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“What’d you do tonight?”

Delilah’s breathy voice calls me back. My mind replays my conversation with River. Our upcoming run. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

The truth. This girl’s innocent, sweet, despite her sassy tongue, and needs to stay out of trouble. Needs to stay away from me.

“You have fuzz.”

“What?” I go rigid when her soft, small palm of velvet strokes its way down my cheek.

“See?” She pulls her hand away. In her palm, the white fuzzy seed head of a dandelion. Her cheeks puff out as she blows it away. Together, we watch it sail on the breeze.

My chest constricts. My cheek burns from the feel of her palm on my skin. I stare at her pretty pink lips, pouty and plump and slick with a gloss that smells like honey.

Fuck. I need her gone. Need her out of my space before I do something I regret.

Shifting my weight away from her, I nod my chin at her Creek House. “You work tomorrow. You need sleep. Get outta here and go to bed.”

She tosses me a flirty grin. “You want to put me there, cowboy?”

Great. She doesn’t listen either. Another reason to stay the hell away from her.

I give her my hardest glare. “Git.”

In return, she bats her eyes. “Good night, Cole.” As she turns to leave, the hem of her shirt flips up, giving me a look at the pink silk fabric covering her pussy.

Fuck.

I wait, watching her walk the distance from my house to hers. She slips inside and shuts the door.

I stare, longer than I should, a sudden gnawing urge to check her door. To make sure she’s safe. My pulse spikes imagining it unlocked. The bad things that could happen. Then, warring with myself, cursing my idiocy, I trek to her place. Creep onto the porch and test the handle.

Locked.

Relief settles in my shoulders.

By the time I make it back to my house, all thoughts of a shower are gone from my mind. Instead, all that lingers is Delilah. The girl with the sad eyes and the sharp mouth has already taken up too much of my interest.

What I need to do is stay away. Get her out of my head. For good.

12 Delilah

Monday kicks off the start of our weekend, and I head into town that afternoon to restock my small kitchenette. I’ve already polished off an entire box of Strawberry Pop-Tarts and my cans of beef stew.

I wander the aisles of the Meadowlark Market. Shelves lined with cereals, candy bars, and chips. On a back wall, a neon sign flashes, BAIT. The scent of smoked jerky perfumes the air. I pick out what I need and drop the items into my basket.

I love the liminal vibe of gas stations and small-town stores. Like the last resort before the wilderness. Stocking up on snacks. The buzz of fluorescent lighting. My mom and sister and I were always on the road traveling, and Lucy and I looked forward to our gas station stops. We’d sit in the backseat, swaddled in blankets, and eat our candy bars and tell stories about princesses in high towers who waited for their prince.

It’s how I feel out at the Creek House. Lonely but at peace, thoughtful but melancholy, and homesick for something I can’t quite remember.

My gaze flicks to my right. Pinned to the bulletin board on the wall is a travel brochure featuring Weston Whiskey Distillery. Clearly, it’s king in this town.

I don’t know what I was thinking of offering to plan the launch party. I don’t know the first thing about whiskey or parties, but it was a trigger reflex to help. Ezra sounded so stressed. And the Westons, they’ve been so kind giving me a place to stay. It was the least I could do.

Maybe I’m in over my head. But maybe I’ll have a purpose. Even if it is only for the summer.

Into my basket goes a bag of dog kibble—Ratson’s favorite—and a box of pancake mix for me. As I round the narrow aisle, a voice carries over the shelves.

“That’s the girl. The one living at the distillery.”