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Liam ignored that with a heavy sigh. “You in Michigan now?” he asked.
“In Florida this week.”
“How nice,” he said, the sarcasm thick in his voice, “that you can take a week off from your legal responsibilities when you feel so moved.”
“Screw you. I’m going back in a couple of days, and I’ll be there for a while when we start the renovations.”
He grunted again. “Don’t fuck it up.”
I tapped on the text message and barely managed not to laugh out loud.
Charlotte:Seventeen settees on my spreadsheet. Maybe we could sell a couple.
I didn’t want to, but I imagined her smile as she sent it. The way her dimple probably peeked out on her right cheek.
“I won’t,” I told Liam. “I promise.”
Chapter Eleven
CHARLOTTE
I was not prepared for Burke’s return to the Campbell House.
Not because I didn’t know he was coming. Or when his plane was landing.
It was so much worse.
I hadbutterflies.
After an hour of cleaning up the carriage house, I heard his car approaching, and my stomach positively erupted with those little assholes.
Fluttering and flying and sending my nerves into absolute disarray.
If I lived in the 1800s, I would’ve locked myself in my room for the rest of the day to recover from the vapors.
And it was stupid, honestly. One display of chivalry, one display of testosterone-fueled protectiveness, and my stomach was rolling in heady loops.
Wasn’t that the scariest part of riding a roller coaster? You could have all the protection in the world. Iron bars locked over your stomach. An entire apparatus cinching you into place to ensure your safe arrival on the other side. But when the car crested the top of the hill, you still had that moment before the free fall.
I didn’t really like riding roller coasters, but the last time I had, it felt an awful lot like waiting for Burke to come inside.
It was a perfect storm: terrifying and exhilarating. Every nerve ending—head to friggin’ toe—was lit up like one of those Lite-Brite toys I had when I was little.
He wasn’t gentle. Or sweet.
He played football.
Didn’t care about any of the things that I loved.
We bickered. Constantly.
And without so much as a kiss, or even an acknowledgment that he might feel the same, I was locked in on the Big, Scary Ride before I knew what was happening.
The car door slammed, and before Burke walked into the house, I gave myself a stern look in the mirror of the bathroom. My reflection—that traitorous bitch—was pink cheeked and bright eyed.
“Damn it,” I whispered miserably.
The carriage house smelled like lemon cleaner and fresh laundry, and when the front door opened, I heard him take a deep inhale, then hum appreciatively.
