Reckless Hearts

by Melody Grace

  We finish up brunch, then head back across the town square, pushing Kit’s stroller. It’s another bright, breezy day, with the sea winds from the harbor keeping the summer heat at bay, ocean glinting clear blue beyond the weathered wooden boardwalk railings. “So what are your plans today?” Lottie asks, yawning. “I’m meeting some moms later for a play-date coffee, if you want to come? I just met them the other week, they’re pretty cool—and young,” she adds. “We pretty much leave the kids in the playroom and just gossip all afternoon.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got an open house,” I reply, already planning my strategy.

  “Fresh-cut flowers and cookie dough?” Lottie grins.

  “You know it,” I beam. “The old tricks are the best—” I stop, as my gaze catches on a now-familiar figure, sauntering across the square. My pulse kicks. Lottie turns.

  “What? Ooh, is that him?”

  “Yes, but don’t stare—” It’s too late; Lottie is already waving at Will with a bright smile. He sees us, pauses, then approaches.

  “Lottie!” I hiss, flustered. “What are you doing?”

  “Finding out if he’s a crazy stalker,” she whispers back. “Don’t ever say I don’t have your back. Hi!” she announces as he reaches us. “You must be Will.”

  “William Wyatt Montgomery, at your service, ma’am.” Will puts down a couple of bags from the hardware store and shakes her hand. “Delilah,” he adds in friendly greeting, and I swear my heart stutters a little in my chest. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and well-fitting, worn jeans today, that stubble still giving him a rakish, scruffy air that looks too damn hot.

  “I’m Lottie,” she continues beside me, as I drink him in. “And this is Kit.”

  “Hey there, little fellow.” Will actually leans down and shakes Kit’s hand too, making him giggle and shriek with delight.

  Lottie gives me an approving look. “So, what brings you to Oak Harbor?” she asks innocently, as if we haven’t just spent a half-hour discussing it.

  “Well, someone gave me the hard sell, said it was the best place on earth.” Will’s eyes meet mine, twinkling with amusement. “I figured I should check it out for myself.”

  “Where are you staying?” Lottie keeps up her interrogation.

  “I bought a place out north of town,” Will replies, not at all phased by the fifth degree.

  “You bought?” I echo, surprised. “Just like that?”

  He smiles back, easy in the dappled sunlight. “Just like that.”

  Now I’m really confused.

  “So, how are you finding it?” Lottie asks. “It must be a big change after . . . where was it you lived before?”

  “New York,” he says, “and, yes, it’s pretty different down here. No takeout delivery at three a.m. But on the plus side, I can cross the street without getting hit by a kamikaze bike messenger, for one.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Lottie grins. “Watch out for George Tompkins, he’s pretty lethal on his old bike. Gets up to like, two miles an hour sometimes.”

  Will chuckles. “I’ll consider myself warned.”

  “Well, it was great to meet you, I’m sure I’ll see you around,” Lottie says brightly. “We have to run, but if you have any questions, just ask Delilah. She knows everything and everyone!”

  “Lottie—” I protest, but she’s already kissing me on the cheek.

  “He’s adorable. Go for it!” she whispers in my ear, before taking the stroller and leaving us both there under the shadow of the cypress trees.

  I try to catch my breath. What is it about this guy that throws me off-balance? I can feel his gaze on me, those delicious hazel-green eyes, and it makes my skin prickle with awareness, remembering the feel of his body, his lips on mine.

  “So . . .” I start, feeling awkward. Then I decide to cut straight to the chase. “You were just joking before, right—about moving here because of me?”

  “What makes you say that?” Will is grinning, like he can see my discomfort.

  “Because it’s crazy, that’s why!”

  “You’ve never had a guy move for you before?” he asks.

  “No!” I exclaim.

  “Huh. Surprising.” He shrugs, nonchalant, like this is a normal conversation we’re having. “Then I guess they weren’t that smart.”

  I blink. What’s happening here?

  “You look different,” I blurt.

