My best friend has already talked me down from the ledge at a scenic rest stop an hour ago, where I'd called her, declaring that this was an insane idea. What did I know about country living? What was I doing out here? I should go back and start hitting the pavement and looking for my next crappy soul-destroying job.
Instead, she filled me with energy and enthusiasm, and now here I am. I slow down. Honeycomb Falls seemed perfect during my childhood, but now I'm about to drive through it for the first time in over two decades. How have things changed? I turn onto Bridge Street, the only street with a traffic light in town, lower my music, and drive slowly along, drinking it all in.
It's gorgeous. Unreal. Art galleries. A coffee shop called The Gypsy Cafe. A bookstore. A pharmacy. I peer through its glass window. Is that a soda fountain? Families are walking along licking ice cream cones, old ladies are seated in the sunshine on cast iron benches and everything seems cheerful and fresh. A gentle wind blows through the trees that line the street, and before I'm ready I reach the new truss bridge that crosses the Conway River. My car rumbles over the wooden boards, and I slow even more to take in the flowing water that turns into the actual Honeycomb Falls to my left. To the right is the old trolley bridge, now converted into a pedestrian footbridge, its length bursting with blooming flowers like the most glorious fireworks in the world.
Gorgeous. Instinctively I make a left once I cross the bridge, drive past a large building with a sign reading Mindy's General Store, and alongside the river for two blocks before pulling over to park where it turns into the falls. I hop out and step up to the waist-high fence. The Conway River turns into whitewater rapids shortly before dropping a good ten yards into the large basin that I remember swimming in during the height of summer. All kinds of vague memories are coming back. Glaciers eroded deep holes into the rocky riverbed, giving the waterfall - and the town - its name. With autumn about to hit, the water is too cold to swim in, but I can see some kids on large rocks with fishing poles, casting their lures into the emerald water.
I turn and lean back against the fence so that the sun hits me full in the face. A modest mountain rises up on this side of the river, cradling the buildings that line the only street that runs along the river. The air is sweet and clear, crisp and delicious, like biting into a cold green apple. Honeycomb Falls is smaller than I remember, but just as cute and old fashioned. Can I live here? Can I make this my home? Will I get stir crazy, or more accurately, man crazy? Before I can start doubting myself again, I jump back into the Mustang, reverse into the street, and drive to Mama B's.
It's just outside of town, a quarter mile along a winding road. I pull up before the wrought iron gate, flanked on both sides by two enormous oaks, and stop, a lump rising in my throat. These gates seemed huge when I was little, their ornate W's making me feel special, as if our family was distinguished, like some kind of nobility. Now I just feel sad. Ivy has worked its way across the iron bars, and Mama B is gone. Worse yet, I don't even really remember her much. Just a little old lady with a wrinkled raisin for a face and a wicked smile. My mother passed away five years ago. My dad died shortly after I was born. The Wilder clan has been reduced to just me.
There are no motion sensors, so I get out and push open the gate, then drive in. The white gravel driveway is just as I remember, crunching under the tires, though today it's marred by weeds and dandelions. It curls around bushes and trees till it opens up and there is Mama B's house. It looks almost like a castle, grand and mysterious, with a large front door under an impressive arch, the wrap-around porch held up by fluted Doric columns. It's just as large as I recall. But not everything is the same. The garden has run wild, the lawn overgrown, the rose bushes that line the walls looking dangerous, the flower garden a jungle of color and weeds, bees buzzing slowly as they dance from flower to flower.
A man walks around the corner of the building as I pull up before the front door, and my eyes go wide. Oh. My. God. He's large and muscular, with shoulder length hair and the hint of a beard along his jaw. He's wearing torn jeans and a white tee that does little to hide his powerful body, tight across the broad shoulders and chest and hanging loose over his waist. Who the hell is he? Please tell me that he comes with the house. Please please please.
I get out of the car, suddenly extremely self-conscious of my curls, which are wild and windblown and totally out of control. I have to actively resist the urge to take a photo of him to send to Maria.
The man stops. He's holding a pair of garden shears, and his eyes narrow with surprise. Now this I don't remember from my childhood. Rough, panty-melting men with callused hands and the most sinfully kissable lips in the world? This is definitely new.
"Hi," I say, and give a little wave before I can stop myself.
