“You need some help with your bags?” he asks.
“That would be amazing. Thanks.”
I pop my trunk, and he glances inside before side-eyeing me. “How long are you planning on staying, Quinn?”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “As long as I’m needed.”
Wes heaves one suitcase after another out of my trunk, grunting. “Did you put bricks in this thing?”
“Of course not. It's just my clothes. And shoes. And cosmetics.”
He mutters something about me going overboard before he calls out to his best friend, “Tripp, help me take these upstairs, would ya?”
“Sure thing, Boss Man.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“No can do.”
Wes sighs heavenward, lugging two suitcases up the porch steps.
Tripp grabs the other two bags, smirking at me. “Did you bring your whole apartment?”
“No,” I shoot back, a little too defensively.
It wasn’t everything, but it wasn’t light packing either. I didn’t exactly have a place of my own to leave things behind since my ex kept the apartment we’d shared. Crashing with my best friend Marlowe and her wife while I searched for a new place made it easy to fill my car like I was staying for months. The thought of being here that long doesn’t seem so bad. Feeling like a third wheel in an apartment that would never feel like mine was getting old.
I was thirty-two, one of the best veterinarians in my specialty in the tri-state area. On paper, I had everything I’d worked for. In reality, it all felt a little hollow.
“How’s he doing?” I nod toward the house, changing the subject.
“Stressing. You know how he gets.” Tripp rolls his eyes.
I swallow down the lump forming in my throat, unsure if I want the answer, but I ask anyway. “How’s Pops?”
His lips press together before he finally says, “Weaker than last time but stable. One of us can take you to see him tomorrow during visiting hours.”
I nod and follow him into the farmhouse, trailing him up the narrow staircase. I try—and fail—not to stare at his jean-clad ass.
Tripp Matthews is a different kind of man than I’m used to. Dust clings to his jeans; his sleeves are rolled to the elbow, tattoos wrapping both forearms. Thick cords of muscle flex as he carries my bags, veins standing out with the effort.
The years have been good to Tripp.
When I reach my old room, Wes is setting some fresh sheets on the bed. “I didn’t know you were coming, so the bed isn’t made, and it’s a little bit of a mess in here.”
Boxes clutter the floor, but otherwise it looks exactly as I left it twelve years ago—peach curtains, a shelf of horse figurines, even the fadedposter of the kitten clinging to a branch with the wordshang in thereprinted across it.
It smells like dust and mildew, but it’s nothing I can’t fix. I add it to the mental checklist of things I need to get done.
“It’s perfect. Thanks, Wes.”
“I need to run and grab clothes from Sawyer’s, but if you want me to come stay tonight so you’re not alone here, I can.”
I laugh lightly. “Nah. I stay by myself all the time, Wes. I don’t need a babysitter.”
He shrugs. “Call if you need anything. We’ll see Pops tomorrow. Right now, I desperately need a shower.”
I give him a once-over, noting the splotches of mud decorating his shirt for the first time. At least, I hope that’s mud.I wrinkle my nose and glance down at my nice blouse, swiping at what might be imaginary spots.