  He glances down. “That’s because I’m not heading to an office every day.”

  “You sound different, too,” I add, suspicious.

  “That’s the Georgia in me,” he explains. “It comes out once I get south of the Mason-Dixon line.”

  I pause. “I didn’t know you’re from Georgia.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Will tilts his head, giving me a tempting smile. “Want to find out? Dinner? Tonight?”

  I gulp. I want to—which is exactly why I shouldn’t say yes. I keep things simple, no-strings. This guy making me feel so flustered isn’t simple. It’s messy as hell.

  I shake my head, ignoring the regret when I say, “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  I’m expecting him to put up a fight, try and convince me to take a chance on him, but instead, Will just nods. “OK then. See you around, Delilah.”

  I watch him easily hoist his bags and head back across the square to where an ancient-looking pick-up truck is parked. He loads the back, then climbs up into the driver’s seat, pausing to look back at where I’m still frozen, dumbfounded. He waves.

  I quickly turn and hurry away. I have a million things to do right now, and none of them involve thinking about this guy, but as I drive over to my new listing, I can’t help puzzling over what he’s playing at. This can’t be some kind of joke or game; he seems way too sincere for that, but he can’t be serious either! Nothing about him makes sense, and no matter how hard I try to figure it out, I’m coming up blank.

  So, instead of wasting precious time on the mysteries of the male mind, I vow to put him out of my head and focus on what really matters right now: staging an open house that will sell this place in record time.

  That, I know how to do.

  The listing is a cute townhouse, set on a newer developed block just past the creek. I convinced the sellers to give it a touch-up, so now there’s fresh paint on the walls, covering all their kids’ crayon marks, and pretty ruffled curtains hung on all the windows. It’s small, but sweet, with a neat square of yard out back: the perfect starter home for a young family. I called up everyone on my list, sent out emails, even left a stack of glossy flyers at the daycare and library, and now it’s finally showtime.

  The doorbell rings, right on cue at two p.m. I shove a baking tray of store-bought cookie dough in the oven, and go to greet my potential buyers. “Welcome!” I usher the first couple inside. “Take a flyer, look around, let me know if you have any questions!”

  An hour later, and the open house is going great. I know half the people coming through, and I can tell exactly if it’s what they’re looking for—or not.

  “Didn’t we talk about finding you somewhere with more . . . privacy?” I tactfully draw one of the attendees aside. Jed Springer and his girlfriend are looking for a place to house them—and their amateur rock band. “I’m not sure this place has the sound-proofing you’re looking for.”

  “You think?” Jed frowns. “Maybe they won’t mind a jam session or two.”

  From the way the neighbors have been twitching their curtains all day, I’m not so sure. “It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood,” I say instead, smiling brightly. “And you guys want to be closer to the action, so you can stumble back from Dixie’s on a Friday night.”

  Jed laughs. “True. OK, we’ll keep looking.”

  “I’ll call you to set up some more viewings next week!”

  I steer them out, just as a new couple arrives. “Mike!” I exclaim, surprised, recognizing a guy I know from a few towns over. “Hey, it’s good to se
e you, it’s been forever.”

  “You too, Dee.” He hugs me enthusiastically. “You look great. Have you met my fiancée? This is Angela.” He proudly presents a very-pregnant blonde woman.

  “Lovely to meet you,” I greet her. “I don’t need to guess why you’re looking at this place. It’s got family written all over it. Here, let me show you around.” I take them inside, and tour them through the property, tickled to see Mike fussing over Angela, helping her up the stairs. Mike and I had a casual fling, years ago, and he was about as low-effort as they come. I was lucky if he took a break from beer and video games with his buddies to even give me a call. Now, he keeps one hand on the small of his fiancée’s back, like she’s made of glass.

  “The master looks out over the creek, see.” I show them around the upstairs. “And this is where I’d put the nursery. Isn’t it the cutest little room?”

  Angela grips Mike’s hand. “Honey, it’s perfect.” She’s got a smile a mile wide, and I can tell, she’s already imagining a crib and mobile hanging from the ceiling.

