Red Hot: A Friends to Lovers Small Town Rom Com

by Cat Johnson

  Finally, he came back to where I stood still waiting and watching his search.

  “No boogeymen under the bed.” I joked.

  “Red . . .” There was a hint of annoyance in his tone.

  “I know. I know. I need to take my safety seriously. And I am. I promise.”

  I just never thought the first time Cashel Morgan was in my apartment it would be to check for burglars behind my shower curtain. I guess my delicate ego had wanted him to be here for other reasons.

  “So, does everything look normal to you? Like no one’s been in here?”

  I pocketed my embarrassment that yes, this mess was typical.

  At least, this was how my place looked when I’d flown out of here late for work this morning

  I had come home for literally five minutes to change from a T-shirt into a sweater between closing the store and meeting Carson at the bar. Clothes were tossed on the bed, which I hadn’t taken the time to make. I knew my toothbrush and toothpaste were still out on the vanity in the bathroom where I’d left them.

  And, oh jeez, my Micky and Minnie Mouse pajamas were hanging on the towel rack in the bathroom where I’d tossed them this morning. Great.

  But to answer Cash’s question, yes, this was normal. I couldn’t blame an intruder for my mess.

  “Yeah, everything looks like how I left it.”

  He nodded slowly, lips pressed tightly as he considered the apartment around us, glancing at the windows then at the door. “I hate to ask this, but any chance you have an alarm on this place? One that actually works.”

  Unlike the shop, he meant? Point taken. I was lax in security. Though I hated to admit it out loud.

  I hesitated. “Um . . .”

  “So that’s a no.” He sighed and I was suddenly torn between guilt and anger over disappointing him. He turned to face me full on. “You have my number, right?”

  I frowned. “Um, I’m not sure.”

  At one time I’d had his number from when he’d helped me deliver some furniture I’d collected to be donated to a family who’d lost their home in a fire. I loved my truck but it didn’t fit a queen-sized mattress like Cash’s did.

  I glanced down at my cell, remembering how I’d bought a new one but hadn’t been able to transfer over my contacts. I’d gotten frustrated and given up, thinking I’d do it later. And, as usual, that time had never come.

  Without a word, he extended his hand. I didn’t need him to tell me what he wanted. I unlocked my phone and handed it over. He punched in his number and handed it back. “You call me if you hear anything tonight. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” My smart-ass comment earned me a raised brow. I smiled, enjoying that I annoyed him as much as he did me. “Thank you, Cash.”

  “You’re welcome.” He nodded and stood opposite me.

  Awkward . . .

  He said, “I guess I’d better get—”

  At the same time, I asked, “Did you want something to—”

  We spoke over each other, both stopping mid-sentence when we realized what was happening.

  “Sorry. You go,” I said.

  A small smile twitched up his lips. “No, ladies first.”

  “I was going to ask you if you wanted something to drink. I have um . . . coffee. And I have an old bottle of green crème de menthe from a bunch of years ago. Or tap water.” I realized how pitiful my offerings were and cringed.

  I really needed to go shopping. I searched my brain for what else I could offer and came up empty.

  “Sorry. I don’t spend a lot of time here.”

  He laughed. “It’s okay. I should get going anyway.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I stepped aside so he could sidle past me and get out the door.

  Cash took a step and then turned back, keys in his hand. “Oops. I almost walked away with your keys.”

  I laughed. “Well, I can walk to work in the morning so the truck key wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “You know, don’t ever get rid of that truck without talking to me first.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “She’s a beauty. Besides the fact I’d love to have her, she’d look great at the farm stand. The tourists would love it. Very Instagrammable. Great marketing.”

  My heart fluttered. Besides my truck, one of my favorite things in the world was talking about marketing. This man was hitting all my buttons.

  When I finally found my voice, I asked, “Cashel Morgan, what does a farmer know about marketing?”

  “More than you’d think thanks to Dad, whether I like it or not. We’ll talk one day. Compare our Pinterest strategies.” He grinned.

  At what must have been a look of shock on my face, he let out a chuckle and turned to head down the stairs.

  Cash lifted one arm in a half-hearted wave on his way down. “G’night, Red.”

  He didn’t turn around as he said it. He just kept walking. But that was okay, because if experience had taught me anything about Cash Morgan, it was that he’d be back.

  “Good night, Cash,” I replied before he reached the bottom step.

  “I’ll make sure to close the carriage house door,” he said, glancing back at me.

  I nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

  He held my gaze for a beat too long before breaking eye contact and moving out of my line of sight.

  Yup. He’d be back. And this time, I’d be ready.

  SIX

  Red

  The cell phone vibrating on the bedside table finally knocked me out of my slumber.

  It took my tired brain a few moments to identify the sound and then set my body into motion to answer it.

  With eyes still not quite focused, I blindly swiped at the screen a few times. Finally, I hit the right spot and answered the call from whoever was annoying enough to bother me this early.

  Bringing it to my face still squashed in the pillow, I said, “Hello?”

  “Are you still sleeping?” Harper demanded through the phone.

