by Toni Blake
Hell. Anna couldn’t argue with the logic, any of it, because it was all so true.
And there was a bigger reason staring her in the face right now, too, that no one knew about: Duke Dawson. If she started spending some afternoons or weekend days minding the shop for Amy, it would be that much less time she’d spend with him, that much less time she’d have to worry about how hard it was to look him in the eye—or about . . . wanting to kiss her outlaw biker neighbor-in-the-woods.
So even if a brand new job right in the heart of Destiny was, in one way, the last thing Anna wanted—in another, it seemed perfect. The perfect . . . new direction. Or distraction. Whatever. “Um, okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
And as Amy clapped her hands and let out a happy little squeal, Anna took the opportunity to look at Jenny, standing next to her, and quietly say, “See? New directions. They’re everywhere when you start looking.”
Of course, that made her sound so much more together than if Jenny knew the whole truth behind her reason for so easily accepting Amy’s job offer: I need a distraction from the scary guy at my house who I keep wanting to kiss. Bad.
Rachel Farris Romo stood in the living room of the old family farmhouse she shared with her husband, staring into the large mirror near the front door. Her skin looked pasty, and too pale for summer. And her stomach still wasn’t right, no matter what she kept telling people. She supposed she’d been trying to will it away because she’d found at certain times in life that actually worked—she’d willed away a terrible virus in time for the prom back in high school. And—also in high school—she’d once willed away a hickey from Russell Jamison before her mother saw it. But this—whatever it was—didn’t seem to be a matter of will.
Not much in life got Rachel down—she didn’t let it. So the fact that this illness kept hanging on—and was starting to deplete her spirits—was more than a little troubling. She’d gotten married just last summer—to the man of her dreams, Mike Romo. She’d returned to her hometown and couldn’t be happier. She and Mike helped her grandmother Edna run the family apple orchard which would one day be theirs. There’d been a time when she couldn’t have imagined any of those things happening, and now that they had—now that she felt she’d found where she belonged in life . . . well, what if something was really wrong? What if this was something serious?
Don’t think that way—it’s crazy. Fate wouldn’t do that to you.
But fate does that to good, happy people all the time.
Just then the front door opened and Mike walked in wearing his police uniform and looking grouchy after a long shift. But Rachel was used to her big, tough cop husband’s gruffness—and she took pride in being one of the few people who could take it in stride. Dealing with a little gruffness was worth it for all she got in return.
But he’d caught her off guard and she knew she’d just looked up at him like someone caught committing a crime.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” But she sounded guilty even to her own ears.
He just tilted his head, gave her a look. Early in their relationship, trust had been a bit of an issue for them—like the time she’d snuck out to Duke Dawson’s biker bar with Tessa so Tessa could “casually run into” Mike’s brother, Lucky—and though her small deceptions were long in the past, she supposed suspicious behavior brought them back to mind. “What’s going on here, Rachel?” he asked in a lecturing tone. “What aren’t you telling me?”
She shook her head, then glanced back to her reflection in the mirror, downcast. Mike was the one person she could be the most open with, but she didn’t want to tell him about this—she didn’t want to make him worry. “It’s nothing really. It’s just . . .”
And then a wave of nausea came over her and she had to reach out to the sofa table beneath the mirror in order to keep her balance.
When she raised her gaze back to his, she knew he understood. “You’re sick again.”
“Or still,” she admitted. “Depending upon how you look at it.”
“I’m sorry you’re still feeling bad, honey,” he said, concern washing over his expression as he moved toward her.
Rachel sighed and knew she had no choice but to just come clean with him. “It’s not so much being sick that bothers me as . . .” She’d dropped her gaze again but now lifted it back to his face. “I guess it’s starting to worry me a little. It’s been a few weeks. And a stomach bug shouldn’t last that long.”
Mike moved forward, drawing her into the strong embrace that always made her feel comforted, safe. It helped. “I’m sure it’s nothing big,” he murmured near her ear. “But maybe it’s time we get you to the doctor.”
Rachel hated going to the doctor, and in fact, she’d probably been there less than most people because she was usually very healthy. Maybe that was why this had her worried. And Mike was surely right—it was nothing. But she looked up and gave a small, acknowledging nod.
“Where’s Shakespeare?” Mike asked then. Their big fat tabby cat, adopted from Amy’s bookstore soon after they’d met.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “Why?”
“Cuddling with him always makes you feel better when anything’s wrong,” he said. “Thought maybe you two could curl up on the couch while I make something light for dinner that won’t bother your stomach. How’s that sound?”
She managed a small smile for him, even through another light wave of nausea. “Perfect,” she said. She’d never thought about it, but Shakespeare did usually take her mind off her troubles. Though when had she become such a cat person? Well, about the same time she’d become a small town person, and a person who loved Mike Romo.
Coming back to the little town where she’d grown up—and promptly abandoned after high school—had brought her so many blessings that it was hard to imagine still living the old life she’d left behind in the city. Now she just hoped she’d get to keep her new life in Destiny for lots of long, happy years to come.
