Chapter Two: The Meeting Pt: 2

"Mmhmm," he commented. "Looks like you shouldn't be allowed near a hot stove or a sharp knife, much less have the run of a kitchen."

I giggled again. "Oh, I love to cook. Just… I get excited or distracted, and… oops."

That didn't seem to help his attitude much, but Mr. Jones stayed quiet and began to apply salve to my fingers before bandaging them up. After the last digit was wrapped, Mr. Jones looked into my eyes as he pressed a gentle kiss on the back of each individual finger. My lips parted on a soft sigh. Feeling slightly lightheaded, I leaned against the counter.

"All better, little one," Mr. Jones said softly with a reassuring smile on his face.

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," I whispered back with a blush spreading across my face.

"Such a good girl," Mr. Jones commented softly, suddenly serious.

Unbelievably, my cheeks blushed even redder. A shy smile spread across my lips as the pleasure in Mr. Jones's tone made me unexpectedly happy. For a moment, there wasn't anything I would not do to hear his voice again.

"Are you thirsty, little one?" he asked, suddenly breaking me out of my thoughts.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "No, thank you. I am just fine. I just wanted to drop off that pie and welcome you to the neighborhood," I insisted.

My gaze went to the front door as I remembered what had happened to the pie. I frowned sadly. I had spent the whole morning making that pie.

"You did both very well," he reassured me sweetly, putting his hands on my shoulders.

I looked up into his eyes and felt trapped for a moment in their dark depths. Mr. Jones was so close that his scent wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I couldn't even breathe without taking more of it in. Musky with the sweat of working to move as well as the underlining scent of a man. It was inconceivable to think that a man had a particular smell, but Mr. Jones did. I wanted to lean forward and bury my head in his neck so I could breathe it in even more.

He reached up and cupped my face gently. His hands were calloused and rough but incredibly gentle as they touched me. Mr. Jones was not like any other man I had ever met. The men in this area were not known to work with their hands unless you could count sitting at a computer all day typing. But Mr. Jones was not afraid of a little hard labor. That alone set him apart from any other person I knew.

My father was one of those men who was not known to do much more than sit at the computer all day. This area of town was known for businessmen that were rarely seen outside of a suit and tie. As well as the perfectly dressed housewives that raised the children and had dinner on the table by five. That was the life my mother had been preparing me for since I was old enough to hold the broom.

Having just graduated, I was being prepared for an all-girls college. There I would get a very basic education that would teach me to run a household. As well as the knowledge that would allow me to carry on a conversation with any manner of posh people.

I knew they had their eyes on a few men that they were going to set me up with, and I was expected to fall into line and marry the man of their choice.

My gut tightened at the idea of marrying any of the boys in the area. I was not opposed to being a dutiful housewife; I did enjoy the rhythm of the days and the sense of joy that came from taking care of the family. But my heart also wanted the passion and fire that came with being swept off my feet. I wasn't quite sure what all that entailed. But I knew that I wanted someone to look at me like I was the most amazing person in the world, not as a commodity.

"Rebecca!" Mr. Jones snapped.

I blinked back to the present, out of the depressing future I knew was waiting for me.

"Yes, Sir?"

A flicker of emotion passed through his eyes, and his tone dropped lower.

"I asked you a question, young lady. I don't like to ask twice," he warned me.

"I'm sorry, Sir. What was your question?" I asked breathlessly, feeling my anxiety rise.

"I asked how old you were?" he responded patiently.

"Oh! 19, Sir. I just turned 19 last month," I answered.

His thumb brushed across my cheek. "So young," he whispered.

Offended, I pulled away, forcing him to drop his hands away from me.

"I am an adult, Mr. Jones,"

I fully expected Mr. Jones to be insulted by my disrespectful tone, but instead, he just laughed.

"How old are you?" I asked almost indignantly.

Mr. Jones chuckled and shook his head. "A lot older than that."

I looked him over, trying to decide exactly what he meant. At that moment, if I was pressed, I would have said he was in his early thirties. No less than 30 but no older than 35.

"Go home, little one. Before I'm tempted to find out how much of an adult you think you are," he said as he turned away to put the first aid kit back.

"What do you mean?" I asked curiously.

When his eyes caught mine again, they had turned as black as his hair. The glint in them was primal, and my heart raced as if I were the prey he wanted to pounce on. Instinctively, I took a step back and ran into a chair, almost knocking the boxes off. His full lips turned up in a dark smile as he looked me up and down.

"Go home, girl. You're out of your league here," he warned me.

A twinge of fear twisted my chest but did nothing to damper the heat that suddenly flared in my chest.

"I'll go," I stated. "I just need to grab my pie pan, and I'll leave you be.

"Leave it. I'll clean it up, and you can stop by tomorrow to pick it up," Mr. Jones insisted.

"You don't have to do that, Sir," I insisted.

"What did I say?" he asked as his tone went low again.

Something about that deep tone stole any feeling of argument that I had.

"Yes, Sir," I answered automatically.

His eyes softened and became more thoughtful before shaking his head as if brushing off whatever thought he'd had.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Rebecca," he said, effectively dismissing me.

I nodded to his back as he turned away from me. I walked out the front door, wondering silently what in the world had just happened. I had come over excitedly, wanting to welcome my new neighbor properly, only to leave feeling upset and extremely confused.

I only knew one thing for sure, something important had taken place, and nothing was the same as it had been when I had walked through the door.