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Blair Wilder is back, and I don’t know how to feel about it. I don't even know how to keep myself from thinking about it. She’s been back all of two seconds, and I’m already a wreck.
I need to know how long she intends to be here. So I can put this raging ache to rest. The sooner I can start pretending that she isn’t just down the road, the sooner life can get back to normal.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day I’ll get my answers. I’ll man up, head over there, and demand to know what the fuck she’s doing back in my town, and after that . . . I haven’t got a clue. Probably search for solace at the bottom of a bottle of Jack.
Fucking hell. Oxley was right. I’m hung up on Blair Wilder. So fucking hung up that I throw myself out of my deck chair and storm in through the back door of my home, and before I even know what I’m doing, I’m flying out the front door and crashing into the driver’s side of my red pickup.
The engine roars to life, and within the space of only a few minutes, I’m already sailing through the middle of town. I detour, taking the long way around to avoid going past Oxley’s place because, without a doubt, he’ll know exactly what I’m doing, and I’ll surely receive a call telling me to turn my ass right around.
Turning down the familiar street, I roll to a stop in front of the neighbor’s home. I don’t exactly get the best view from here, but it’s enough to get my first glimpse of the woman who tore me to shreds.
She stands in the living room with long brunette hair cascading down her back, piling small logs into the old fireplace. She looks different than when I saw her last. She was so full of life six years ago, so ready to claim everything she’s always wanted, but the woman I see through the window is dejected. Clouded by grief. Her shoulders sag forward, almost slouching, and while it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her, I could almost swear that she’s lost weight.
If only she would turn around and gaze out the window. I need to see those bright blue eyes, need to get a good read on her just to know that she’s alright.
My heart races as my feelings get caught in my throat. She’s so fucking beautiful. Always has been. I’ve wondered what she’d look like now, wondered what she’d think of the man I’ve become . . . fuck. Do I even hear myself? I sound like a fucking love-sick puppy who can’t catch a hint.
She doesn’t want me, and I’m sure the last thing she wonders about is the lost cause she walked away from six years ago.
Blair reaches up over the fireplace, and I watch as she curls her hand around a lighter before crouching down and doing her best to light the wood, but it’s clear she hasn’t got a single fucking clue what she’s doing. Her pop was always in charge of putting the fire on, a real man’s man who looked after his girls. He never made them lift a finger for fear they might hurt themselves.
Over in her cushy life in New York, I’m sure Blair’s little apartment doesn’t boast a fireplace, and I can only imagine that right now as she struggles with the cold, she’s desperate to get back home to her thermostat.
She gives up after ten minutes of struggling before digging out the old electric heater, and I cringe. That thing is a fire hazard in itself, probably bought a million years ago. She’d be safer with a controlled fire. But I suppose that’s none of my business.
Blair drags the old heater across the living room and disappears out of sight, and as I wait for her return, my gaze lingers on the property. The driveway is covered in snow, at least knee high, and the roof has inches of snow piled on top.
The driveway is an issue, but for now, the roof will be alright. As for the few icicles hanging from the gutters, they’ve got to go.
I clench my jaw, my hand tightening around the steering wheel as I start repeating my new mantra—She’s not my problem. She’s not my problem.
As if on cue, the lights go out in the old cottage, and I let out a relieved breath, feeling as though I’ve somehow gotten away with something. I can no longer see through the window, and after sitting out here for another twenty minutes convinced that she’s gone to bed, my hand hesitates over the shifter.
If she walked out first thing in the morning and one of those icicles fell down and injured her, I’d never be able to forgive myself.
“Fuck,” I mutter, letting out another heavy breath.
Opening my door, I push through to the cold night, leaving my truck running, and hurry up the slick sidewalk, following the footprints she’s already made in the snow. Walking up to the front door, a sense of déjà vu floods through me, remembering the million times I’ve walked up to this very door and knocked on it, asking Blair’s pop if I could take her out for dinner. He always got a kick out of forcing me to be a chivalrous asshat, but I really didn’t mind it, especially when it put a wide smile on Blair’s face.
Standing on the porch, I quickly get to work, removing the icicles and freezing my hand in the process. I’m sure there’s more out back, but for now, clearing the ones off the front will have to do. I toss the icicles into the back portion of the garden, making sure they’re far enough back that Blair won’t accidentally step on them.
When the last of them are gone, I wipe my cold hands on my pants, and as I go to take off back toward my truck before I manage to wake her, my gaze settles on the snow-filled driveway. It really is dangerous. There could be ice under this snow, and one misstep could—not my problem. She’s not my problem.
Fuck.
Shifting my stance, I blow my cheeks out and make my way around the back of the property. The shed doors stand slightly ajar, and I find the snow shovel right where I left it last season. After Blair’s pop died, I took on looking after Olivia. She didn’t have any other family left in Blushing, and she blatantly refused to move out to New York to be with Blair. This was her home, and despite how much she loved Blair, nothing could get her out of it.
My fingers curl around the shovel, and before I know it, I’m standing at the top of the porch and getting started on the snow piled high on the pavement. The sidewalk takes a good twenty minutes to clear, and I follow it down until I reach the top of the driveway.
God. I’m such a fucking sucker. At least the storm we were supposed to get seems to have passed over us and all of this effort won’t be for nothing. Though there’s no denying that she will know I’ve been here now. At least, I think she will. Who knows. I guess I don’t really know her anymore. She’s a complete mystery to me now.
After spending an hour on the driveway clearing weeks’ worth of snow, I put the shovel back in the shed before doing a quick check of the property and making sure none of the garden hoses had exploded from the sheer pressure of the ice within.
There are a few more icicles around the back, and I quickly knock them off. Then before I can convince myself to break through the side window and cut the power to the old fire risk of a heater, I force myself down the cleared driveway and back into the warmth of my truck.
Content that she won’t break an ankle, I hit the gas and sail back across town, desperately wishing that things could have been different.
5
