Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(11)
“Maybe down the line,” I tell him. “But for now, I’m just looking to make it habitable. Roof, floors, plumbing.”
“Uh huh.” Ryland already has a notepad out, jotting down things as he walks the property. “What about the workshop?” he asks, when we reach the back of the house. “If you tore it down, we could do a guesthouse, or maybe put in a pool?”
“The workshop stays,” I say firmly. It was one of the reasons I bought this house at all. “It’s actually built pretty sturdy. I just need to clean it out, and it’s good to go.”
“Suit yourself.” Ryland grins. He looks back at the house, and I can see him weighing quotes and pricing. “Any timeframe?”
“ASAP.”
“It’ll cost you,” Ryland says apologetically. “Nothing happens fast around here.”
“That’s fine. Whatever you need.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Alright then. I can have some guys out for the roof tomorrow.”
“Sounds good to me.” I shake his hand, and we go over some more details before he heads out. The sound of his truck recedes into the woods, and then silence reigns, all over again.
I head inside, grab a beer from the cooler, then wander out back to take it all in. The silence is still weird to me, after all the constant noise of the city, but I like it. Back in New York, I’d still be in the office now, three screens running as I checked stock prices and market dives. Or maybe I’d be heading out to some fancy restaurant, slipping a fifty to the doorman to stroll into the new hottest club. Now I’ve got nothing but trees, grass, crickets, and the creek.
And I haven’t felt this good in years.
I think of Delilah again. She was thrown to see me again for sure. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so upfront about my reasons for moving here, but I’ve never been the type to play games. I see what I want, and I go for it. And damn, do I want her.
That kiss . . .
It took me by surprise alright, but the instant her sweet mouth was on mine, I knew I never wanted it to end. I’ve never felt heat like that, never known such an overwhelming urge to wrap my arms tight around a woman and never let go. Call it chemistry, call it fate, I don’t need to know the name. It’s the one damn thing I’ve been sure of after a world of confusion and doubt.
I need more.
My phone buzzes, and when I fish it from my pocket, I find a familiar number taunting me on-screen.
Damn it.
My fist clenches around the handset, but I stop myself before I can get too tense. I’ve left all that behind me now. I don’t have to get dragged back anymore.
I hit “decline,” toss the phone aside, and settle back in a lawn chair to finish my beer. I’ve got a to-do list a mile long, but there’s only one thing I need to figure out right now:
How to get the girl.
Five.
Delilah
Sunday mornings are usually for getting over Saturday night, but thanks to Will distracting me, I wasn’t in the mood to hit the town. I turn in early, get a full eight hours, and still wake in time to see . . . is that sunrise filtering through my bedroom drapes?
I leap out of bed, restless. I still can’t shake that unsettled feeling I’ve had ever since Will showed up in town, like a flock of nervous butterflies is whirling in my stomach, so I decide to harness all this energy instead: I pull on some workout shorts, lace up my track shoes, and head out for a morning run.
My feet pound the empty sidewalks. It’s barely six a.m., and Oak Harbor is still asleep, but the air is crisp with a salty ocean tang, and the breeze feels great as I stretch my muscles and lengthen my stride, jogging along the boardwalk and cutting across the silent town square. It feels good to be running again. I was never much for fitness, but I took it up in college to keep the dreaded freshman fifteen at bay. Now, I fit it in around the rest of my schedule, but it’s been months since I’ve had a good long workout like this: pushing myself until my lungs are burning, and I feel the pleasant ache in my limbs. I do three circuits, winding around town and back, before I finally come to a stop, breathing heavily, outside the bakery on Windward Street.
Time for my reward.
Inside, the air smells yeasty and delicious, and the old baker, Franny, is just setting out a tray of fresh, gooey cinnamon rolls. “When I die, someone better be waiting for me at the pearly gates with one of your fresh-baked rolls,” I tell her. “Otherwise I’m coming right back here.”
Franny waves away my praise, but her face still glows. “Why wait? Will one be enough, honey, or do you want another for the road?”
“Don’t tempt me,” I groan, laughing. “And a cup of coffee too, please.”
“Great minds think alike.”
I turn, startled, at the voice. Will is lounging in a chair by the windows, drinking coffee with a newspaper in his lap. “Mornin’,” he drawls, with a smile that would send my heart racing—if it wasn’t already still beating hard in my chest from the run.
“Morning,” I manage to reply. He’s still casual, still scruffy, and damn, he still looks way too good. I see his eyes slip over me, and realize too late that I’m in my ratty jogging shorts and a bright pink sports bra, my hair in a sweaty mess, and not a lick of makeup on my face.
Just because I have no intention of dating the guy, it doesn’t mean I want him seeing me as a complete mess. I try to act like I don’t care I have damp circles under my armpits and ask, “You managed to find the best coffee in town then?”