Duke stood on the same ladder Anna had nearly fallen from a couple of days ago, hammering a nail into a piece of wood he was using to replace a worn one. This place needed a lot of work, but it had good bones, as his dad used to say when evaluating whether it was smarter to rebuild something or just tear it down and start over.
And the solid structure underneath all the disrepair made the work easier than it looked. He’d originally thought he might have to dismantle the whole wraparound porch and rebuild it from the ground up, but the underpinnings were sturdy, and that helped.
On one hand, it was a convenient time to dive in on the porch repairs—particularly the ones right outside the front door, and the steps that led to the yard, because Anna was gone and had been for hours. But on the other . . . Hell, he couldn’t deny that something in being here, in the work itself, was a little less satisfying knowing she wasn’t around.
Already, after working on the old Victorian with her for only a very short time, he realized that he looked forward to the parts of the day when they talked—even if Daisy got sassy with him. And he even missed times when she wasn’t working directly with him. Just knowing that he might see her walk to the mailbox or pass by a window, just knowing she was somewhere nearby, kept the hours, minutes . . . more interesting.
You are fucking ridiculous, dude. He gave his head a short shake to try to clear it. He’d obviously been living in the woods too long if he got all worked up over just seeing a pretty girl check the mail.
Of course, he supposed things had escalated beyond the quiet, distant attraction he’d felt for her—during that haircut the other day. Damn. Every time she’d touched him, it had felt like an electric current shooting through his body. It hadn’t made any sense to him because . . . well, he’d been close to her before, and yeah, he’d felt something those times, too—but these had been such small touches. Her hand in his hair. Her fingers on his neck. And each time, it left a trail of fire. It had been all he could do to sit there and act natural, espe
cially since he’d been slowly getting an erection. It had been like no other haircut he’d ever gotten, that was for sure.
And he hadn’t quite known it was a two-way street until a little later when he could have sworn she was going to kiss him. Even remembering that moment now sent a soft chill up his spine despite that it was eighty-five degrees outside and a hot May sun beat down on his newly shorn neck.
But he’d just sat there, hadn’t made a move. Because she was his best friend’s sister. And he knew she’d been through a lot herself. She’d been abducted at the age of five and had only found out about her real family last summer. He couldn’t even imagine going through something like that. So . . . she had a lot of baggage. And since God knew he had a lot, too, it just didn’t seem like a good combination—even just for some good, hot sex.
And turned out that had been a damn wise decision on his part, because that was when she’d backed away, ending it.
And he knew why, of course. The scar. She might have felt the same physical pull toward him that he’d been feeling toward her, but apparently when it came right down to it, when she’d seen how he really looked, even all tidied up—it wasn’t enough. She’d figured out that she couldn’t fix what was broken about his face, even with a haircut and a shave.
He’d known that all along, of course, so he wasn’t surprised.
But it had still stung. Maybe more than he’d expected.
It had been one thing to see her freaked out by the way he’d looked before—but the way he looked now . . . well, that was real life, how he could expect women to react to him from here forward. And it had been one thing to know it would be that way, but another to experience it. To see the repulsion in someone’s eyes. And especially someone as beautiful as Anna Romo. She’d looked as afraid of him as she had that first time in the woods.
Hammering the next board in place, Duke realized he was pounding at the nail too hard, leaving round dents in the wood. Calm down. This doesn’t matter. This doesn’t change anything.
It’s not like he’d suggested working for her because he wanted to get in her pants, after all. He’d suggested it because the idea of some physical labor, of doing something solid and real that you could measure at the end of the day, appealed.
Before he’d left home and gone to California back in his early twenties, he’d spent most of his teens working with his dad and uncles constructing barns, docks, room additions—whatever anyone would pay them to build. And, of course, he’d done the same kind of work when he’d first come to this area, saving up the downpayment for Gravediggers.
He’d not realized he missed that kind of labor until he’d gotten a close look at her house and seen all that needed to be done. He’d simply felt the urge to do it, make it better than it was right now. And even though he’d asked her to pay him, it had nothing to do with money—he had plenty of money in a bank in Crestview. It just had to do with . . . needing to feel a little more alive than he did just hanging out in the woods all day. And that seemed . . . kind of healthy for a change—probably the healthiest feeling he’d had in a long time. And this was the perfect way to do that without having to dive right back into normal life, without having to deal with people. Well, except for Daisy Duke and her sexy little shorts.
Once he’d gotten used to the idea of her, those hot denim shorts had actually started seeming like a perk. But now it was a . . . perk gone wrong.
Doesn’t matter, though. He’d just forget the perk part, the attraction part. He’d do what he’d told her—help her fix her house and consider it a decent way to spend his time. That was all.
And after that? After the house repairs are all done?
Well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. This was a big house and it would take some time. Most of the summer at least. And a lot could happen over the course of a summer.
When the project was over, maybe he’d be ready to somehow ease back into real life again. Or . . . maybe he’d just go back into the woods and do a better job of letting them swallow him up this time.
