She doesn’t respond, but immediately she turns back to her truck, unlaces her boots, and kicks them off one by one. I’m about to make a joke about her calling it a night when she shrugs out of her coveralls, revealing a pair of black leggings and a fitted tank top underneath.
I freeze, mid-thought, and suddenly my brain feels like it short-circuits. I’ve seen Sutton in work clothes, covered in dust and sweat, but this is different. The curve of her hips, the toned lines of her legs—it’s enough to make a man forget how to speak. She bends to fold the coveralls, and I have to force myself to look away before I embarrass us both.
“You okay over there?” she asks, her voice teasing.
I clear my throat, scratching the back of my neck as I focus very hard on the tailgate of her truck. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just—uh—didn’t realize you were hiding gym clothes under all that.”
She smirks, tossing her boots into the truck bed. “A girl’s gotta be comfortable. Did you think I was naked under it?”
Shit. Did she have to say that, because that’s all I can see right now?
“Right,” I mutter, still not trusting myself to look directly at her. “Comfort’s important.”
She laughs again, and I swear it does something to me—something I’m not sure I’m ready to admit.
“You’re a funny guy, Wade,” she says, leaning against the truck with her arms crossed.
I finally meet her gaze. The porch light casts a soft glow across her face, highlighting the freckles on her nose and the way her hair’s come loose from its ponytail. She’s beautiful, and it takes my breath away.
“Thanks, I think.”
She holds my gaze for a second longer before looking away, breaking the moment. “I like this version of you better. It’s nice, and I think we do make a pretty good team.”
I stare back at her in shock. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to speak.
“I should get back to the guest house,” she says, pushing off the truck. “Early morning tomorrow.”
“Right,” I say, stepping back. “Thanks again for letting Caleb tag along. You could have taken my behavior out on him, and…you didn’t.”
She nods, grabbing her boots and coveralls. “I would never do that. He’s a good kid, Wade. You’ve done a great job with him.”
“Means a lot,” I say honestly.
She hesitates for a moment like she wants to say something else, but then she just gives me a small nod and heads for her truck. I watch as she grabs a duffel bag and starts for the guest house. I stand there for a minute, hands in my pockets, staring at the empty driveway.
There’s a definite shift in the energy between us. It’s no longer an angry tension, but more of an easy-going attraction. It’s like we’re seeing each other as allies instead of enemies. Apologies and building trust by actions go a long way.
“Yeah,” I mutter to myself, turning back toward the house. “I’m in trouble.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sutton
Hicks Creek looks the same but smaller, as if the years have shrunk its edges and softened its sharp corners.
Maybe that’s the best thing about small towns, that no matter how long you’re gone, you can still come back to the familiarity of it all.
I park my truck in front of the general store, the same one I used to visit as a kid, the same one where my dad used to buy penny candy for me if I behaved during errands. The sign above the door still reads “Turner’s General Store” in faded white paint on a wooden board that’s weathered more storms than I can count.
I can already see Martha Turner behind the counter through the large front window, her hair piled high in that same beehive she’s probably had since the Reagan administration and it was out of style then. The only difference is that it’s now fully gray.
I step inside, and the little bell above the door jingles, announcing my arrival. The smell hits me immediately: a mix of aged wood, coffee, and a hint of lavender from the sachetsMartha insists on keeping by the register. She looks up from the counter, her sharp eyes narrowing behind her wire-rimmed glasses before recognition spreads across her face.
“Well, I’ll be! Sutton Bishop, back in town!” Her voice is as familiar as the creak of the old wooden floors beneath my boots. “I heard you were, but you know me, I don’t believe it until I see it.”
It’s hard to school my face into not screaming what I’m thinking. Martha Turner isn’t exactly a woman who asks questions about the validity of gossip. Nope, you could tell her a UFO shaped like a basketball landed on Main Street and fifteen aliens that looked like they were coming from the set ofSpace Jamwalked out and she’d have the entire town notified in five minutes, except we’d be in the middle ofIndependence Dayinstead.
“Hi, Miss Turner,” I say, giving her a polite smile as I grab a basket from the stack near the door. “Just picking up a few things.”
