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She lifted her chin and gestured at the house. “Seems I have my work cut out for me here.”
He glided his attention over her dirt-stained sweater. “Seems you’ve made a solid start.”
More heat rushed to her face, and she questioned the presence of a barely noticeable smirktugging the corners of his mouth. That smirk softened the hard planes of his face, and that softness, the subtle yet somehow unescapable welcome, clenched a tight fist around her heart, hinting that maybe a mutual spark still existed.
Her treacherous lips wobbled, but she clamped her teeth over her lower lip, holding back the rebellious glint of joy. Given the moment’s uncertainty, given the past, given the show she’d made of denying they had one, joy had no place here.
As if he’d heard her thoughts on joy, Blaine’s gaze trekked down to her right hand; a frown taking over before his stare slammed into hers.
Sharp iciness grew throughout her body, and she was quick to tug her sleeve over her hand. Not quick enough. He’d seen the scrapes on her knuckles, knuckles already blue with bruises. Her hands still ached every time she clenched her fingers.
At least Blaine didn’t question those bruises out loud, though she would need to find a way to keep him at a distance. Maybe she’d call Frank later and ask if he could warn her next time Blaine would be over. She’d find a way to stay out of the cottage, and then she wouldn’t have to see him. Or maybe there was someone else in town who could take over the job…
Frank stepped toward her, a set of keys hanging from his fingers. “These belong to you now.”
He dropped the keys into her palm, and she frowned down at the silver, jagged edges. A symbol of her new home, even though she didn’t even have a bed yet.
“Thanks.” She lifted her gaze and scanned the room. No table. Or chairs. Or even a couch in her dusty living room. “Could you recommend a furniture shop around here?”
“Oh ya, that’s easy.” Frank gave a choked and bumpy kind of laugh before reaching out and giving Blaine a solid but friendly clap on the back. “He’s not just the best carpenter in Harlow, but his shop is also the only place to get any furniture around these parts.”
Blaine’s pickup rocked as he made his way down the long and uneven dirt road. His heart pounded, and his attention darted all over the place. Had he really just seen Emilia Bonacci? In Harlow? Had he really been roped into working on her house?
Holy shit!
Of all the screwed up, messed up, fucked up things life could throw at him, this was the cruelest of all.
Just like everyone else in these parts, he whizzed past a speed limit sign, though perhaps with added vigor today. His foot pressed extra heavy to the gas, and his fingers squeezed around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Maybe she’d come to town to find him? No. That wasn’t right. Not with the frenzied way she’d run from the kitchen the second she’d spotted him. Wide-eyed panic wasn’t the reaction of a woman looking to reconnect.
The muscles in his chest pulled, and he struggled for his next breath. At one point in his life, this exact scenario would have been all his wildest dreams come true. But he wasn’t a nineteen-year-old kid anymore, and he knew enough to understand Emilia Bonacci was nothing but bad news.
Her father owned a lucrative jewelry empire, and she was the princess he kept locked in the highest tower of his self-made castle. Untouchable. Priceless. A possession. Not that Blaine personally saw her as a possession. She’d been sweet and fun, and everything he thought he wanted.
Shut up. Just shut up. Don’t even think about any of the good stuff.
No. He wouldn’t hurt himself with the nicer memories. Not anymore. Not again. Better to focus on how she didn’t belong in a small town like Harlow, so why was she here? Why a dingy old cottage on the outskirts of town?
He dragged a hand over the rough stubble on his cheek, the muscles on his forehead strained and hinting at the start of a headache. He’d been exiled from LA, and those closest to her were to blame. They’d reduced him to seeing his family just a couple of times a year. And even then, only when his family could come down to see him.
He had reasons on top of reasons to stay away from Emilia. Maybe Frank would understand if he stepped back from working on her house…
The speed gauge caught his eye, and he eased his foot off the gas. As unnerving as her reappearance had been, he couldn’t deny the fear in her eyes. Though his better judgment told him not to care, he did. Damn it.
The people of Harlow had looked after him when his own family couldn’t. This community was his family. And since trouble liked to follow Miss Bonacci, he wanted to make sure everyone in this town stayed safe.
It’s not just that. I want to know she’s safe too.
Damn it, again. He’d changed. He’d built a decent life away from her circus. Besides, her father had been right all along. Blaine and Emilia were a bad fit. He was nothing more than an average nobody, somehow lucky enough to have been important to her for a brief moment in time. Well, lucky and then unlucky…
He guided his truck down the quiet main street, its aging buildings still shining with original beauty. He parked before his shop, “Oak Tree Furniture,” its classic concrete flourishes accenting the giant polished windows, the evidence of his years of hard work on display. Handcrafted dining tables, ornate cherry wood cabinets, bookshelves he’d designed and made with his own two hands—a testament to what he’d done with his life in the years he hadn’t been with Emilia.
And still, in all those years, he’d been haunted by the memory of her dark curls encircling his fingers as he played with them, the song in her laugh, and the glint in her deep brown eyes. Though the shadows under her eyes today made him think she probably didn’t laugh all that often anymore, and maybe that wasn’t entirely her fault.
He leaned back in his seat and pressed his palms to his eyes, groaning at the vision of her in that kitchen. The wild, chaotic curls. Her dirt-stained sweater. Her crossed arms and the slight blush to her cheeks. She hadn’t been comfortable in her disheveled state, and still, she was the most beautiful mess he’d ever seen.
