by Penny Wylder
I checked all the online rental sites — no response to the three Airbnb requests I sent out, but if this hotel counter guy is anything to judge by, all three of those owners will have the same answer for me.
The next closest hotel is a two-hour drive out of town. Way too far for me to make every day this week if I want to make serious headway on the house.
There's nothing left for it. I climb back into my rental car and turn back toward the farm.
3
Grant Werther
She doesn't remember me.
For a moment, I thought. When I first caught her staring, pretended not to notice and kept chopping. I thought the neurons might be firing, catching her up. But the moment she spoke, I knew. There was no recognition in her tone, no hint of happiness.
It's only been sixteen years, Sasha. The least you could do is remember me.
But what did I expect? A sudden role-reversal from the town’s infamous prodigal daughter?
I should have known.
I did know, deep down. From the moment I first found the agreement in Pop’s old documents. I started work on this place right away because I knew she’d be no help — if she even bothered to show her face here. Now, weeks after I started in on this spot, already going through the basement and the worst of the foundations, Her Highness finally decides so show her face. And the first thing she does is try to kick me off the farm?
Adding insult to injury.
I shove it to the back of my mind. Doesn't matter. I finish this job, then I get half the money for this place. It'll be more than enough to finish the add-ons I want to make at Pop’s farm. More than enough to keep his legacy going, even though it'll be one of the last family-owned farms left in this town.
Sasha Bluebell does not matter, I remind myself. Not one bit.
It doesn't matter that she grew up even more stunning than she used to be at eleven, chasing me around this backyard with legs as long as a doe’s. It doesn't matter that despite her fancy expensive designer clothes, she's still got those curves I remember her showing hints of as a teenager, right before she left. Those sexy hips and full breasts, separated by a waist I would kill to wrap my hands around. Her lips; those look exactly the same. Those bowstring lips I used to close my eyes and picture every night from age ten on. And her eyes have gone a darker, deeper green. The kind of backyard, nature green you could lose yourself in for hours. I did, once. We used to lie in this very backyard at dusk and count bats. Then wait until moonrise and count stars instead. Only I'd count more than just stars. I'd count how many seconds I could get away with watching her before she turned her head and caught me. Before she’d scowl and swat my arm and tell me to stop being so weird.
Before our hands would brush, tangle, just for a second, and then she’d leap away again, change the subject.
I never knew if she thought the same things I did. I assumed so, I figured there was no way she couldn't feel it too, the tension thrumming in the air between us, making the sweltering hot country summer nights even hotter with unspoken desire.
But I guess I was wrong. If she doesn't even remember my name now, then, well…
I scowl and finish chopping the last round of wood I'll need for the next few nights. I could commute from Pop’s, but it's a long drive to make each way daily, especially when I want to be up and at it first thing here. I cleaned up the single bedroom and have been camping out in it since last week when I realized I'd need to ramp up my speed on this fixer-upper if I wanted to get her on the market before winter hits and does any more damage. It's not that the house herself is doing bad — she's got good bones underneath it all. But that's not normally what potential buyers look at. It's all first impressions with them, window dressing. So I need to do that up as nice as possible if I want to earn enough to keep Pop’s farm going.
Which means I need to keep my head in the damn game.
I'm rewiring the lighting in the living room, which needs some work, when I hear tires out front. A door slams, and then I hear the unmistakable cursing of a city girl who's not used to getting a little mud on her heels. I resist the urge to check the window. I don't know where Sasha drove off to earlier, and I don't care. She's none of my business.
I’m elbow-deep in the wall when she crashes through the front door.
“I cannot believe some —“ Sasha stops dead when she sees what I'm doing. “Is that safe?” She's squinting at the electrical panel hanging open next to me.
I ignore her and finish adjusting the last two fuses. Then I step back and flip a switch. Light floods the living room — and, though you can't see it from here, the kitchen and bedroom too. An improvement over before, when only the kitchen power was working, and even then it was choppy.
“Oh,” she replies, answering her own question as she blinks at the lights. “Are you an electrician or…?”
“Just picked up a few things,” I reply. “Happens when you live in a hellhole, I guess.”
She bites her lip. It draws my eye, irresistible. Not to mention starts an unwelcome stirring against my jeans… Damn. I want to be the one biting that sexy lip. “Listen, Grant, I'm sorry about earlier. I was a little…” She shakes her head. “It was a long flight. Then a long drive. And people have been so weird to me here. Like at the hotel just now, there were clearly about a dozen vacant rooms, and they told me it was full.”
“Mark does tend to harbor a grudge,” I reply, fairly. “If you didn't give him an online review last visit, he gets a bit snippy.”
Her cheeks flush. That is more than a little distracting too. So she blushes easily, good to know. I wonder what else I could do to make her blush….
I'm getting harder just thinking about all the ways to make this innocent city girl turn bright red.
“Mark. Dammit, I knew it was an M name.”
I laugh. “If you didn't even remember his name, you're doomed.”
“What do I do?” She frowns and glances past me at the living room. There's something in her eye, something honestly and truly panicked that makes me almost feel bad for her.
Almost.