  “Yes. It’s only . . .” I pulled the phone away and squinted at the time on the display. “Seven-thirty-five.”

  “And you were supposed to pick me up at seven-thirty for the estate sale.”

  Crud! I’d overslept.

  I struggled to sit up. “Oh my God.”

  “Mm, hm. I knew I should have texted you half an hour ago to make sure you were up.” Harper sounded completely and annoyingly awake.

  Of course, she was. She probably already had three cups of coffee and had written her daily allotment of words this morning. All while I was still lounging in bed.

  As complete opposites, it was amazing we were so close. Maybe that’s why we complemented each other so well.

  To that point, I said, “Yes, you should have texted.”

  “Next time I will. Now throw on a baseball hat and start the truck. I’ll meet you in the driveway with a cup of coffee in five minutes.”

  Coffee. Thank God.

  “Yes,” I hissed. “Bless you! See you then.”

  Harper knew me well. Knew I looked like a rooster if I didn’t shower so it was going to be a baseball hat kind of morning. Also knew nothing was happening, including driving to the sale, until I had caffeine in my body.

  We weren’t going very far, just to Second Street. It was at the other end of town and the Village of Mudville was only about two miles long.

  But I didn’t want to be late for this appointment. This was Rose Van de Berg’s old house. The infamous Rose, whose lifetime worth of journals had rocked this village and all our lives last year when Harper and I discovered them in an old trunk in Agnes’s attic.

  The old lady had died, childless, twenty years ago at the age of ninety-nine. Her heirs had sold the house on the acre of land immediately, fully furnished. An older man from the city had bought it and had put on a modern addition, which is where he mostly lived. As far as I knew, he’d pretty much left the original part of the structure and furnishings intact.

  All things came full c
ircle and that owner had died too. History was repeating itself and his heirs were selling the house and property in its entirety. They’d hired a local estate sale company to handle everything and luckily, I was friends with the owner of that company.

  I was getting the first look—or at least the second look after Joan—of the original contents of Rose Van de Berg’s house. More importantly, the attic, where all good things were always found.

  Joan was letting me inside a full three hours before the public would be allowed in and I didn’t want to miss a minute of that time. Who knew what treasures we’d find? Or what secrets.

  “I can’t believe today of all days you overslept.” Harper cocked a brow as she stood next to my truck, two cups of coffee in her hands and a judgmental expression on her face.

  I unlocked the passenger side of the truck for her and I happily accepted the cup she handed me. I took a big sip of hot liquid before moving to the other side of the truck and making my apology.

  “I know. Believe me. I want to get into that house even more than you do.”

  What could I say to Harper? She was right. Of all days to oversleep, today was the worst.

  At least I had an excuse. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  I hesitated to tell her what had happened last night with the guy Cash had seen creeping around my yard, which was crazy. She’d know exactly how I felt.

  She’d been in bed when the guy broke into Agnes’s house. He was up in the attic, actually inside the house with her. But I didn’t want that topic to consume this morning.

  It really could have just been a kid cutting through the yard. Lord knows I’d taken plenty of shortcuts when I was a kid trying to get home before curfew. In the end I started the truck, thanked her for the coffee, and left it at that.

  “What do you think we’ll find in there?” she asked, looking as excited as I felt.

  “Who knows? It could be anything. Rose was born in that house—like literally born in one of the bedrooms. Her father had the house built as a wedding gift for her mother. There could be stuff from the turn of the last century inside. That house is a piece of Mudville history.”

  “Wow,” Harper breathed. “And it’s the last owner who stuck that modern addition on it?”

  “Yup.” I nodded but left it at that without further commentary.

  She cut me a sideways glance. “Go on. You can say it. Fucking city folk.”

  I laughed as Harper did a great imitation of Stone’s favorite refrain. It had been a source of conflict between the two of them back before they started dating, when Harper was the city girl that local farmer Stone was railing against.

  “Not all city folk are created equal,” I said, and added, “And yes, I know. You’re not from the city. But suburban folk doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.” I grinned.

  “Yeah, I know. Sad but true, I have to agree with that.” She sighed.

  I pulled into the driveway, arriving at the house before the truck even had a chance to really warm up enough for me to turn on the heat. “We’re here.”

  Harper leaned forward to get a better look at the house through the windshield. “I can’t believe I didn’t know this was Rose’s old house.”

  I glanced at her as I cut the ignition. “You only officially moved to Mudville when? Not even two months ago. Give yourself a break. You can’t know everything.”

  “But I like knowing everything,” she joked, opening the passenger door with a loud screeching creak.

  “You always are an over-achiever.” I laughed at her as I made a mental note that I needed to oil that hinge. Antique trucks needed love . . . and occasionally WD-40.

  “Only-child syndrome. I can’t help it.” She said before stepping out.

  I slammed my door and met her on the other side of the truck. We both stood in front of the blue octagon-shaped house that sat on the bank of the Muddy River.

  “There used to be a gazebo here,” I said as I gazed at the facade. “I’ve seen pictures.”

