the place is familiar to me.
“Where are we?”
“Jordan’s grandparents’ farm.”
“Oh, I remember! There’s a swimming hole on the property.”
“Yes.”
“What’re you doing out here?”
“I bought it about a year ago, and I work on it whenever I can.”
For some reason, this strikes me as unreasonably sad. I clear the emotion from my throat. “What do you plan to do with it when it’s finished?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Come take a look.”
We get out of the truck, and he waits for me at the front, extending a hand to help me over a log. He doesn’t let go once I’ve safely landed on the other side.
I try not to make too much of this, but I secretly thrill in the excitement of being here with him, of holding his hand, of the connection I found with him in bed, in the shower and sitting next to him at breakfast. Life is a little less lonely with him around, not that I think he’s here to stay or anything.
The two-story house used to be gray, but the paint is faded and chipping. We take sagging stairs onto a rickety porch, where he releases my hand to unlock the front door and gestures for me to go in ahead of him. “Careful,” he says.
I see why when I get my first look at the inside, which has been completely gutted.
“Let me give you a tour,” he says with that small grin. I’m starting to realize that’s as much of a smile as he has anymore. Pointing, he says, “Living room/dining room/kitchen all one big open space with a laundry room and half bath off the kitchen. Let’s go upstairs.” He takes my hand again and leads the way up the stairs. “Master suite to the right, hall bathroom and two bedrooms at the other end.”
We go into the area he’s designated as the master suite. It’s a mess, but I can see the potential. “This is a great space.”
“I think so, too. And the wood floors are original to the house. All the wood will be amazing when it’s refinished.”
“Why don’t you send one of your teams in here to get it done faster?”
“I want to do this one myself, and I’m not in any rush.”
“Do Jordan’s parents know you bought it?”
“Yeah, I asked them if they minded before I did it. They were thrilled. They said it’d be nice to keep it in the family.” He rubs his hand over the exposed wood walls, and I realize this is a labor of love to him.
“That’s nice of them.”
“They’ve always been nicer to me than I deserved.”
“They don’t blame you, Blake. No one does.” Only you , I want to say, but don’t.
He keeps his gaze averted, but I see the tightness in his jaw and face.
“If you ever need help with painting or sanding or anything simple like that… Let me know.”
The tension lifts when he looks at me. “I just might do that. Maybe you could take some before-and-after pictures for me.”
I smile up at him. “I’d love to.”
He looks down at me, his eyes dropping to my lips as he raises a hand to caress my cheek.
I feel that soft touch in every cell of my body.
“You’re so very, very pretty, Honeysuckle.”
I’m inordinately moved by the compliment, and I absolutely love his endless nicknames for me. “Thank you.”
He tilts my chin up and brings his lips down on mine.
I wrap my arms around him and lose myself in the sweet, tender kiss.
Blake backs me up to the exposed wall and presses his lower body against mine as he tilts his head to better the angle of the kiss.
What are we doing? I want to stop everything to ask that question. Why can’t we seem to sate this craving for each other? Where has it come from all of a sudden, or was it always there, simmering below the surface every time we were together over the last few years? Is that the reason I was so easily convinced by Lauren to step way out of character and proposition him in a bar? Have I wanted him all along?
I don’t have any of the answers to these questions. I just know that I like the way it feels to be held and kissed by him. I like being
“Where are we?”
“Jordan’s grandparents’ farm.”
“Oh, I remember! There’s a swimming hole on the property.”
“Yes.”
“What’re you doing out here?”
“I bought it about a year ago, and I work on it whenever I can.”
For some reason, this strikes me as unreasonably sad. I clear the emotion from my throat. “What do you plan to do with it when it’s finished?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Come take a look.”
We get out of the truck, and he waits for me at the front, extending a hand to help me over a log. He doesn’t let go once I’ve safely landed on the other side.
I try not to make too much of this, but I secretly thrill in the excitement of being here with him, of holding his hand, of the connection I found with him in bed, in the shower and sitting next to him at breakfast. Life is a little less lonely with him around, not that I think he’s here to stay or anything.
The two-story house used to be gray, but the paint is faded and chipping. We take sagging stairs onto a rickety porch, where he releases my hand to unlock the front door and gestures for me to go in ahead of him. “Careful,” he says.
I see why when I get my first look at the inside, which has been completely gutted.
“Let me give you a tour,” he says with that small grin. I’m starting to realize that’s as much of a smile as he has anymore. Pointing, he says, “Living room/dining room/kitchen all one big open space with a laundry room and half bath off the kitchen. Let’s go upstairs.” He takes my hand again and leads the way up the stairs. “Master suite to the right, hall bathroom and two bedrooms at the other end.”
We go into the area he’s designated as the master suite. It’s a mess, but I can see the potential. “This is a great space.”
“I think so, too. And the wood floors are original to the house. All the wood will be amazing when it’s refinished.”
“Why don’t you send one of your teams in here to get it done faster?”
“I want to do this one myself, and I’m not in any rush.”
“Do Jordan’s parents know you bought it?”
“Yeah, I asked them if they minded before I did it. They were thrilled. They said it’d be nice to keep it in the family.” He rubs his hand over the exposed wood walls, and I realize this is a labor of love to him.
“That’s nice of them.”
“They’ve always been nicer to me than I deserved.”
“They don’t blame you, Blake. No one does.” Only you , I want to say, but don’t.
He keeps his gaze averted, but I see the tightness in his jaw and face.
“If you ever need help with painting or sanding or anything simple like that… Let me know.”
The tension lifts when he looks at me. “I just might do that. Maybe you could take some before-and-after pictures for me.”
I smile up at him. “I’d love to.”
He looks down at me, his eyes dropping to my lips as he raises a hand to caress my cheek.
I feel that soft touch in every cell of my body.
“You’re so very, very pretty, Honeysuckle.”
I’m inordinately moved by the compliment, and I absolutely love his endless nicknames for me. “Thank you.”
He tilts my chin up and brings his lips down on mine.
I wrap my arms around him and lose myself in the sweet, tender kiss.
Blake backs me up to the exposed wall and presses his lower body against mine as he tilts his head to better the angle of the kiss.
What are we doing? I want to stop everything to ask that question. Why can’t we seem to sate this craving for each other? Where has it come from all of a sudden, or was it always there, simmering below the surface every time we were together over the last few years? Is that the reason I was so easily convinced by Lauren to step way out of character and proposition him in a bar? Have I wanted him all along?
I don’t have any of the answers to these questions. I just know that I like the way it feels to be held and kissed by him. I like being
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