“I can't stay here,” she blurts.
“I'll talk to Mark,” I promise her. Her eyes immediately go wide with relief. I hold up a hand to stave it off. “But he's not going to be around anymore at this hour. You’ll have to rough it one night here, Princess.”
Her cheeks flare again. “I'll take my old room,” she murmurs, starting for the hallway off the kitchen, the one that leads to the tinier spare room. I'm surprised she even remembered where that was.
But I have to cut her off. “Your Mama turned that into an office a few years back.”
Sasha stumbles to a halt. Fuck, even her confused face is sexy. “So…” She trails off, leaves that question unspoken.
“There's your Mama’s room.” I let that hang long enough for her eyes to go wide yet again. But they’re still fixed dead on mine—she doesn’t back down from a challenge.
I guess some things, at least, haven’t changed.
“I’ll sleep in the car,” she says, hands on her hips.
I smirk. “What’s the matter, scared to be too near one of us country hicks?”
Our eyes lock. That wipes any remaining politeness from her expression. Good. I always preferred her when she was angry. The way her eyebrows crease and her fists ball, the way she won’t back down from a fight. The way she’s glaring at me right now, though, is making me harder still.
Fuck. How am I still so fucking attracted to her, after all these years?
“Of course not,” she replies, chin high. “I’m only being polite. You take the bed.”
I step closer. She holds her ground. I catch a whiff of her perfume now, something floral, expensive I’d guess. It smells okay, great probably. But I like her better without it. I like her scent, the one that’s all Sasha, can’t be bottled. “We could always share.” I grin at the way that sets off a white hot flush across her cheeks. Then I turn away from her, still smiling
to myself. “But that’s okay. Don’t want to make you nervous, city girl. You couldn’t handle a wild man like me anyway.”
She snorts. “Oh, I doubt that.”
“Is that a challenge?” I turn back to raise one eyebrow at her, and find she’s moved closer to me, almost chasing me, fists still clenched.
Fuck, she’s glorious when she’s annoyed.
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Long enough that I know she’s thinking about it. About what fucking me would be like.
Good. Let her dream. Let her be the one to lie awake at night and fantasize, for once.
“You take the bed,” I tell her, hands spread in what I hope comes across as the peace offering I mean it to be. “My truck bed is bigger than your Porsche’s backseat anyway. And I’ve got a quilt in the truck from other times I’ve roughed it.”
She opens her mouth, though whether to agree or decline the favor, I don’t stick around to find out. I dust off my palms, leave her with the firewood, and head outside to make my bed for the night.
4
Sasha Bluebell
The sound of hammering wakes me up. Well, that and the rooster crying away in some far off field. I crack one eyelid at my blinds, then groan and fling an arm over my forehead to shade myself from the dawn light beginning to tint the blinds.
What time is it?
My phone, down to its last cell of battery life since I couldn’t find a plug near the bed in this tiny room—how on earth did Mama sleep without her cell phone beside her?—tells me it’s 5:04am. Not the kind of hour any civilized person should ever greet from this side of sleep.
But the hammering continues, directly overhead and growing louder by the minute. And unless I’m much mistaken, I do catch a whiff of something at least somewhat promising in the air.
Coffee.
I stumble out of the bedroom wiping sleep from my eyes to find a fresh pot of coffee on the stove and a little plate of toast and jam waiting beside it. I munch on the toast while I tie my hair into some semblance of a bun, then pull on a pair of jean shorts and toss on the only tank top I packed. Normally this would be a running shirt, but I’m working with what I’ve got for now. At least I remembered to bring a pair of boots. Granted, they’re leather, but they’re sturdy work boots, not the heels I stupidly put on yesterday morning. I yank them on too, and I’m surprised how good it feels to be wearing sturdy, reliable shoes.
Must be because I’m still feeling grumpy about tripping in the mud yesterday.
That finished, I splash my face clean, then bring my coffee outside to see about the racket.
Grant is on the roof. I lean back to squint at his broad, muscular back—unfortunately clothed today—and watch him lay out another roof tile, then hammer it into place. He’s about halfway done reshingling the roof, to judge from here.
“Need a hand?” I call up.
He turns around to squint down at me with what’s clearly doubt in his eyes.
That only makes me want to prove him wrong the more. He thinks he knows me—spoiled city girl, the town stuck-up bitch. Well, I might be a city girl now, but I was born country. Some things you don’t forget how to do.
Clearly, he doesn’t remember the way we used to clamber up every tree in the woods around here. Or the tree house we built, us and a couple of our neighborhood friends, with our own hands. It’s been a while, but I can still swing a hammer, thank-you-very-much Grant.
I set my coffee down and climb onto the ladder. He watches with progressively wider eyes as I scurry right up it to join him. I don’t even pause when I switch onto the roof and keep my balance easily as I cross it to his side.
To his credit, he doesn’t dismiss me the way some guys might. He just passes me a hammer from the tool bag perched beside him. I accept it, and our hands graze for a moment, his calloused skin rough against mine, like a match striking. It sets my whole body on fire, and I have to turn away for a second to catch my breath, to drive out the sudden images flashing in my mind.
