Chapter Sixteen
Everett
Owning a farm means I’m used to rising with the sun, but I wake up even earlier than usual on Sunday. A quick glance at the time tells me I don’t have to get out of bed right away, so I roll over and try to fall back asleep.
But as soon as I close my eyes again, I see her. Appearing at the bottom of the stairs in a black dress that clings to her curves. Sitting across from me at dinner, laughing at something I said. Standing on the bridge, looking scared but curious, giving me permission to kiss her.
Last night, after she texted me, I sat on the porch for a while, questioning my motives. Trying to put my finger on what it is about her that has me so worked up.
It isn’t just her looks. She’s smoking hot, and I feel a strong physical attraction to her, but this feels like more than that. Maybe it’s the unfinished business aspect—I always wondered what might have happened between us if there had been no fire.
My life was so chaotic after that night. Everything was in ruins—my family, our finances, the future. I was terrified of losing the farm, furious with my father, worried about my mother and sister.
And guilty. So fucking guilty.
By the time I picked up my head to look around and take a breath, Mila was gone. It felt too late to reach out—and anyway, at the time, I couldn’t have been much to anyone romantically. I was too busy keeping my head above water.
Then there’s her no-dating rule. I can’t deny I’m a little fired up by the challenge of it, by the thought of being so irresistible she has to break it for me.
Am I the biggest prick on the planet? Is it just a case of wanting what I can’t have?
If my sister had this rule and some dude was pressuring her to break it, wouldn’t I kick his ass for being a disrespectful piece of shit?
The idea makes me uncomfortable.
No more teasing her about it, I decide. No more trying to charm her into messing around with me.
No testing her limits. From now on, I will just be the good friend she needs—for all I know, that’s what I would have been to her these past ten years if the fire had never happened.
Given everything she’s dealing with, what she needs is a safe place where she can learn to put herself first.
What she doesn’t need is some guy trying to put his tongue in her mouth.
Or his hands on her skin.
Or his cock in her—
I throw off the covers and get out of bed. If I stay here thinking about her one minute longer, I’m going to end up with my dick in my hand, working off this tension while fantasizing about her in a way that is not in alignment with my new plan to be her safe place.
Pulling on some sweats, I take Merlin outside.
The morning air is cool and damp, the sun just starting to rise.
I decide I’ll run into town and grab some donuts for my Sunday crew.
The orchard, barn, and store will be busy all day, and the staff always appreciates it when I bring breakfast in.
The gesture will make me feel like a good man—the kind of man who keeps his hands in his pockets and his tongue in his mouth.
Unless she changes her mind.
Then I’ll put my tongue anywhere she wants it.
When I drive past my mom’s house, I see lights on in the kitchen, so I park the truck and knock on her back door. She pulls it open, her expression surprised. “You’re up early.”
“I’m running into town to get some donuts for everyone. Want to come along?”
“Sure. Let me get my sweater.”
I frown as I watch her hobble over to a kitchen chair and grab a cardigan hanging from the back of it. “How’s the pain this morning?”
“Oh, you know.” She slips her arms into the sleeves. “It’s those steps. I wish we had a first-floor bedroom. My friend Theresa just moved into that new condo complex on the river. She said it’s so nice having everything on one floor.”
“Do you want me to have someone give us an estimate on adding a first-floor bedroom onto the house?” Not that I know where the money would come from, but I’d find it somehow.
“No, no. We can’t afford that. I’ll make do.”
Outside, I help her into the truck. She greets Merlin, who’s in the back seat, his tail wagging with excitement about the early-morning errand. The minute I start the engine, his head is out the window.
As I back out of her driveway, my mother sniffs. “What’s that smell?”
“Dog?”
“No. It’s floral. Orange blossom, maybe.” She looks at me askance, with a mother’s suspicious eye. “Either you’re wearing some nice perfume or there was a woman in here recently.”
I wait until I’ve turned onto the highway before answering. “I took a friend out for dinner last night.”
“Mila Ferguson?”
“Is the gossip flying that fast these days? I just dropped her off like eight hours ago.”
“I didn’t hear it from anybody. It was just a guess.”
“Heck of a guess.”
“Not really.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means there was something about the way you were talking about her yesterday morning.”
I snort. “For all of two minutes?”
“It wasn’t the length of time you talked about her. It was the way. There was definitely a way.”