  If you didn’t look behind the original house at the addition you could almost picture the turn of the century garden parties that no doubt took place on the home’s sweeping front lawn.

  “That must have been beautiful.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, then knocked myself out of my nostalgia and into work mode. Joan’s car was already there, so I knew we could get inside. “Come on. Let’s get in there and see what the damn city folk left for us to find.”

  She raised a brow but didn’t argue. We were both too excited to get inside.

  Joan was busy as heck getting ready for the sale, so after a quick introduction to Harper, she gave us a pack of stickers and free rein to explore. All I had to do was put a sticker on anything I wanted to buy and then settle up with her and move the stuff out later.

  My heart was pounding as Harper stood in the center hall, looking left and then right. “Where to first?”

  “The attic, of course.” I led the way, barreling up the stairs.

  “Why is it always the attic?” she asked from behind me.

  I glanced back before turning the corner of the grand center staircase. “Because I know you love attics so much,” I joked, knowing the opposite was true.

  She groaned.

  But I actually did have a good reason to head to the attic first. The Muddy River had flooded this town not once but twice over the past hundred years. The basement and first floor would have been affected, but not the attic. That’s where a smart homeowner who lived riverfront would keep their best stuff stored.

  As we made our way to the third floor, winded from our sprint up the stairs, I hoped my theory proved true. When we reached the attic door my heart was pounding as much with anticipation as from the exertion.

  Hand on the knob, I glanced back at Harper. “Ready?” I asked.

  She beamed. “Never been more ready.”

  “All right. Let’s see what other secrets Rose left us.” I had to admit my hand trembled a bit as I turned the old knob and pushed.

  It took me forcing it open with my shoulder but finally the door let loose and we were faced with a century’s worth of dust and underneath it, a lifetime’s worth of memories.

  “Oh my God. It’s like a time capsule.” Harper stepped inside the cavernous space swirling with dust in the beams of sunlight streaming through the windows.

  I didn’t know where to look first. I whipped out the flashlight I’d remembered to stick in my jeans pocket and headed for the piles of stuff in one dark corner.

  “Look at this old croquet set,” Harper exclaimed from the other side of the attic.

  “Put a sticker on it,” I called back as I did the same to an old oil portrait leaned up against the wall. The frame alone was worth money, but if I could identify the subject of the painting as being one of the founding members of this town, it would be even more valuable.

  “There’s a trunk here,” Harper said. “It looks almost like the one we found in Agnes’s attic.”

  “Open it,” I said, climbing over some chairs to put a sticker on an old wooden cradle that looked handmade and well over a hundred years old. “Maybe it’s more journals.”

  “It can’t possibly be more journals, could it?” There was a pause and then Harper said, “Wow.”

  At her exclamation, my head whipped up from where I’d uncovered a box of some old—as in really old—records. The kind that worked on the old Edison or Victrola players. And where there were records, there should be the player as well.

  “Wow what?” I nearly fell flat on my face scrambling over the pile of wooden stacked folding chairs to get to Harper.

  I couldn’t see what she was looking at since the trunk and its open lid blocked my view. It wasn’t until I was next to her that I saw it. A wedding dress, carefully folded and stored in the trunk for I didn’t know how long.

  I wiped my hands on the legs of my jeans to clean off any dirt and reached inside. I gently lifted the fabric, very aware that this dress
could be over a hundred and twenty years old if it belonged to Rose’s mother. But when I lifted it, I could tell by the styling it wasn’t Victorian. But it could be Depression era.

  “I wonder who it belonged to.” Harper glanced at me.

  “I don’t know. It’s the right time period to be Rose’s, but I thought she was never married.”

  “No. She was. Remember when Margaret Trout broke into Agnes’s to look for Rose’s journals too, after Joe broke in?”

  “How could I forget?” I snorted.

  “She told me Agnes was widowed very young. What if they were married and he died in the first war?”

  I could see her mind working, spinning tales of possibilities and romance.

  “There was nothing in her journals about her husband though, was there?” I asked.

  “No.” She looked disappointed.

  I didn’t worry too much about her. What she didn’t find she’d make up and put in her next book. I had no doubt.

  “Are you going to buy the dress?” she asked.

  “I don’t really sell vintage clothes, or wedding gowns.” When she looked sad about that, I said, “You want it?”

  “Can I? Am I allowed?” she asked, wide eyed.

  “Sure. You’re with me. I’ll put a sticker on it for you.”

  What she was going to do with a wedding dress, of unknown size, from World War I, was beyond me, but who was I to judge? I’d bought stranger things at estate sales, to keep for myself, not to sell.

  I put the dress back and pressed a sticker to the fabric inside the neckline. We’d spent enough time speculating about the dress’s owner. There was still so much to search through.

  Happy that she had her dress secured, Harper had moved on to the other side of the attic.

  Divide and conquer—between the two of us we should be able to get through everything before the public sale started.

  “Huh.”

  Or maybe we wouldn’t get through it all if I kept running over to see what she was exclaiming about.