Him shirtless yesterday, glistening with sweat.
His eyes, the way they bore into mine, dark and serious.
How those eyes and that sexy shirtless body of his would look above me in a dark room as he tossed me down onto the single bed in this house and…
I shake myself back into the present.
“You know how to use this thing?” he says.
“Might need a refresher course,” I reply. “It’s been a while.”
He grabs some nails as well, and holds up another roof tile for me. As he demonstrates how to grip the hammer, reaching around me to do so, I nearly lose my grip in distraction. Fuck. He smells amazing. The sweat he’s worked up already makes his scent even more noticeable—something piney with a heady undertone that’s all him, a hint of salt that makes me lick my lips unconsciously. He presses against me, and his hand wraps around mine around the hammer, that rough skin so firm against mine, his hand so strong, and huge. It completely engulfs my hand.
His whole body, to be honest, is huge. So much bigger than the scrawny kid I remember. Or even the handsome but lean guy in high school who never so much as glanced my way, despite all the summers we spent together as kids. Now, with the way he’s built up… God, he could toss me around the bedroom any way he wanted.
Fuck. Stop it, Sasha. This is not the time or the place.
“Paying attention?” he asks, his voice low and close to my ear—so close the breath tickles my skin.
Dammit. “Of course,” I respond.
He lines up the first nail, shows me how to drive it in. Then he shows me what angle to lay the next tile so the roof will all lie flat and orderly. Then he releases me, and I try to ignore the quiver in my thighs, or the way my pussy tightens in reflexive protest.
Having him kneeling behind me was too damn hot.
I suck in fresh air to try to clear my head, and then, while he watches, I nail down another tile, then another.
Eventually, he nods, satisfied, and goes back to his own pile of tiles.
I try not to watch him out of the corner of my eye too often. Or to track the way his biceps flex as he drives in the hammer.
Once or twice, I catch him looking back at me. My cheeks flush both times, and by the third time, I tell myself I need to behave. I keep my eyes ahead, focused on the tiles, and shift over ahead of him. That way I won’t be tempted.
We work in tandem for what feels like hours, though to judge by the way the sun is inching up the horizon, it can’t be more than one hour at most. I make it all the way up to the center of the roof, and then I turn to get more tiles.
This time, though, it’s Grant who I find staring at me. More specifically, at my ass. My cheeks flush again, and I realize with how short these shorts are, and how far I’m bent over kneeling on this roof, my ass cheeks must have been showing.
I set down the hammer, face bright red. “If I’m distracting you, you know, I can go and change,” I say, mostly to call him out. Even though, I have to admit, I’m enjoying knowing the effect I have on this guy. He might be judgmental at times, but he’s also hot as hell. It’s been a long time. Good to know I’ve still got it.
Grant’s eyes catch mine, full of humor. But his voice is dead serious when he replies, “Don’t.”
That one word makes my belly clench, and my legs quiver. Combined with the way his dark eyes still hook on mine, boring into me, it’s making the ache between my legs grow to a distracting level.
Then he smirks again, a knowing smile that tells me he knows just how much of an effect he’s having on me. Without another word, he turns back to his own work.
After a moment’s hesitation, I go back to nailing down my row of shingles too. We work until almost half the roof is finished, when Grant leans back on his heels and taps the empty bucket. “Out of nails. I’ll have to do a supply run later.”
“I can go,” I offer.
“Do you even remember where the hardware store is?” He cocks an eyebrow.
I bite my lip. “I have GPS.”
“You think any stores in this town are on Google Maps?” He laughs.
I sigh and sit back on my heels. “Still. If you give me directions, I don’t mind running out. You’ve put in so much work here already.” I cast an eye past the rooftop, at the distant yard, where, from this vantage, I’ve already been able to see evidence of his handiwork. Some of the fields have been plowed, the soil tilled. Others show signs of recent plantings. Not only is he fixing up the house itself, but he’s even working on the land. I didn’t even think to do that. “I want to pull my own weight.”
“Clearly you can,” he replies, casting a glance at the tiles I lined up. “My mistake for doubting you.”
“I accept your apology,” I answer with a faint smile.
He grins back at me. “Still don’t think you can handle everything about country life, City Girl.”
“You mean life in general or something in particular?” I lift one eyebrow.
“I was thinking selfishly, I’ll admit.”
“And just why do you think I can’t handle you, exactly, Country Boy?”
His gaze drops over my body again, slowly. “You turn bright red every time I look at you, let alone say anything.”
He’s right, I am blushing. But I force myself to lift my chin and lock eyes with him. I want to prove him wrong. I’m not the blushing girl he thinks. “Why, have something you want to say?”
“Plenty, Sasha.”
My pussy clenches noticeably at the sound of my name in his mouth. Fuck. Why does he know how to turn me on so easily? “So go for it, Grant,” I reply. I raise my brows, inviting.
But he just shakes his head and turns to reach for the ladder down. “I’m going to clean up. Then I’ll do a hardware store run. Feel free to tag along if you want to know where it is.”
Before I can even reply, he’s down the ladder, leaving me alone on the rooftop, wondering what on earth just happened.
