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“You said the vodka made you hit Wheeler.” His words are minced, choppy. The air between us grows tense, and I know he is waiting for my answer.
“I lied.”
The admission sucks the air out of the cab of the truck. Silence stretches as Carter drives down the main road into Birch. He passes the turnoff that leads out of town toward Deacon’s club, and I don’t have the courage to tell him. When he drives past the road my parents live on, even though he’d been to their house when we were kids, I know he isn’t taking me home.
When I try to swallow, my throat feels like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. I can’t seem to concentrate, let alone think.
Carter pulls onto a dirt road, and my heart starts to race. We pass through an old iron gate, one I am achingly familiar with.
When he drives right up to the house, the question on my lips is stronger than the tension between us. “You bought the old Johnson farm?”
Right on the edge of Birch, the Johnson family had run a farm for over two hundred years. They were one of the founding families in the county, probably the entire state of Maine. The yellow farmhouse is one of my favorite places in the entire world.
In the summer, thousands of yellow Bellwort flowers bloom in the field, a sea of my favorite color. Even as a little girl, I’d been drawn to it. So much so that the last Mr. Johnson had let me play in those fields every single day. When he got sick after his son died, he even offered to let me buy it, but there was no way I could afford even the taxes on the property with my salary. I heard someone had bought it, but no one ever moved in. At least, not that I knew of. I had even asked around, too.
“Yeah. After LJ died, he got sick. I reached out, and he sold it to me. Said he wanted to keep it in the family, but there was no one else after LJ, and he’d rather see it go to me than the bank.”
“I wanted to buy it,” I admit as I open the truck door.
“I know.” Carter laughs. “Mr. Johnson told me about how ‘Little Avery James was so heartbroken she couldn’t get it’ that he made me promise to let you sit in the flowers if you asked. I tried to tell him grown women didn’t sit in flower fields, but he made me promise.”
I scoff silently. Carter obviously doesn’t know shit about women, and I sure as hell will be in that field. Every single day once the flowers bloom in the spring.
While he stands in the front yard, I leave him there. Yeah, I am going into his house. I can’t help it. I love that farmhouse with every fiber of my being. I don’t even bother waiting for Carter to open the front door. I twist the copper handle and relish the way it creaks loudly as I walk in like I own the place. I mean, I tried to get Carter to take me home. He is the one who chose to kidnap me and bring me to his farm on the edge of town.
Carter follows me in, a few feet behind. “I need to have that fixed.” He turns on the entryway light, even though I’d been perfectly happy to stand in the darkness.
“Don’t do it.” Dim yellow lighting reflects off every surface and illuminates the shadows on his face as he waits for me to go on. “Leave it. It’s part of the charm.”
We stand there, staring at each other, for an eternity. Even though only a few seconds pass, it feels like forever.
His hair, slightly disheveled, falls down on his forehead as he watches me with shadowed eyes. The little bit of stubble on his cheeks, the side effect of not shaving that morning, makes my mouth water. Swallowing almost reflexively, my core clenches when Carter’s eyes dart down to my chest and then back up again before he coughs.
“I’m hungry,” he says suddenly, tearing his eyes away from mine. “I haven’t had anything to eat all day.”
Before I can stop myself, I turn in the direction of the kitchen. “Come on, loser. I’ll make breakfast.”
He doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t stop me, either. Instead, he follows me into the renovated kitchen and steps around me while I marvel at the brand-new appliances. There is enough counter space that I could live on them and still be able to bake a cake.
“You know it’s almost midnight, right?” He sits at the center island where he has four barstools situated under the ledge.
Ignoring him, I move to the state-of-the-art fridge and open the door. “It’s never too late for breakfast.” With a carton of eggs in one hand and a stick of butter in the other, I shut it with my hip and smile. “Besides, everyone loves French toast.”
Carter sits at the bar while I dig around in his cupboards for what I want. Not once does he make a comment or make me feel stupid for puttering around his kitchen in the middle of the night. Rather, he watches me with something that looks a lot like gratitude.
“Nice kitchen,” I tell him once the first pieces of bread are soaked in egg, cinnamon, and vanilla, ready to go into the skillet currently heating up.
“It’s really the only thing I’ve done so far,” Carter admits. “My dad said to fix one room at a time. That way I always have somewhere to live and can make it mine at my own pace.”
When I’m done cooking, Carter is right there, handing me a bottle of syrup and powdered sugar.
“Go,” he orders. “Eat. I’ll wash this up really quick.”
He motions to the counters and the pan, which I left to clean after. Not one to question a gift horse in the mouth, I do. Though first, I make sure his plate is ready, too, and put a plate over the top of it to keep his food hot.
Less than three minutes later, he is sitting next to me and digging in. Yeah, I timed him with the clock on the stove. I can’t help chuckling at the look of relief on his face while he inspects his kitchen.
“You’re a neat freak, aren’t you?” I shove a piece of food in my mouth and chew.
