I pick up the picture of his nephew beside his bed. He’s wearing a Boston Bolts hat that’s too big for his head, and he’s staring up at the camera with what appears to be the remnants of an orange Popsicle dripping down his face. He’s adorable. I set it back down and then stare at the bed. There are two pillows on it—no shams or decorative pillows at all—and a simple gray comforter that isn’t familiar.
For some reason, I have this desperate urge to pick up one of the pillows and smell it. That would be weird, though.
Hell, standing in his bedroom nearly naked is weird enough.
Shaking my head, I stalk toward the shower. Once inside, I lather my body and wash my hair, but after a few minutes, I’m so overheated I have no choice but to open the bedroom door to let in some air. I grab my lotion and drop my towel on the floor. Then, without thinking, I rest my foot on the edge of the bed so I can lather my body.
Which is the precise moment the bedroom door opens and my favorite non-cowboy walks in.
CHAPTER 18
Walker
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Hi Walker
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Hi Walker! This is Stew! Hope you’re having a great day!
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Hi Walker! We have a town meeting tomorrow at 6. I hope you can make it. Oh, this is Fletcher Matthews. The mayor.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Hi Walker, don’t forget to stop by the brewery this Saturday. It’s ladies’ night!
UNKNOWN NUMBER:It’s Rosie!
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Did you hear it’s ladies’ night on Saturday? Let’s go to the bar.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:This is Eli by the way.
What the fuck? I growl and shove my phone back in my pocket. Why is everyone texting me? And how the fuck did they get my number? My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it. I’ll be changing my number before I look at that thing again.
It’s like it was sold to a telemarketer or something. Combine that with the absolutely asinine text I received from Tally this morning, and I’ve had one weird fucking day.
To top it all off, last night I discovered the secret behind that incredible scent that follows Tally everywhere she goes.
Wild Honeysuckle. Her perfume.
Also, white cypress. Her lotion.
Oh, and two blue bottles that smell like heaven and hell but have no words on them. Her shampoo and conditioner.
Sharing a bathroom with the woman is going to be a test of my endurance. Last night I won the battle and didn’t touch them. Okay, I touched the shampoo just to see what it smelled like. Though I didn’t use it.
My fucking cock was rock-hard, though, and I stared it down in the shower, refusing to jack off to the woman. Once I do that, I’m done for.
The thought of her being only a few feet away in her sister’s room and my own body lying in a bed she once occupied—her bed—did nothing good for sleeping.
The only good thing to come of all of this is that, because I spent the day avoiding her, I got a ton of work done in the cottage I’m working on for my sister. Billie won’t move into the big house—I know her well enough to realize that would be too much. But the small cottage at the back of the farm that overlooks the wildflower meadow would be perfect. Hardly anyone is ever back there—all the weddings take place near the tulips and daffodil beds, and Gail’s cottage is farther up the path, at least an acre away, so they wouldn’t be on top of each other. The cottage for my sister has two bedrooms, a small kitchen that looks out onto the meadow, andeven a space for a swing on the porch—something Billie has always wanted.
In total, the farm has thirteen cottages. Seven by the daffodils, four by the tulips, and two by the wildflowers. Though the ones by the daffodils and tulips are best suited for my business plan, the ones that overlook the wildflower meadow have the best views of both the mountains on one side and the harbor and downtown on the other. I want my sister to have that view. She deserves the solace.
There’s still a ton of work left to do before I can focus fully on the cottages, though. The chairs for the weddings need to be dusted, and I should also check on the refrigeration system in the makeshift kitchen Peter set up for caterers to use during weddings.
That reminds me: I need to get stain for the dance floor.
Roughing a hand through my hair, I try to figure out which project I should start on first and what—if any—I can ask Tally to help with.
But what does she even knowhowto do? I know what Billie would say. I can practically hear her chiding tone: “Ask her what she can do. Find out what she does when she travels. Talk to her.”
A growl works up my throat. I don’t want to talk to Tally. I don’t want to know anything else about her. Because the more I learn, the more I like. The more I like, the more obsessed I become. I don’t have time to be interested. Don’t have time to be drawn into her wicked spell. I’ve spent five years uninterested in the opposite sex unless it was for a quick lay. A few hours of getting lost in someone. And even those encounters I can count one hand since Gina left me.