  “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” I ask.

  “Boy,” Angela answers, cupping her bump.

  “Congratulations! And see, it’s already painted blue,” I add. “It must be a sign.”

  Mike laughs. “We’ll see about that. The asking price . . .”

  “Is always negotiable,” I finish for him. Then I lean in, as if I’m letting them in on a secret. “Just between us, I think the sellers could be flexible on the price. They’ve already found a new place they want to make an offer on, over in Beachwood Bay, so if you can move fast, they might be willing to come down a little.”

  Angela looks eagerly at Mike. “You hear that? Honey, we have to make an offer.”

  “We’ll see,” he says, calming her, but I can tell from the adoring look in his eyes, it’s game over. What the mom-to-be wants, she’s going to get. “Let’s look around some more.”

  “Go ahead,” I agree, “make yourself at home. And check out the yard. Perfect for teaching Mike Junior to catch a football!”

  He laughs, and steers Angela back downstairs. I see them a moment later, stepping outside to take in the yard.

  Yup, they’ll make an offer.

  I feel a surge of pride. Not just for the sale—and my handy commission—but because the house is perfect for them. That’s the part of this job I love the most: finding the right fit for every home—and the right home for every buyer. It’s like a puzzle, matching up exactly what everyone needs, and it turns out I have a gift for making the pieces fit together. Another satisfied customer.

  I linger at the window, still struck by the change in Mike. From all-night GTA video game sessions and barely sending a booty-call text past midnight, to future father and devoted husband, it’s a pretty big switch. I watch as he mimes throwing a ball around, and then brings Angela in for a kiss, holding her there, one hand resting on her stomach.

  I feel a pang. Not for Mike—he’s a nice guy, but we weren’t exactly star-crossed lovers—but for the picture the two of them make down there, so happy together. They’re just starting out on their future as a family, a team of two (and soon to be three), taking on the world.

  I wonder, will I ever find that kind of love?

  Will’s face comes into my mind, and I remember his comments before. He seemed genuinely surprised that men weren’t uprooting their whole lives and falling at my feet, but that’s ridiculous. I’m not the girl who men drop everything for like that. I’m the girl you call on a whim on Friday night, or because you’re in town for the weekend, or you just broke up with your girlfriend and want a wild, crazy time to put her out of your mind for good. Spontaneous. Fun. No-strings—and definitely no commitment. That’s the way I’ve always liked it, so why is it so unsettling that he sees me totally differently?

  There are footsteps on the stairs, another round of viewers. I quickly turn away and fix a bright smile on my face. I shouldn’t even be thinking about Will. I don’t even know the guy.

  But you know how he smiles . . . how he laughs . . . how he kisses . . .

  It’s crazy. After all, what kind of man just leaves his whole life behind and shows up in the middle of nowhere like this?

  I push the thought back and greet the next round of buyers. “Now, how about these views!”

  Four.

  Will

  Turning my life upside down for a girl I barely even know may seem like the craziest, most impulsive thing I’ve ever done, but after the life I left behind in New York City, it doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all.

  In fact, it might be the best decision I’ve made in a long time.

  I finish up my errands in town with a smile, struck again with how friendly and welcoming everyone is. Once they find out I just moved here, they couldn’t be happier to offer advice and guidance, from where to buy my groceries to where the town goes drinking on a Friday night. Delilah wasn’t lying about that, or how beautiful this part of the country really is. I can’t get over the ocean, so crisp and sapphire blue, beating steadily against the rocky shore, or how the old cypress trees line the streets and boulevards with leafy shade; the town receding into the green woods, with the creek winding lazily back as you drive further into the country.

  It’s beautiful alright, and coming after the hectic, loud chaos of the city, I almost can’t believe it. No sirens, no screaming drunks on the corner. When I wake up in the morning to nothing but the sound of crickets and the wind rustling in the trees, I almost forget where I am. Then it hits me all over again, with that same thunder of awesome possibility.

