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I slump down in my seat. “I can’t believe I’m doingthis.”
“Doing what? Moving to the best place in the world and being surrounded by delightful company? We’re going to be neighbors. That, my dear, will be the highlight of yourlife.”
“No, I can’t believe I packed up and moved to a town void of takeout sushi but also where I’ll be labeled a widower-chasing tramp. Might as well pin a scarlet letter to my chest and call it aday.”
“You can’t be serious.” She peeks over at me, her amused smile fading into concern. “Willow, no one is going to call you a widower-chaser. I mean, not to your face at least.” She pauses to give me a cheesy grin. “Although it does have a nice ring to it. Willow the Widower-Chaser.”
“That’s it. Turn this pink puss cararound.”
I yelp at the sound of the door locking. “Prepare for a three-hour drive filled with prying questions and nineties hip-hop. I hope you’re a Snoop Doggfan.”
* * *
“Wow, this is a nice place.”
I drop my bag onto the mahogany wood floor and explore my new apartment. It’s an older building with a floor plan similar to Lauren’s, except mine is a two bedroom and has more space. Something like this would cost a kidney in LA. My mom told me I was choosing to live in rich-people poverty when I movedthere.
A fresh coat of taupe paint covers the walls, and an exposed brick fireplace is at the front of the living room with a flat screen TV mounted above it. The furniture is new, and decorative touches are scattered throughout the living room and kitchen. A red-and-black-checkered throw is thrown over the back of the couch, and succulents are placed on the end tables to each side ofit.
“Thank you for talking to your landlord, putting down the deposit, and getting everything in order on such short notice,” I say to Lauren, pulling my purse up from the floor by the strap. I rummage through it in search of my wallet. “How much do I oweyou?”
Her hand goes up, stopping me. “Put your wallet away. Thank Dallas. This was allhim.”
I give the apartment another once-over. “What?How?”
Blame it on the loser I dated for nearly a decade, but my mind can’t wrap around a man doing this for me. I guess Stella wasn’t lying when she said small-town guys were a differentbreed.
“Ask him. In the meantime, get yourself settled in. I have a double shift in a few hours and need to hit the shower. Text me if you need anything,neighbor.”
I smile. She made a six-hour round trip to pick me up and then has to pull a double. “Have fun. Thank you for the ride. I owe youone.”
“I got you, girl,” is all she says before winking and waving good-bye.
I scoop up my bags and take them into the bedroom when I hear the door shut. Just like the rest of the apartment, the bedroom is spacious. Settling my suitcase on the cream-upholstered king-size bed, I start tounpack.
I let my mom watch Scooby for a few weeks, so I could get settled in and check with the landlord if pets were allowed. Only a few bags came with me on the flight, and I’m having my other stuff and car shipped. I have a baby on the way and am not handing an airline my savings to have a few extrabras.
I drop the shirt I’m hanging up at the sound of thedoorbell.
“You forget something?” I ask, opening the door. I stumble back when I don’t seeLauren.
Dallas is standing in front of me, shoulders broad and square, wearing a red-buffalo-plaid flannel that nearly matches the throw on my couch, dark jeans with holes in both knees that hug his legs, and brown boots. My heart races, and I can’t stop myself from running a finger over mylips.
Shit. Pregnancy hormones are making an appearance. They seem to be well acquainted withhim.
Dallas has the efficacy to pull off attractiveness with this casual demeanor better than any man wearing an expensive suit. My ex was a hipster wannabe who regularly sported holey jeans, beanies, and flannels. He was a generic version of the real thing—Dallas. He’s no wannabe. He’s this rugged, down-to-earth man who has no idea how wet he makes mypanties.
I smooth down my hair and shyly smile. “Hey,” I say in nearly awhisper.
Tension bleeds through the air like an open wound. Our last face-to-face conversation wasn’t exactlypretty.
His thick lips curl up. “If it isn’t Blue Beech’s newestresident.”
“Temporaryresident,” I correct, scooting to the side. My back brushes against the wall as I give him enough room to step into the apartment and shut thedoor.
His scent, a light evergreen that reminds me of a vacation lodge deep in the mountains where you never want to leave, hangs in the air like smoke as he skims the living room. “You getting settled inokay?”
A few inches separate us, and I play with my hands in front of me, nervousness climbing up my spine. We haven’t been alone like this since that night with the small exception of the women’s restroom at the airport, which has the privacy that’s equivalent to one inprison.
