Surreptitiously, she tried the door that led from the laundry room to the rest of his farmhouse. Locked, just as it had been the previous times.
A sense of disappointment descended over her like black confetti. Since she’d spoken with him at The Kitchen, she’d done laundry two other times and pulled weeds in his garden three more times. On every occasion, his truck had been parked at his house. On every occasion, she’d hoped to speak with him. On every occasion, he hadn’t showed.
She’d now crawled and scraped her way to day thirty-seven of sobriety. She’d made it more than a third of the way toward the ninety-day mark. According to Dr. Quinley, some dopamine was supposed to have RSVP’dyesto her brain’s invitation by this point.
It didn’t feel like it tonight. After dinner, she’d tried and failed to watch a movie. She’d tried and failed to read a non-fiction tome on theology. When she’d caught herself fantasizing about how quickly and easily the Riverside Pharmacy could fill her remaining Oxy prescription, she’d bolted down to the pond.
Skipping rocks on the moonlit surface of the pond while whispering, “Not today, Satan” hadn’t helped, so she’d decided to do something healthy both about her craving for human interaction and about the laundry in her dirty clothes hamper. She’d changed out of her sweatshirt and yoga pants into a sweater the color of a mocha, black jeans, and her cute new pair of leopard print flats. Then she’d come here.
Tonight, without the benefit of Oxy, she really needed Sam to answer the SOS she was sending him via washing machine.
She got the washing machine’s cycle going, then closed the lidwith anotherclang.It’s only 8:15 p.m., Sam!The sun set less than an hour ago—
The door to the interior of the house sailed open. Sam stood in the doorway, looking tired and rumpled from a long day’s work.
Sam!
“Is there something you don’t understand about how to operate my washing machine?” he asked grumpily.
He came!“Hmm?” Genevieve tried to look inquiring and repentant, but she couldn’t seem to hold the expression. The internal confetti turned pink and swirled happily upward. “No, no. I understand the operation of your washing machine perfectly.”
His eyes narrowed. He wore yet another soft, casual T-shirt with jeans. His feet were bare. “No banging allowed.”
“No, indeed. Certainly not.” She smiled in a way she hoped would win him over. Then waited for him to soften.
And ...there. The skin around his eyes crinkled with reluctant amusement.
Grasping his non-verbal invitation, she moved forward to peek around the edge of the door’s casing into the mysterious confines of his house. “What are you up to tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Really? Me too!” She slid past him into a mudroom that ended in a short hallway. “Care to give me a tour of your house?”
“No.”
“But you will anyway, right?” she asked over her shoulder as she slipped into the hallway. “Because I’ve already infiltrated past the drawbridge?” If she moved quickly, it would be harder for him to tug her back and quarantine her in the laundry room. The hallway led to a walk-in pantry, which emptied into his kitchen.
And what a kitchen.
The space had been renovated in a clean, unfussy style that suited the old bones of the house. Concrete countertops. Lower cabinets stained the same medium brown as the original woodfloors. A white shiplap backsplash ran behind open shelves holding glasses, plates, bowls, pots. She didn’t spot a single piece of clutter. Only spotless, empty spaces.
The kitchen opened in two directions. Toward the dining room at the front of the house and toward the living room that spanned the remaining width at the back of the house.
“You’re not saying much,” she mentioned.
“If you want someone to talk about furnishings, I’m not your bloke.”
She slid the tip of her pointer finger along the dining room table as she passed it, then stopped for a moment to glance out one of the windows. Until now, she’d only been able to look in from the outside. This was her first, and maybe only, chance to look out from within.
She continued to the central foyer. On its far side, she found an office. Her senses feasted on the surroundings, savoring every detail the way she’d savor bites of chocolate cake. She backtracked to the foyer and ascended the stairs to the second floor—
Masculine fingers encircled her wrist.
Instantly, she stopped. Her inhale stilled partway as bands of awareness spread outward from the place his hand touched.
“No need to go upstairs,” he said.
Heavens, he was private. “Okay,” she said lightly. Truly, it had been a miracle that he’d allowed her to see the first floor.