My laugh sounds unconvincing, even to me. “That’s ridiculous. And don’t get all worked up about it. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“I’m not worked up about it.” She observes me shrewdly from the passenger seat. “You seem a little worked up about it, though.”
“I’m not.” I keep my eyes focused on the road. Clear my throat. Without even looking at her, I sense her smile.
“Did you have a good time with her?”
“Yes.”
“Will you see her again?”
“No.” I frown. “I mean, yes, I’ll see her at three this afternoon because I’m helping her install a grab bar in the bathroom for her mom, but that’s it. We’re not going out again.”
“Okay,” she says, but what I hear is I don’t believe you one bit.
“I’m serious. She’s not dating right now.”
“Why not?”
“She just got divorced from a husband who cheated on her, and she feels like she needs some time on her own.”
My mother sighs. “I suppose you have to respect that. But it would have been cute. It was so obvious she had a big crush on you when you were kids.”
“That’s ancient history, Mom.” Even if it didn’t feel all that ancient last night.
“Well, you know what they say about history repeating itself.”
“She doesn’t want to repeat history. She just wants to help her mom and get back home to New York.”
“If you say so, dear.”
I set my jaw, trying not to recall the sweet taste of vanilla and bourbon on her lips. “I do.”
A few minutes before three, I knock on the Fergusons’ front door.
Mila answers it in her bare feet, wearing jeans and an NYU T-shirt with a hole in one shoulder.
Her hair is in a sloppy ponytail, strands straggling around her face.
She isn’t wearing makeup, which makes her freckles stand out even more.
My heartbeat skids to a halt. I could get used to that face.
“Hi.” She gives me a tight-lipped smile.
My protective hackles shoot up. “Hi. You okay?”
“It’s been a day.”
“Is that Everett?” Behind Mila, her mother appears.
“Hi, Eliza. How are you?”
“Wonderful. I’m so glad you’re here. Goodness, Mila, invite him in already. Where are your manners?”
As I enter the house, I try to catch Mila’s eye to let her know I’m in her corner, but her gaze is locked on the floor.
It’s more of the same over the next hour.
While I install the grab bar in the shower, Mila sits in the bathroom doorway to keep me company.
Her mother finds plenty of reasons to hover, and somehow, no matter what she asks me or what the topic of conversation is, she finds a way to take a shot at Mila.
The only time she says something nice is when she reminisces about her daughter’s dance training.
“She was so good, Everett. Just incredible. I named her for Mila Petrova, one of my ballet idols. I knew she would be gifted. Did you ever see her dance?”
“No,” I say, snapping the cover plates into place.
“She had everything—technique, athleticism, musicality. The most beautiful lines I’ve ever seen. And her feet were exquisite.”
“That’s enough, Mom.” Mila curls her hands over her bare toes.
“She won scholarships three years in a row at the YAGP! I should find some old videos so you can see how talented she was.”
“She’s still talented.” I slip my drill back into the case. “I’ve seen her artwork.”
“But dance is different,” Eliza argues. “Dance is the actual physical embodiment of the art form, not just a representation of it. It’s artistry at a deeper level. Martha Graham called it the hidden language of the soul.”
I have no idea how to argue with that. I can talk all day about long-range weather forecasts, irrigation lines, and the market price of Montmorency cherries, but the merits of one art form over another are beyond my scope of knowledge.
And what the fuck is a hidden language? How is that even useful?
“I’m sure she was great,” I say, disliking the way Mila seems to be shrinking into herself on the floor.
Eliza sniffs and folds her arms over her chest. “She should have gotten into Juilliard. Such a disappointment.”
Mila’s head snaps up. “Mom, it’s been ten years. When will you get over it?”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be over it, Mila.” Eliza throws her hands in the air repeatedly. “All that training. All that time and focus. All the expectations. For nothing!”
“It wasn’t for nothing.” Mila’s voice finally has some punch to it. “I learned a lot from dance that I still use every day—discipline, dedication, resilience. Finding beauty in different forms. Making someone feel something with artistic expression.”
My chest fills with pride. I nearly start applauding.
Standing over her daughter, Eliza purses her lips. “For God’s sake, I was giving you a compliment, Mila. But I guess I can’t do anything right.”
Mila’s head drops again.
Eliza looks at me, her gaze cool. “What do I owe you for the work, Everett?”
“Nothing.” I hold up my hands. “Consider it a favor.”