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Seems like a waste of time to me, but I’m no decorator.
If it wasn’t for Tobin’s input, I’m not sure I’d have thought to ask the furnishing people about fixing a spot for Mom’s memorial.
“Say, do you have any saddle soap? Anything oil-based?” she asks.
I blink. “Uh, no clue. You’ll have to ask Tobin. He’s on top of the cleaning supplies. Why?”
She points at her save pile. “I found some old leather tack I’d like to clean up and some small wooden barrels.”
Shit, does she ever switch off?
I’m impressed her white coat is still white at all after the hours we’ve spent digging through more dusty crates than I can count.
“Want me to carry them inside for you?” I ask, mock-flexing. “I’m good for one thing.”
“We’ll leave them here for now, Hercules.” She smiles, pointing to two boxes. “Those are the things I’ll take back to the cabin and wash tonight.”
I pick one up. It’s full of old canning jars, earthen crocks, a big wooden spoon, and other odds and ends that look like they belonged to an old-timey kitchen once.
“I’ll grab the other.” She’s already picking up the box. “I’ve got it.”
There’s an old washboard sticking out of the top of her box. She has to hold her chin up to see over the top of it. “I’ll follow you.”
I lead the way to the door, open it, and stand aside as she walks out to the freshly plowed property. I follow and shut the door.
We take the boxes to the guesthouse, and the entire time I’m following, my eyes won’t leave her. What can I say?
She’s trim, fit, and as cute in the back as she is in the front.
It’s not just the fact that I’ve been cooped up all winter.
It’s her, every soft inch of Grace Sellers that makes her a dose of sexy blonde medicine.
That was on my mind the entire time we’d been digging through the boxes. How attractive she is, and how I could use that to my benefit right now.
I’d received several texts from Bebe Silk since Tobin mentioned her, my never ending pain in the ass.
I haven’t heard from her since leaving California, which makes me wonder what’s changed to send her after me.
A pretend ‘girlfriend’ would give me the excuse I need for Bebe to buzz off. I know how maddeningly persistent this woman is, and if I don’t give her a reason soon, she’ll show up at my door.
Getting rid of her again will be as hard as the first time—she’s like a wood tick that sinks in and doesn’t let go as long as there’s still blood.
“You can just leave that box out here, please,” Grace says, nodding to the floor of the porch next to the cabin door. “I’ll carry it in when I’m ready to wash the stuff.”
I set the box down, opening the cabin door for her. “I’m sure Tobin has dinner almost ready. Bring your dad, assuming he’s feeling up to it.”
“All right. I’ll wash up and then we’ll be over,” she says, glancing toward the couch where the old man slouches half asleep.
I close the door without saying another word and walk to the house with an odd weight in my gut.
Almost like I didn’t want to leave her.
I’m not a man who brings in strays for good karma, especially strangers, yet that glimmer of sadness, of hopelessness in her soft blue eyes pulls me down like an anchor.
Tobin has supper ready like I knew he would, a steaming pot of beef stew with red wine, garlic, and plenty of rosemary. We’ve got greens, bread, and homemade mashed potatoes to go with it.
I figured it’d be a stew day after the big storm.
There are times when the man’s predictability feels like a godsend.
Grace and Nelson arrive a few minutes after I do, and as we eat, I can’t help wondering more about their past. I save the hard questions—especially when the old man looks like he needs every bite he can get—and ask them about life on the farm instead, their favorite places in Milwaukee, all the little things that make Wisconsin worth a trip.
When the meal is over, I head into my office and fire up the computer, where I find a defunct website and social media for Sellers’ Pumpkins. I’m still scrolling through old posts when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I say, expecting it to be Tobin but wanting it to be Grace.
It’s neither.
Nelson sticks his head around the edge of the door. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” I minimize the page on my screen, waving a hand for him to sit down in one of the chairs.
I hope like hell he hadn’t seen me peeping at his old business.
He’s stooped forward again, as if it hurts to breathe while walking, and gradually makes his way across the room. I resist the urge to jump up and help him.
