A funny little jolt skitters through my ribs. No. No. Couldn’t be him. That’s impossible. Davenport is a big enough area. This is Iowa. There are at least…what, six hot cowboys? Ten? Plus he didn’t give me ballplayer vibes. Though I didn’t ask about his profession…
“What?” Jackson asks, studying my face.
“No, nothing.” I shake my head, too fast. “I’m going to tidy things up here. See you in a couple of hours.”
He studies me for another beat like he wants to call bullshit, then shrugs and heads for the door. “Text me if you think of anything you need. Preferably not a new roommate.”
“Ha. Hilarious.”
The door shuts, and I’m left in the silence of my house.
I exhale, hands on my hips, and look around at the chaos of my allegedly fresh start. Boxes. Boots. A flannel—the one from last night—crumpled over the back of a chair. My cheeks heat. I grab it and shove it into the hamper like it’s evidence.
Hey, at least the place is already furnished, thanks to Jackson’s help.
My mind goes back to the night in Davenport, and how we exchanged no last names and no numbers. A classic no-strings arrangement.
No way it could be him.
I clap my hands once, loud, to break the spiral. “Okay. Cleaning montage,” I tell the room. “Focus on what you can control.”
I start moving. I take the trash out, put the sheets on, get the bra off the doorknob. I light a candle. I open a window. I sage the place again.
I try not to think about hands on my hips, a low voice in my ear, or how my body still hums from a night I promised would mean nothing.
Two hours, I tell myself.
Two hours and I’ll meet some polite, baseball-playing stranger who needs a room and some home-cooked meals, and definitely not the man who kissed me like he meant it in the rain.
Not the man whose name I can still taste.
Right?
Right.
The roast is probably overcooked.
The potatoes are definitely undercooked.
And I have a weird sweat going that’s 90% stress and 10% fear that I somehow manifested the hot stranger from last night into my kitchen via reckless daydreaming and mild dehydration.
Jackson texted twenty minutes ago.Be there soon.Which means any second now.
I smooth my sundress, fluff my hair, and sniff my pits. We’re good. Mostly. The table’s set. There’s a candle burning that smells like “Cashmere Rain,” whatever the hell that is. Everything is almost presentable.
Except for the gnawing sense of dread in my gut that keeps whisperingwhat if.
What if it’s him?
No. Stop. That issoridiculous. Davenport is full of people. There’s zero chance.
I light the last tea candle, step back, and give the table a look that says,Yeah, I live here now. I do adult things like hosting minor league athletes in exchange for rent and light trauma.
The door opens.
“Cass?” Jackson’s voice. “We’re here.”
“Kitchen!” I call, already half-reaching for the plates. “Hope you’re hungry.”