  Blank slate. Fresh start.

  And her.

  Delilah Morgan. A couple of questions at the hardware store gave me her surname, although I can’t believe I didn’t know it already. From the moment I saw her on the street that night with her whip-smart mouth, teasing blue eyes, and infectious laugh, it’s felt like we were always going to meet. It was inevitable.

  And totally unforgettable.

  I know that to anyone on the outside, I might seem seriously crazy right about now. Even my friends back in New York can’t understand what I’m doing. They think it’s a harebrained scheme I’ll snap out of soon enough, like when one of my buddies packed it in to go learn to surf in Belize, or another got engaged to a hostess in Vegas. They lost their heads, tried something wild, but in the end, they were right back where they started soon enough: at their desk Monday morning, ready to face reality again.

  But this is different.

  I haven’t lost my head, if anything, I’ve found it again. That perfect life in New York I’d worked so hard to build shattered apart, and I never saw it coming. From having it all figured out, to finding everything was a lie: it’s enough to drive any man to take a long hard look at what he’s doing. What kind of life they want; how to make it right again. I already knew everything had to change by the time I took a left downtown on that neon, rainy street and found the answer I was looking for. I was right there on the edge, ready for a push.

  And man, did Delilah make me fall.

  There’s just something about her. I’ve never met a girl like this before: so completely, utterly at ease in who she is. Everything seems simple with her, like the answers have been staring me in the face all along. Just one flash of that gorgeous, joyful smile made me forget the mess of the past six months—and just one glimpse of the peach lace curves hiding under her blouse just about knocked me to the ground.

  And that was before she kissed me.

  I hit pause on that memory, before I get off-track. The roads out here are quiet and shady, winding through the country, and I have to keep my eyes peeled so I don’t miss the turn; I already overshot twice this week and wound up halfway to Wilmington before I realized my mistake. Today, I recognize the curve in the road and that old dogwood tree, its branches almost bent double to hide the broken-down fence, and the peeling red mailbox marking the turn.

  Home sweet home.

 
The first time I followed the glorified dirt track out here, I nearly turned back a dozen times. Sure, I wanted something different, but this is a million miles from my slick Manhattan apartment, with the 24/7 doorman out front and views of the downtown city lights. Here, I don’t see another soul as I drive past open pasture fields, through the woods, and alongside a lazily-winding creek before finally arriving in front of the dilapidated set of buildings that passes for a home. “A real fixer-upper,” the owner said, but we both knew, I wasn’t buying it for the house. I’m here for the change of pace, the sound of birdsong in the trees.

  The chance to start over, and maybe do things right this time.

  I unload my bags from the truck and take them inside. Just a few essentials to get me settled in, but looking around at the leaking roof, peeling old wallpaper, and serious dampness problem, I’m wondering if I should have picked up a tent and sleeping bag instead.

  “If it’s broke, then fix it.”

  My grandpa’s favorite saying pops into my mind. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. He’s the one who gave me my first toolbox, taught me how to take an engine apart and put it back together, and showed me what it’s like to sand and whittle a hunk of wood into something special, a sturdy table, or slim set of chairs. Those were some of the happiest summers of my life, learning right alongside him in his workshop back in Georgia, before he passed, and somehow I stepped on the conveyor belt towards a whole different world: the kind of life where furniture comes crafted at a designer showroom, sleek sports cars are toys to show off your latest bonus, and everything, even your damn soul, has a price tag in the end.

  But that’s behind me now. My life was broken, so I’m fixing it, just like Grandpa said: stripping it down to the essentials, the way we used to with the cogs and carburetor spread over the front driveway all those hot summer afternoons. Sure, coming here is impulsive. Crazy. I’ve made my fortune on taking risks: checking the odds, playing the market, making sure all those little red flags pay off in my direction, but this is different. I’m not dealing with numbers on a screen anymore, but I’m sick of playing pretend. I made the smart moves my whole damn life, and look where that left me. No, this time, I needed to do it all differently.