He tosses the garden shears aside and steps over, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. Good lord, he moves with incredible grace, like the dancers I've seen at the Broadway shows I took Paul to. He's no dancer, though. Where those men were elegant and delicate like swans, this man moves like a predator.
A wolf, I think.
"Afternoon," he says. His voice is a low rumble like distant thunder, and it goes in through my ears and right down to my pussy, adding fuel to the fire that's started to burn there. He stops a few paces from me, and I see that his eyes are the most incredible color, golden with flecks of green. Beautiful eyes. Eyes I could just stand around all day staring at, chin in hand, a stupid smile on my face.
He's waiting for me to say something, and I realize that I've been staring like a tourist in Times Square. I blush and look away, at the tall trees, the big house, and then at his big package. My face burns even brighter, and when I look up I see amusement in his gorgeous eyes. As if he's reading my mind. It's a good thing he can't, or he'd be shocked silly by the scandalous things I'm thinking about him. The dirty, dirty things I want him to do to me with those strong hands, those lips, those -
"Can I help you?" His voice is a rich rumble, his amusement obvious now.
"Oh!" My voice comes out in a squeak. If this was NYC, I'd assume he was a random GQ model, but here in Honeycomb Falls? He's like a primitive god come walking out of the woods. "I'm Rachel Wilder."
My name has an immediate effect on him. The kind of effect dumping a bucket of ice cold water has on people. His brows furrow, and his beautiful golden eyes grow cold and hard. "Wilder, huh? Well. Welcome home, I guess."
I blink. Where did the humorous hot interest in his eyes go? Why has he suddenly become so cold? Have I offended him somehow? "Thank you," I say, feeling off balance and trying not to sound defensive. I wait, but he just stands there, glowering at me. "And you are?"
"Blake." He says his name reluctantly. "I'm the... gardener."
"The gardener?" I turn to stare at the wild lawn, the overgrown bushes, the complete chaos that seems to have taken hold of the grounds. "Were you just hired?"
He considers the garden like Captain Ahab surveying the ocean. "No. I've been here two years already. Two very, very long years."
I don't know what to think. My body wants to attack this frickin' gorgeous hunk of a man, to jump him and tear off that white shirt so that I can feel his skin under my hands, touch his muscles, provoke him and bite him and ask him to devour me. But my mind, the sassy don't-give-me-crap NYC part of me, is trying to process the fact that he's probably the worst gardener in the world. And, for reasons completely unknown, very, very mad at me.
Glaring at me, actually. What the hell? I don't care how hot you are, nobody gives me this kind of attitude. My sass flares up. "Two years, huh? Do you mean to tell me you've been intentionally turning this place into a jungle?"
I immediately regret my words. His golden eyes narrow, and waves of anger seem to radiate from him. He curls his hands into fists and clenches his jaw. Great. He's probably the only super hot guy in all of Honeycomb Falls, and I've already made him hate me. Smooth, Rach. Real smooth.
But then, to my complete surprise, he forces hi
mself to relax and looks away. "My apologies," he mutters. "I'll... I'll work harder." What the hell? Why is he making me feel like an evil slave driver? I only arrived two minutes ago! "If you'll excuse me," he continues, voice dripping with sarcasm, "the rose bushes need..." I see him search for the right word.
"Pruning?"
"Pruning." He grimaces as he sketches me a mock bow, then stalks back around the house, leaning down to scoop up the shears as he goes. I just stand there with my mouth wide open. OK. Maybe I'm also gaping because of how perfect his ass is, but hot damn. Whoever bought those jeans for him did an amazing job, because they hug his sculpted cheeks like -
I rub my face. What is wrong with me? The man clearly hates my guts, and here I stand admiring his ass like it's a work of art. Well, fine, maybe it kind of is a work of art. Maybe that's why Mama B hired him. To have something to watch during the day. I can understand that. Even if Blake has allowed the grounds to descend into a state of primal nature. I take a deep breath. Blake, I can tell, is going to be a very delicious and exceedingly frustrating problem.
Welp. What can I say. I do enjoy a challenge.
Before I can think any more on the matter, a genial older man opens the front door and steps out into the afternoon sunshine. His hair is silver, and he's wearing an old-fashioned suit with a bow tie. He waves cheerfully, and I immediately feel a little more grounded.
