Page 11 of From the Shadows

I finish pouring the second—or is it third—shot of espresso into my cup and top it with steamed oat milk. Warmth seeps into my palms as I clutch the mug close, savoring the scent before that first sip.

This is getting added to my list of favorites. Strong, hot coffee on a dark and cloudy morning. If I’m lucky, it won’t clear off at all, and I’ll have this entire day to pursue my passion project. Or maybe just dance in the rain.

I step out onto my back patio and inhale deeply. A single fat drop of rain hits the concrete in front of my toes. Another joins it, and another, creeping closer until one finally makes contact, kissing the top of my foot.

I tilt my cup to my lips and drain half the contents before it gets diluted.

The sky opens up, not violently, but with a soft caress and the promise to wash the world clean. To baptize it and whisk away all of its sins.

Taking a step and then another until I’m past the seating area, I let the grass caress my arches, tickling and welcoming. Soft, heavy drops dot my tank top, slowly but surely filling in the dry spots and soaking my clothes to my skin.

There is nothing better. Not a single thing could top this.

If there existed a person, a singular being who could embody all that this moment is—the dark, the rain, the warm embrace—and they were balanced out with a big dick and a hint of sad wildness, they would be the perfect match to my soul. My soulmate? My missing piece? My big O.

I have my suspicions that this exact person exists and I have a solid habit of flirting with him, twisting and twining his words in my head and sometimes out loud, and lusting after him in an undeniable, boisterous way.

But God, he makes it fun.

I stroll around my garden, taking time to inspect each of the beds. The hydrangeas get a sweet little pat of appreciation on their purple-blue heads. The boxwoods get a pinch here or there to hone their precisely sculpted shapes. And the daisies… Oh, the daisies are happy little landing pads for some of my favorite friends.

By the time I’ve made it all the way around the garden, I’m drenched. Soaked through.

Doused.

Squidgy.

Sudoriferous.

Moist. That one gets me every time.

But it’s been a most enjoyable promenade around my perennials in the precipitation. The alliterations make me stupidly happy. Almost as happy as the rain.

A drop falls off the end of my hair and rolls down the swell of my boob, peaking my nipples. It might be a touch chilly when the breeze swirls past my wet clothes.

I turn, resigned to going inside and maybe doing something mildly productive but staring at me over the top of my hedge are twin expressions of gloom, laced with a smidge of panic.

“Well, hey there, buttercup. Who’ve you got with you?” I ask the sweet-faced little girl.

Dark ringlets frame her porcelain face, a faint blush on her cheeks that’s likely due to the tears perched precariously on her lashes. Eveline Yore blinks at me, her little chin wobbling as she assesses… this. Me. Standing before her in the soaking wet, threadbare tank top I sleep in and a pair of shorts that should’ve been retired years ago.

Needless to say, I am not ready for public consumption. Though I am in my normally quite private backyard, out of view of prying eyes. Most of them anyway.

“I, uh…” Eddie hikes his daughter higher, settling her in the crook of his arm as he adjusts the bright yellow and red ladybug umbrella over her head. It’s comically small in his huge hand.

And the way he holds it, so delicately shielding her from the rain is almost too much for poor little me.

And his eyes… her eyes… they match perfectly in their slightly down cast way. Sad eyes on the sweetest girl, ones she got from her daddy.

And the sigh… the motherfucking sigh. Because as much as Eddie is standing here in some sort of obvious need, he is fighting with finding the words to ask.

I can adopt and amplify his discomfort, cross my arms over my chest, and diminish the fact that I’m outside in next to nothing, but what little I have is soaked and clinging to my body, or I can own it. So I sink into my heels and sip my lukewarm, rain-diluted coffee, and patiently wait for Eddie’s next move.

It’s worth it. Completely and utterly worth the wait when he passes the bitty umbrella to the hand under his daughter’s bum and runs the free one through his long black hair, pushing it away from his face.

How does he make such a simple thing so damn alluring? How does he put so much emotion into the expulsion of air? How is he standing there with his eyes laser focused on my face when my nips are screaming for his attention?

I break eye contact and glance down at my chest. Yep. There they are in all their glory, poking at the sodden cotton and perfectly visible through the thin layer to boot.