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I’m a lucky man. That thin towel wasn’t covering much, barely holding in a throbbing salute to her glory.
Holt’s still grinning. “It’s the best gossip in town. Everyone loves it. I mean, except the usual culprits.”
“What culprits?”
“The buzzards. The clique girls who get jealous of every pretty lady who catches the eye of our dwindling local bachelors. They’re the ones who keep those rumors about Felicity spinning in the first place, and then wonder why they’re single.” His grin widens. “They’ve been gunning for you since last year. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Uh.” I stare at him. “No.”
“Oblivious. Right. More people than polar bears,” he says with an amused snort.
“Parent.” I snort back. “Gotta think about my boy before I think about anyone jumping my bones.”
I tighten my expressionless mask, making damned sure I don’t give away the lone exception to that rule.
“Yeah? Seems like Fliss and Eli get along pretty well, huh?”
Unfortunately, they do.
They jive in ways that tug at my heart, my gut, my every fucking thing till I can’t get certain thoughts out of my head.
She just fits so well into my life already, it scares me.
It’s not just about me, though.
It’s not just about her fitting into my life.
It’s about her wanting to be there, and I—hell, if I even start pressing for something real, she’ll take off like a bat out of hell.
Sighing, I give Holt a weary stare. “Look, can we hold off on planning my wedding? I’m happily single and fixing to stay that way, boss. I’ve still got too much to do for Eli to even think about stuffing someone up in his life that way.”
“You said it, man. Not me.” Holt holds his hands up innocently. “I didn’t say a word.”
Sure.
He said a lot of words.
A lot of utter shit I can’t stop thinking about, and not just because Holt put those thoughts in my head like the devil prankster he is.
If I’m being honest with myself, they’ve been in my head since the moment Felicity sat me down in her office and touched me so gently, fussing over my flesh wound with that sad look on her face.
I’m falling down a man-eating rabbit hole.
Dangerous territory.
No—worse.
I’m falling, period.
Falling headfirst for a woman with so many dark secrets it’s like I don’t even know her at all.
You know what the worst part is about falling for the ones you shouldn’t?
It’s how predictable it gets.
How you know you’re spiraling into one bad move after the next and you keep expecting this momentous breakthrough, when deep down you can see the sledgehammer coming toward you like a bullet train.
I can’t stay away from her.
Not on my life.
Last night, she came back to the cabin so late I barely caught a glimpse of her exhausted trudge before she collapsed into bed and was out cold in ten minutes.
I was five minutes away from heading out to find her myself, stuck in that memory at The Nest with Fliss in tears and those “contractors” who roughed up her place.
She’d mumbled something about monthly accounting and insisted everything was fine.
She’s drained.
Not scared.
That should be enough.
Fuck, I’m not her guard dog...am I?
The following evening, I answer my own question.
I’ve just picked Eli up from the Fords’ place after work, and the cabin feels too empty. I need to go grocery shopping, but tonight there’s no harm in picking up a treat or two from the pastry counter at The Nest.
As I park the Jeep in front of the kitschy little café, Eli lifts his camera and snaps a pic through the windshield. I glance at him, cutting the engine and lifting my brows.
“Really, little man?”
He pouts. “The lighting through the glass helps capture the energy of the place, Dad.”
I swallow a laugh. I don’t want my kid thinking I’m making fun of him, but he sounds like a pint-sized art critic. He came back from the Fords’ yesterday yammering on about color values and light palettes, fancy stuff I’ve never heard him say before in his life despite his passion for photography.
Doesn’t take much to figure out it has to do with that Tara girl.
Her aunt, Haley, is a professional artist, and apparently Tara’s intent on following in her footsteps.
My son, apparently, is intent on impressing an artsy big city girl.
Yeah, kid. I know how you feel.
Even if the girl I’m aiming to impress is as small-town as it comes.
Suppressing my grin, I give him a nudge, then step out and follow his enthusiastic stride into the bustling café.
After Brody’s, The Nest is the town’s evening gathering place. People stop by in groups to socialize, have a little dessert, a lot of sweet coffee, and catch a boatload of gossip.
Suddenly I’m self-conscious, and not because I’m painfully aware of the eye-grabby attention from the gaggle of superficially pretty women. Their eyes stab at me the second I walk in.