"Ms. Wilder! Welcome to Honeycomb Hall."
He walks down the steps to greet me and shakes my hand with both of his. He has clear blue eyes, and though his hair is thinning and his cheeks are sunken with age, I can tell he must have been a very handsome man in his youth.
"Thank you. Mr. Hanscomb?"
"At your service. Please accept my condolences for your loss."
For a crazy moment I think he's talking about Paul, but then I realize that of course he means Mama B. "Thank you, Mr. Hanscomb. Though we weren't really in touch, you know? Her letter came as a surprise."
He turns and leads me up the steps. "I can only imagine, Ms. Wilder. Still, I know she cared deeply for you, and it was very important to her that you inherit her home and possessions. I'm so glad you've managed to come visit."
We step through the large front door into the cavernous entry hall. It's much as I remembered it, but dark now, almost dusty from neglect. There aren't actual spiderwebs in the chandelier that hangs from the high ceiling, but something about the melancholy shadows and the stillness almost makes me expect them. The grand staircase sweeps up to the second floor, and tall doors lead to the library on the right and the parlor on the left. I feel another pang of sorrow. If I listen just right, I can almost hear my shrieks of laughter as I ran through the house as a child, can recall the games of hide-and-seek, the long hours spent reading in Mama B's favorite chair by the fireplace, and the feasts that we ate at the big dining table further inside the home. Now all that remains are dim and distant memories.
"Would you like a moment, Ms. Wilder? I could wait for you in the study."
"No, that's all right." I'll save the exploring for later, when I'm alone. Mr. Hanscomb smiles and leads me into the study, where a leather folder awaits us on a small desk, along with a tea set. Once the tea is served, Mr. Hanscomb launches into the details, speaking slowly and constantly checking to see if I'm following. I smile and keep nodding, but the truth is that my mind keeps drifting back to Blake. To his broad shoulders, his strong, callused hands.
Mr. Hanscomb then explains the details of my inheritance, producing papers for me to sign, granting me ownership of the house, Mama B's old silver Rolls-Royce, her personal effects, and so forth. I just sign wherever I'm told. Finally Mr. Hanscomb hands me a familiar looking cream envelope with my name written in black ink across the front.
"Mrs. Wilder asked that this be given to you after you had signed and accepted your heritage. It contains, I believe, instructions." He stands. "I live in town, my dear. If you have any need of me, any at all, please don't hesitate to call."
I stand, envelope in hand, and force myself to smile. "Thank you, Mr. Hanscomb. You've been most kind."
He smiles in a self-deprecating sort of way. "Think nothing of it."
I walk him to the front door. Apparently he walked here from town, which, given the short distance, isn't saying much. He turns at the iron gate to wave, then walks down the street and is gone.
I stand there for a moment, gazing out at the wilderness that is the garden, feeling lost and alone and cut off from everything I know. I've returned home, but it isn't the home I remember. There are secrets hidden here, hints of a heritage I have yet to grasp. The cheerful town of Honeycomb Falls is only a quarter mile away, but standing here in the gloomy entrance to Honeycomb Hall, alone with the shadows of memories and loss, I feel completely and utterly cut off from the world.
Turning, I decide to call Maria as soon as I get a glass of water. I walk back past the grand staircase into the hall that leads past the dining room, the large living room, and the ballroom, and into the kitchen in the very back with its breakfast table nook. This is where I spent most of my mornings, listening to Mama B's music on the radio, reading a book, and feeling snug and warm.
It's cold and still now. The circular breakfast table is bare. I look out the window, and my breath catches. Blake is standing near the old gardener's shed. His back is toward me, and he stands, fists clenched, as if he's about to throw himself into a fight. I step up to the window. What's he doing? He's all alone. As I watch, he begins to walk forward, heading into the woods that surround Mama B's home.
Then, just when he's about to step off the property and into the undergrowth, he shifts into a wolf.
The realization hits me like a blow - Blake is a shifter! Large and gray furred, he sprints into the undergrowth. There's a flash of silver light, and I see him knocked violently back as if he's been pummeled in the chest by a powerful force. He rolls across the grass, knocked back into his human form, and lies there for a moment, stunned, before slowly sitting up, hand to his head.
