Accidental Knight: A Marriage Mistake Romance(63)

Yep, it’s her. Mom.

So much for the eerie quiet being the only worry.

I walk away without even looking at the messages. I make it as far as the living room before I stop and look around.

Nothing needs to be cleaned, vacuumed, or washed. Because I’ve scrubbed this place up and down for the past week, right before I’d gone stir-crazy putting that beautiful kitchen to good use.

Now we’ve got double fudge cookies in the cookie jar, a carrot cake in the fridge, and two loaves of apple cinnamon bread that I’d baked yesterday in the bread box. All from scratch. Old recipes I’d found in an old dog-eared cookbook and decided to try.

I’d surprised myself with how well everything turned out. I haven’t had time to bake like this for several years, not since I helped Gramps make pumpkin cakes and rum balls during my last visit.

Drake finally commented on the bread last night, saying it tasted 'damn good.' He’d eaten more of it for breakfast, but if I’d been hoping it would break whatever brought on his cold spell, it hadn’t.

Of course it hasn’t. A loaf of homemade bread doesn’t have anything to do with pretending to be someone’s boyfriend.

Or husband.

I have more pressing things to think about, though.

Like the never-ending phone calls from my mother. I’ve answered a few, and they never last more than a minute, but for the most part, I haven’t even listened to the voicemails she’s left.

My phone rings again.

Crossing the living room, I step into the foyer in the office.

God, this sucks.

Living here alone, which is exactly how it feels with the way Drake avoids me like a leper. I have so many wonderful memories of this ranch. Nothing close to them has happened since the diner.

It’s made me miss Gramps even more, realizing how dead and cold this place can be without him.

I’ve read through all the information Roger gave me about North Earhart Oil, too, and have called him. Maybe I’m secretly disappointed there are no fires to put out.

The exhaustive company reports prove how well-run the ship is, and Roger’s weekly update was a whole lot of nothing, which means even less to do.

Is that what Gramps wanted? For me to have endless time on my hands?

That seems so senseless and has me half wondering if I should sell out. Move on.

It’ll just be wondering, though, because I know I can’t do that.

I can’t give up on his wishes or the hopes of this town, forever shackled to North Earhart.

But I can’t live like this. I don’t know what to do.

I’d tried apologizing, but Drake stopped me every time and cut it short.

I plop into Gramps’ old desk chair and pull open the bottom drawer. Just as I’ve done a hundred times over, I lift out the red folder with the marriage paperwork and wills.

I know Drake talked to the sheriff a couple days ago, but there hasn’t been anything new about those thugs. He’s left me notes saying it.

He’s left me other notes, too. Communications that say something, but also nothing at all.

Thanking me for the sandwich I’d left in the barn for him at lunch time, or the supper plate I’d left in the microwave.

Thanking me for 'making the old house smell like heaven' – his words – or telling me I looked like a 'badass' when I picked up a new pair of boots from The Crazy Shack. The shopping trip in town perked me up just a little, and so did his note, but it would’ve been a thousand times better hearing it.

Leaning back in the chair, I watch him through the window, carrying a ladder to the backside of the machine shed. Good grief.

Doesn’t he ever slow down? He’s been on top of every single building this past week. In the twenty plus years that I can remember coming here, I never remember Gramps going up on the roofs, or hiring someone to.

My heart somersaults as I watch him move, drawing my traitorous glances.

Even when he’s pissing me off, he’s a freaking magnet of hotness.

Back straight, chin up, stride long. Whatever else he is, Drake Larkin is a huge wall of muscle, carrying a ladder that’s three times his height like it’s nothing. His sleeves are rolled up today, giving me flashes of eloquent darkness branded on his flesh.

His tattoos aren’t like the Dragon man. They draw the eye without demanding attention. Fierce, but not scary.

Not meant to eclipse their big, mysterious, blue-eyed owner.

I’m not sure anything in the world could pull that off.

Heat swirls in my belly, remembering how hard his grip could be, first when he saved me from the prowlers, and then from Mom.

Then how his chest felt like a fortress, how soft he’d started in when he kissed, and how hard his tongue took mine before it was over.

Oh my gawd.

I’d never been kissed the way he’d kissed me that day.

Honestly, I’ve never been kissed like much of anything – but the difference between a boy and a man couldn’t be clearer. The few men I’d dated back in Burbank who’d offered quick pecks goodnight couldn’t win a kissing contest with Drake Larkin to save their lives.

Frankly, neither could I.

Sure, I know he’d been playing along with everything I started, but the air catches in my lungs at the thought of how alive his kiss made me feel. Drake gave me fire and wonder and something worth the memory.