She arches a brow. “Is it getting serious?”
My evenings this week have been some of my favorites, and I’m fighting off the fantasy that it could turn into something real. He hasn’t said anything to give me the impression he wants more than sex. “No. Not after Stanford.”
“I don’t blame you. Will you be home Saturday?”
“I’ll make sure I’m around.” I’m about to turn when she grabs me into a big hug.
“I like having you around.” She’s still squeezing me. “If only Avery would move closer, but with you and Jamison back in town, I don’t have to ration my days off to go see her and Thea.”
I hug her back. “I’m glad to be home.”
Just not in this house, but a place of my own will happen soon. After the wedding, I’ll have enough to look for my own place. Jamison told me it’s dismal out there unless I build. Huckleberry Springs is an old town and the houses reflect that.
Durban’s sprawling but cozy home flashes through my head. His place is so gorgeous.
She releases me and I almost go reeling. “Be safe.”
When she’s out of sight, I pull out my phone. I have a text waiting.
Durban: I’m at Iverson’s. Let yourself in.
Campbell: Need help?
He’s probably already done.
Durban: No, just gotta doctor a hoof and I’ll be there.
Campbell: I’ll work on dinner.
Warmth curls through my belly. Let myself in? Don’t mind if I do.
I stop in town and pick up some fruit and veggies from the store, and then I take the back roads to Durban’s. I don’t want anyone in our business. These quiet, intimate, steamy nights are just for us, and if we’re exposed, they might stop. No one’s going to think I’m making a smart decision when it comes to men while I’m in the middle of this wedding, and I don’t want to get questioned.
I don’t want Durban to get asked about what he’s thinking. He might realize he’s wasting his time on me.
I drive to his house, loving the view more each time I make the short trip.
I park in my usual spot on the concrete pad in front of his garage and let myself in just like he said to. I drop my groceries on the counter and deposit my duffel on his precisely made bed. The nightshirt I forgot is neatly folded on the pillow.
The corner of my mouth lifts. He didn’t have to text me to tell me that I left a mess. Sometimes he leaves my nightshirt where I drape it, and sometimes he cleans up without holding it over my head. There’s no condemning statements like Stanford used to wield.
I picked up the kitchen. You’re welcome.
Why can’t you take five minutes to look behind you?
You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached.
In the kitchen, I look through his fridge. We talked about spaghetti last night and there’s a pound of hamburger waiting. I can wow him with my grandma’s homemade meatballs.
Ten minutes later, four rows of three seasoned and rolled meatballs are on a pan. I’m humming to myself when the door opens from the garage.
I wash my hands with my back to the entrance of the mudroom. “He-ey. I hope you’re ready for some balls.”
“Can’t say they’re my taste,” Haven answers.
I bark out a cry and whirl around, spraying water across the counter and floor. “What is it with you guys and sneaking up on women?”
He’s grinning like I robbed a bank and he gets the haul. He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. Like Durban, his biceps bulge in his gray Bootleg Tavern shirt. “Hi, Campbell.” His smile weakens. “What a surprise.”
