anger and sadness came and went, but until Tennessee had reached out, nothing had stayed.
The things she was feeling now . . . They had taken root, and they lived with her, growing inside of her, squeezing when she least expected to feel so choked. It floored her every time, leaving her dizzy and weak and forgetful. And she knew this wasn’t a healthy way to live.
Then there was the fact that both of the men she was interested in were here. And, yes. She was interested. No matter what she’d said to Kaylie and Luna about having no time for a relationship. That much was true, but it didn’t keep her from wanting to explore the difference a man might make.
Uh-huh. Wasn’t that what had gotten her into trouble all those years ago? Hadn’t her curiosity about a man, a boy, been the very reason Dakota had ended up behind bars? Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Getting involved with a man, with two men, with three or ten . . . The number wasn’t the issue.
She had no filter when it came to letting things go too far. Except she didn’t believe that. Maybe as a teen, growing up in a home where parenting had not been a priority . . . But even in those days she’d known right from wrong, though it hadn’t exactly done her—or Dakota—any good, had it?
“It looked like you might be having a party for one. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“A pity party for one,” she said, her pulse quickening, hating that anyone had seen her, but more so that it had been Oliver to catch her nursing this mood she was having more and more trouble sloughing off.
He leaned his elbows on the railing beside her, then narrowed his gaze and stared across the street in the same direction she’d been staring. “Are you not happy with the progress on the annex? I saw the heavy equipment—clearing the space for the greenhouses, I guess?”
“I am.” Though she wouldn’t be completely happy until it was done.
“And the cottage?”
“That’s going more slowly, but well enough, too.”
“Did you miss out on a cupcake?”
“No,” she said, and found a smile lightly teasing her mouth. “I’m just not happy about the lack of progress with other things.”
“Anything I can help with?”
She shook her head. “Can you make time move faster?”
He was silent for a long moment, weighing what she’d said. She was struck with the sense that he wanted to fix what she couldn’t, but all he said was, “I don’t mean to pry.”
“I don’t mind. It’s the thing with my brother, Dakota.”
“Right. You were going to hire Kaylie’s investigator.”
“We’re meeting next week.” She shrugged, stared into her drink. “He’s in demand. It’s the holidays. I need to ask Santa to stuff my stocking with patience.”
Oliver was silent for a moment, his margarita glass empty. When Angelo popped out with a tray asking if they’d like another, Indiana shook her head, no longer feeling the need, but Oliver switched his empty for a full.
“I always get oranges in mine,” he said after Angelo was gone.
“Oranges?” she asked, having to backtrack to their conversation. His stocking, yes. Not his margarita.
He laughed, thumbing at the salt on the rim of his glass. The gesture had Indiana swallowing, even when she knew he was unaware of the sensual motion. “Not valley oranges. Or navels or Valencias. Blood oranges. Imported from Italy or Spain.”
“Fancy schmancy,” she said, teasing him. She couldn’t imagine growing up living the life he had.
“Half the time they weren’t even any good. I’d much rather have had a Ruby Red grapefruit, but our parents, our mother really, wanted us to broaden our horizons. Texas fruit wasn’t good enough.”
Strangely, having never met Merrilee Gatlin, Indiana had heard enough rumors that she wasn’t surprised by Oliver’s tale. “Sometimes it’s not,” she said. “I’ve bought plenty of boxes of valley oranges from FFA fund-raisers, only to use most in the garbage
The things she was feeling now . . . They had taken root, and they lived with her, growing inside of her, squeezing when she least expected to feel so choked. It floored her every time, leaving her dizzy and weak and forgetful. And she knew this wasn’t a healthy way to live.
Then there was the fact that both of the men she was interested in were here. And, yes. She was interested. No matter what she’d said to Kaylie and Luna about having no time for a relationship. That much was true, but it didn’t keep her from wanting to explore the difference a man might make.
Uh-huh. Wasn’t that what had gotten her into trouble all those years ago? Hadn’t her curiosity about a man, a boy, been the very reason Dakota had ended up behind bars? Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Getting involved with a man, with two men, with three or ten . . . The number wasn’t the issue.
She had no filter when it came to letting things go too far. Except she didn’t believe that. Maybe as a teen, growing up in a home where parenting had not been a priority . . . But even in those days she’d known right from wrong, though it hadn’t exactly done her—or Dakota—any good, had it?
“It looked like you might be having a party for one. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“A pity party for one,” she said, her pulse quickening, hating that anyone had seen her, but more so that it had been Oliver to catch her nursing this mood she was having more and more trouble sloughing off.
He leaned his elbows on the railing beside her, then narrowed his gaze and stared across the street in the same direction she’d been staring. “Are you not happy with the progress on the annex? I saw the heavy equipment—clearing the space for the greenhouses, I guess?”
“I am.” Though she wouldn’t be completely happy until it was done.
“And the cottage?”
“That’s going more slowly, but well enough, too.”
“Did you miss out on a cupcake?”
“No,” she said, and found a smile lightly teasing her mouth. “I’m just not happy about the lack of progress with other things.”
“Anything I can help with?”
She shook her head. “Can you make time move faster?”
He was silent for a long moment, weighing what she’d said. She was struck with the sense that he wanted to fix what she couldn’t, but all he said was, “I don’t mean to pry.”
“I don’t mind. It’s the thing with my brother, Dakota.”
“Right. You were going to hire Kaylie’s investigator.”
“We’re meeting next week.” She shrugged, stared into her drink. “He’s in demand. It’s the holidays. I need to ask Santa to stuff my stocking with patience.”
Oliver was silent for a moment, his margarita glass empty. When Angelo popped out with a tray asking if they’d like another, Indiana shook her head, no longer feeling the need, but Oliver switched his empty for a full.
“I always get oranges in mine,” he said after Angelo was gone.
“Oranges?” she asked, having to backtrack to their conversation. His stocking, yes. Not his margarita.
He laughed, thumbing at the salt on the rim of his glass. The gesture had Indiana swallowing, even when she knew he was unaware of the sensual motion. “Not valley oranges. Or navels or Valencias. Blood oranges. Imported from Italy or Spain.”
“Fancy schmancy,” she said, teasing him. She couldn’t imagine growing up living the life he had.
“Half the time they weren’t even any good. I’d much rather have had a Ruby Red grapefruit, but our parents, our mother really, wanted us to broaden our horizons. Texas fruit wasn’t good enough.”
Strangely, having never met Merrilee Gatlin, Indiana had heard enough rumors that she wasn’t surprised by Oliver’s tale. “Sometimes it’s not,” she said. “I’ve bought plenty of boxes of valley oranges from FFA fund-raisers, only to use most in the garbage
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