“Heartbreaker!”
I frown at the store’s owner, Sarah Shepard. Hip-length silver hair, wire-rim spectacles, and a sly smile, she’s known me my whole life and lives to give me shit.
While Shepard’s is the only place within reasonable cycling distance, I shop at the small café and locally sourced grocery store even when I have the Jeep. I could drive a little farther to the nearest chain store and avoid the harassment, but my mother would disown me. Sarah took Mom under her wing when she and Dad bought the A-frame, and they’re still incredibly close friends. It’s ingrained in me only to shop at Shepard’s, even if Sarah drives me up the wall.
I lift a hand in hello, grab a basket, and head for the fresh food.
Sarah smiles and says nothing else, fussing with the flowers sitting in a vase on the checkout counter. I know better than to think I’m going to get out of here unscathed, though. Sarah’s quiet is like the calm before the storm.
Focused on buying what will fit in the bike bags, I grab ingredients for a quick campfire dinner. I’m not cooking in that tiny kitchen with Rooney nearby and my bed twenty feet away. Not a chance in hell. I’ll give her a good outdoorsy Washington welcome and make a simple meal in a cast-iron skillet.
On my way to check out, I stop at the aisle that I never go down. I’m not exactly sure what to get, I just know in the handful of times I’ve seen Rooney, at some point she was sighing over whatever sweet my mom had made. They’re no homemade Swedish dessert, but I grab the biggest bag of marshmallows, a brick of chocolate, and graham crackers. Seems like a safe choice.
Sarah scans the items and arches her eyebrows. “So,” she says. “Who’re you hiding at the little house?”
I blink at her in shock. “What?”
“Dear, this is not my first day as local busybody, and I’ve known you since you were frowning in diapers. You hate sugary food. The sweetest thing you’ll eat is an apple. Whereas, this evening, you have, in fact, purchased all the fixings for s’mores. Which means, my sweet, surly thirtysomething, that you have a guest.” She bats her eyelashes. “A special someone waiting for you? Warming up that cozy cabin in the woods?”
“A guest,” I tell Sarah distractedly, fishing around my jeans for my wallet. “She’s Willa’s best friend.”
“Oh!” Sarah beams. She loves Willa. “Well, in that case, it’s on the house. Go. Shoo. Woo her with s’mores.”
“I’m not woo—” Clenching my teeth, I exhale heavily and hold out enough cash to cover everything. “I’d like to pay.”
Sarah stacks the items neatly inside my bike bags, then shoves them across the counter. “I said it’s on the house, Heartbreaker. Now get wooing.”
5
Rooney
Playlist: “Make Out,” Julia Nunes
Since I walked back into the cabin, flopped onto that big, dreamy bed, and crashed, I’ve been dreaming about a tall, green-eyed man I couldn’t deny is Axel if I tried.
In the dream, I stand with him in the rain. The world is soft and diffused, only cool water and almost-kisses, the wind whispering between us. Axel’s green eyes glow as he watches me and his hands drift over my waist, pinning our hips together. I sigh with each kiss that drifts along my jaw. My fingertips dance across warm skin, lean shoulders, then dive into the silky softness of his hair. It’s quiet, and it’s dusk. The air crackles around us with an impending storm, and holding my eyes, Axel pulls me closer, his mouth descending toward mine—
A loud, upbeat bark outside the window wrenches me awake.
My eyes snap open. I fumble for my phone on the bed, and a quick glance at its time display tells me I’ve been napping for over an hour, which makes sense, given the growing darkness. Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling, flushed and achy, unresolved need heavy between my thighs. My cheeks burn. I honestly can’t believe myself. It’s been…God, over two years, and this absurd crush I’ve harbored, made up of a handful of fleeting interactions and stilted conversations, is ridiculous.
My head knows this. Everything else in me…does not.
Sitting up, I rub my face and flick on the bedside table lamp. I drooled on the bed. There’s a pillow crease on my cheek. I’m tempted to slump over and give in to sleep, but I feel gross from traveling and I’m nervous I’m going to fall straight back into that dangerously good dream I was having.
I’m also a little curious about that dog bark, which I haven’t heard anymore. Is Axel here? Does he have a dog? Shit. Picturing the sexy silent giant cuddling a puppy dog makes me hot and bothered all over again.
A cold shower it is. That’ll knock the lust out of my system.
Traipsing to the bathroom, I turn on the water, admiring the sage-green tiles and spotless grout. The showerhead is ridiculously high, so I angle it down and screech the moment the cold water hits my back. Seems I’m too much of a wuss to freeze my ass off. I turn the water hot and scrub my skin pink.
Warm, clean, slightly less turned on, I wrap a towel around my hair and walk out in my birthday suit, because I would be a nudie if I could. There is seriously no greater joy in life than air hitting the delicate bits after a long day.
My first step out of the bathroom onto the cool wood floor makes me yelp. Okay, maybe I’ll wear socks with my birthday suit. Socks on, I dance around to Harry Styles and, on a spin, fall onto the bed, my eyes wandering the room. That’s when I catch sight of something just underneath the dresser. Curious, I roll off the bed, pick it up, then stand and examine it.
It takes me a second to process what I’m holding before it clicks. Boxer briefs. I yelp and reflexively launch them into the air, as far away from me as possible.
“What the fuck?”
What’s a pair of boxer briefs doing here?
After a moment, when my heart’s settled down, my rational thought process takes over. This seems to be a guesthouse. Logically, the boxer briefs were most likely left by the last person who stayed here. Yes. That’s it. Everyone forgets their underwear sometimes.
I whip around, the towel wobbling off my head as I search for the boxer briefs I just slingshot-ed across the room. That’s when I spot them. They landed on top of the tallest of three staggered floating shelves above the fireplace.
My gaze travels the floating shelves, eyeing up the height. I’m going to have to stand on a chair or something. That top shelf is up there.
I frown down at myself, naked except for socks. Maybe I should put on some clothes for this.
Clothed, dining-table chair set at the foot of the fireplace, I stretch on tiptoe for the boxer briefs. They’re just out of reach.
“Dammit.” Blowing out a breath, I try one more time, calling on those obligatory childhood ballet lessons and pushing onto my toes. Just as I triumphantly sink my fingers into the fabric, the chair wobbles under my feet. Scrambling for stability, I grab the middle floating shelf that’s within reach and screech as the chair flies out from beneath me.
My grip slips off the shelf which groans, then tips. I fall in a flurry of books and papers, landing on my back with a thud.
“Ouch.”
Sitting up, I take in the wreckage around me. Paperback books lie in a heap, pages fanned out every which way. Beside them, what looks like notebooks and journals, as well as a few folders whose contents have spilled across the floor. My gaze drifts their way and my law-school-attuned brain instantly recognizes pages of legalese.