I can't believe it. My gardener is a wickedly hot shifter. A wickedly hot shifter who hates my guts and can't seem to leave my property.
Then the pit of my stomach drops out as he turns to stare right at me with his golden eyes. I freeze, transfixed by the intensity of his gaze. I squeak and dart away, feeling like prey, expecting him to come crashing through the window, howling for my blood. Heart pounding, I run down the hall, desperate for a place to hide.
Chapter Three
God damn. Getting knocked back by the hex ward, as always, makes my whole body feel like it's been hit on the funny bone. The wolf in me, the wild creature that will never, ever be tamed, wants to spring right back up and charge again. And again. And again. Until I'm reduced to a broken wreck, barely able to move. That's basically what my first few weeks of imprisonment here looked like. I'd beat myself bloody against Mama B's magic. Refuse to accept that I was trapped. I slowly learned restraint over the past two years, but now Mama B is dead. And here I am. Still trapped. My self-control is slipping.
My wolf senses something and I turn my head to see my new jailer standing in the breakfast nook window. That voluptuous, delicious new arrival. With her rich curls, her wide hips, narrow waist, and plunging cleavage. Desire flashes through me like a forest fire, mixed in with hatred and resentment, and I can't help but growl. Her eyes go comically wide, and then she vanishes into the heart of Honeycomb Hall.
Smooth, I tell myself. Way to scare the living daylights out of your new boss. Next time you want to show interest, why don't you just give one of those silly human waves? I snort. That would look extra ridiculous in wolf form. A lazy wag of the paw.
With a sigh I shift back into my human form and climb to my feet. I grab my jeans and pull them on, then pick up my shirt. It's pretty filthy. Humans like everything super clean. Natural dirt, sweat, even the odors of the wild offend them. This new Wilder is likely to be the same. It's too late for first impressions, but there's no
need to compound my mistake.
I yank open my shed door. It's my den, my castle, and the full extent of my privacy. A narrow army cot stands against one wall, across from three shelves of books I've borrowed over the last few years from Mama B's library. I'd say 'borrowed' in quotation marks, since I never asked permission, but who am I kidding? Nothing happened here without Mama B's knowledge.
I grab a relatively clean shirt out from under the bed and struggle into it. I don't have a mirror, so I just rake my hair back with my fingers. What am I doing? Grooming? I laugh at myself and sit on the cot. Trapped. Mama B is dead and gone, and here I am, forgotten and left behind. Does this mean I'm trapped here forever? Dark despair reaches up to squeeze at my heart, but I fight it off. I will not give in to despair. Never. I'm the former alpha of the Hidden Moon pack. Think.
This new Wilder. Rachel. She's Mama B's grandchild. An idea hits me with the same force as the hex ward. Maybe she can set me free. I mean, sure, she looks like she can't hex a red traffic light green, but what do I know? I think of the impression I've already made on her and groan. But it isn't too late to change things around. Convince her it's worth her while to let me go. Bring down the ward. Give me freedom.
No word has ever tasted sweeter. Freedom. I stand, suddenly energized. All right. I have to make a good impression. What do humans do when they want to impress each other? My instinct is to throw myself on my back and show her my tummy, maybe whine a little and expose my throat. Let her know I respect her ownership of the den, and that I'm not challenging her for primacy.
I make a face. That would probably confuse the hell out of her. A grown man wriggling like a puppy on the rug. Humans know nothing of dominance and hierarchy. No. I have to do this human-style. What would be... nice?
I step outside and look around. Flowers? Where did that idea come from? Ah, yes. That old man, Hanscomb. He brought flowers to Mama B numerous times. Flowers it is, then. I grab my shears and wade into the flower garden, swatting back brambles and snipping bright blooms left and right. Soon I have a massive pile on the ground. A good start. But I'd better add some roses. That's what Hanscomb always brought. I eye the rosebushes warily. They're evil, dangerous to tackle, but their flowers are as red as blood. I approach the bushes along the house wall, and sensing my intent the thorny stems begin to coil like snakes. Determined, I dart in and hack free about two dozen glorious flowers, though the end result is a number of cuts and gashes along my forearms and chest. Those damned rosebushes.
Den and Breakfast: BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance (Honeycomb Falls Book 1) Page 2
