me?
“I haven’t studied anywhere.” She grabbed the sketchpad, blushing at my attention.
“You had to have studied somewhere.” In my experience, no one got that good at something all on their own.
“I’m sure you went to Oxford or Harvard or some place like that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But no, I have not studied anywhere.”
I didn’t like her putting that kind of barrier between us, as if we were some sort of different species of human. “You’re quite good, you know.” She continued chopping vegetables, not responding. “And for your information, I didn’t go to school anywhere, either. I had tutors to get me through high school. That’s it.”
“No college degree?” She looked genuinely surprised.