Duke had been working with Anna on the house for a few days now and she thought it was going well. Even if she hadn’t liked accepting that there were some things she just didn’t have the know-how or muscles to do, it was a relief to have someone who could do them. And despite the awkward moment she’d created after his haircut, things had been relatively normal since then. Especially since she’d spent part of the time gone—and since she knew she’d be spending even more of it gone now that she’d impulsively accepted Amy’s job offer.
And when she was here, well, sometimes she discovered herself finding even more reasons to leave. While he’d removed the gutters yesterday, she’d driven to Crestview and ordered new ones—with information and measurements he’d given her. And today as he’d taken off the shutters, she’d worked on sanding the old, half-chipped-away green paint off them in the driveway, one by one. Which was still being here, but . . . also being away from him.
“I’m starting a part-time job at the bookstore in town,” she’d told him earlier as he’d carried another shutter to the driveway for her. “So I’ll be gone some afternoons. But I’m sure you can carry on without me.” From the very first second he’d begun working on the house, after all, he’d pretty much started running the show.
He’d met her gaze briefly, but then shifted it away. “I’m sure I can, too.”
Whereas he’d started joking with her a little before—now, ever since the near-kiss, he’d gone all straight-faced and gruff again. One more reason to regret that almost move. She’d kind of liked a jokey, teasing Duke—much better than this huffy and puffy one.
But as she’d watched him walk away, disappearing on the other side of the house, she’d decided maybe this was for the best. Maybe if she put distance between them physically, and he put distance between them emotionally, it would . . . just ensure they kept things all business. As they should have in the first place.
Now he stood out in the hot sun between two sawhorses in the backyard, measuring and sawing boards into various lengths and sizes to repair the wraparound porch and front steps. Anna, conversely, sat in the shade of the screened-in porch looking at paint colors. She was trying to decide if she wanted to go for a cheerful palette, or if an inn should focus more on being warm. She liked the happy, sunny feeling of a buttery shade of yellow, but she was also drawn to a paint chip just a bit darker than Wedgwood blue. Something about it felt solid. If, in fact, a color could feel solid.
She didn’t need to make a firm decision yet, though, and she didn’t want to rush it and regret her choice later, so for now she set the color chips aside on the wicker sofa where she sat—and indulged in the urge to pick up Cathy’s diary again. She’d read more as time had permitted these last days, and though much of it had been dry recitations of schoolwork and a report on how much of what Cathy and her mother had canned one hot weekend in May, she still enjoyed getting a unique glimpse into this house she could have gotten in no other way—and she liked the idea that reading the diary was like bringing Cathy back alive in a sense, making her life matter all over again. More of Cathy’s records played in the other room as she read.
Checking her watch, she saw that it was almost five. So I’ll read for a few minutes, then start dinner. Not that she knew what dinner would be—while she’d dabbled with things like beef stew in the Crock-Pot, and meatloaf, back when it had been cold out, these days she tended to keep things light and simple, opting for hot or cold sandwiches. And she found herself glad her inn was going to be a bed-and-breakfast, because it meant she only had to perfect some dishes for one meal of the day—sadly, her meatloaf and stew hadn’t been much to brag about.
She glanced out at Duke again in the yard, still sawing away. He looked down at his work and didn’t see her watching, making her observation easier. God, he looked good. And not just his face now, either, but somehow cleaning him up had given his lean yet muscular body a whole new charm, too. She couldn’t d
eny enjoying the way the muscles of his arms and shoulders moved beneath his T-shirt as he sawed.
But stop. Thinking. Of him. Like that.
She pulled in her breath, glanced away.
Yet as she opened Cathy’s diary to the page where she’d last tucked the ribbon, she wondered if she should invite Duke to stay for dinner. Because she still didn’t know what he ate out there in the shack. And she had plenty. And there was really no reason for both of them to eat alone when they could eat together.
Well, except for her decision to keep things all business.
Which she really, really had to do. It had been one thing to try to be neighborly before she’d almost kissed him, but if she kept being that way, now it just seemed like an accident waiting to happen.
So no dinner offer.
And maybe this attraction would blow over as time passed. Maybe as they worked together, and got more accustomed to spending time together, the urge would go away. It could happen.
But for now, play it safe. Keep your distance. Don’t do anything stupid. Because getting any more involved with Duke Dawson would definitely be a mistake. And the longer she sat there watching him work . . . well, the more the urges inside her grew.
She’d just had no idea he was so handsome. Or that his jaw had that strong, chiseled look about it. Or that under that beard he’d possessed a tiny, sexy little dimple in his chin.
And as she’d recognized before, the mere act of being handsome seemed to amplify other appealing things about him. His broad shoulders. His muscular arms. His potent gaze, something she might now even sometimes describe as downright smoldering. Still watching, she continued to enjoy the way his muscles moved when he worked—hell, she liked the way he moved in general.
Okay, but stop watching him now. Read your diary. That seemed a much safer way to occupy her mind for the next few minutes.
