Love You Later (Harvest Hollow Love Stories #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Loren

“PIVOT!”

Bridger’s voice bounces off the stairwell as we wrestle my mattress up to the third floor. He’s got the top end. I’m at the bottom. And believe me, he protested these positions.

A lot.

He claimed he should be the one shouldering the bulk of the mattress. But when I argued that I’m a strong, independent woman, and he needed to treat me like one, the poor guy finally relented.

Still, his current cheerfulness doesn’t match how badly I’m sweating.

Side note: I’m beginning to regret all my strength and independence.

“You are not Ross Geller,” I gasp as the mattress threatens to slide backward and murder me.

Also? I really need to pee.

“Who’s Ross Geller?” Bridger calls out. Still too cheerful.

“From Friends,” I wheeze. “You know. The TV show?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Hold on.” I set down my end. My arms needed a break anyway. “You’ve never seen Friends?”

Bridger’s crooked smile appears around the mattress. His dark hair is wild and haphazard, collateral damage from helping me move. “Of course I’ve heard of Friends, Lo. I’m a science teacher. Not a caveman.”

“Right. You’re joking,” I mutter. “How did I not immediately pick up on that?”

His gray eyes go into laser mode, no doubt studying me for signs of exhaustion. Studying me for various signs has been his specialty for the past eight months.

Basically, ever since my fiancé dumped me.

“Wanna trade sides now?” he offers.

“No!” I blurt. “I’m still strong!”

See also: still stubborn.

“All right. Just say the word when you’re ready to go again.” He pushes his hair out of his face. “I don’t want to rush you.”

“Nope. We can’t slow down. Sayla and Dex’s flight lands soon, and we still need to finish up here, then get back to the house to set up their welcome home surprise.”

The house.

I can’t bring myself to say their house yet.

You see, my best-friend-slash-former-roommate and her brand-new husband are on their way back from a blissful honeymoon after the most beautiful wedding in history. That’s why I’m taking over Dex’s apartment, and he’s taking over as Sayla’s permanent roommate.

His plan to trade spaces seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now? Not so much.

But the rent at this place was already paid through the summer. So depending on how things go with my dad, I can live here free through July. Emphasis on free. If my dad’s still okay to live on his own in August, Dex’s landlord agreed to let me rent this place on a month-to-month basis.

That’s my whole life in a nutshell these days.

Month to month.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” Bridger says. “They’ll have to get their luggage from baggage claim. And even with Dex at the wheel, the drive takes at least an hour. We’ll be fine. Just breathe and—”

“I’m ready to go again.” I grit my teeth. “Let’s finish this.”

Of course Dex’s apartment is in a building without an elevator. Because why would the universe miss an opportunity to remind me that nothing in my life is easy?

Least of all transitions.

So Bridger pulls and steers, while I shove the mattress forward again. Just small, incremental bursts. That’s how we get through the hard things.

“If I expire right here in the second-floor stairway,” I choke, “tell Sayla I love her. Probably even more than Dex does.”

“Will do.”

I glance up the stairs, and Bridger flashes another grin.

How is he not sweating?

“You were supposed to say don’t die,” I grunt.

“You can’t die,” he says. “I have zero vision for this surprise you’ve got planned over at their house.”

“Roses and candles and champagne aren’t complicated,” I pant. “Even someone with zero romance in their soul could manage.”

“I can be romantic,” he says. “When properly motivated.”

“Well, get motivated,” I squawk, stumbling on the top step. My fingernail catches on the roped cording along the mattress, and I drop my side of the mattress. Again. “Ouch!”

“Was that you dying?”

“I thought I broke a nail.” I suck the tip of my finger, then shake it out. “Anyway, if I were dead, I wouldn’t be able to talk, Mr. AP Physiology teacher.”

Bridger chuckles like he’s not about to keel over. “My offer still stands for you to sit in on a cadaver lab. Anytime.”

“Hard pass,” I huff, picking up my end again. “Teaching Shakespeare’s gory enough.”

By the time we maneuver the mattress around the final corner, I’m in a full-blown flop-sweat. Meanwhile, my moving buddy looks like a guy who spends the whole summer away from school.

Because he does.

Must be nice.

Don’t get me wrong. Bridger Adams is one of Stony Peak High School’s hardest-working teachers. And I know he uses his summers for important stuff. Like scientific research. Curriculum restructuring.

Helping his friends move.

But for someone like me, who teaches summer school just to make ends meet, lugging boxes around is as close as I get to a recharge. Oh, and fumbling a mattress into Dex’s bedroom.

Correction. My bedroom.

“Done!” I drop the mattress extra dramatically. My heart hammers like I just ran a marathon. Also? I still really need to pee.

Unfortunately, after rushing to the bathroom, I realize Dex left no towels in here. So I quickly wash up and head back to the living room, drying my hands on my shorts.

Like a lady.

Unpacked boxes are scattered about the room, but most of my things are here now. I survey the scuffed hardwood floors and the narrow galley kitchen. The big leather couch Dex did leave behind.

He also left his old coffee table and his mismatched lamps. That’s because from now on, he’ll be enjoying the lovely sofa Sayla and I used to share. Plus our coffee table and our matching lamps. I sink onto his couch, and, blessedly, this one is actually more comfortable than the one at the house.

Their house.

Bridger eases himself down next to me, and I let out a small moan of satisfaction. “We did it.”

He reaches for a fist bump. “We did.”

“Honestly? Thanks.”

“Honestly? Welcome.”

He nods toward the bedroom and arranges his face into an encouraging smile, because of course he does. Bill Nye the Science Guy. Most encouraging man on the planet.

“The mattress makes it official,” he says. “You live here now.”

“Temporarily,” I add.

Emphasis on temporarily.

There’s just too much unknown for me to think long-term about anything right now. My dad’s future independence is way up in the air. So are my future finances. We’re already stretched too thin as it is. All I know for sure is the future of my heart. I’ll never risk that again.

Been there, done that.

And this is why—while Sayla and Dex sipped cocktails in Hawaii—I packed up my stuff and vacated the premises. Their premises.

Of course, they’d both told me, repeatedly, that I could live with them for as long as I wanted. There are two bedrooms in the house, after all. But being separated from the newlyweds by only one thin wall didn’t sound like a solid plan. Like I need a reminder of my own failed engagement.

I’d probably cry every time I heard them laughing behind closed doors.

I was supposed to be laughing behind closed doors.

So I begged Bridger to help me move before they came home and tried talking me into staying.

Spoiler alert: he said yes.

He hops up from the couch now and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a water bottle and a brown paper bag. He sets the bag and bottle on the coffee table, then drops his big body down next to me again, this time practically breaking Dex’s couch.

My couch.

“Here. Take. Eat. Drink,” he says.

How come he gets to smell like sandalwood, and I smell like sweat?

“Don’t be a bully,” I say. But my nose detects the scents of sugar and heaven wafting from the bag. So I peek inside and discover half a dozen apple cider donuts from Cataloochee Mountain Coffee.

A grin finds my lips. “When did you do this?”

He ducks his head, playing bashful. I know this move. He pulls it out anytime someone compliments him.

“It’s not exactly roses, candles, and champagne,” he says, his eyes sheepish. “But I knew Dex’s fridge would be empty, so I sneaked this in while you were taking one of your many, many pee breaks.”

“Many, many?” I snort. “Good to know you’re counting.”

“Hard not to notice.”

“Ha!” I squeak. “But you didn’t have to—”

“I know I didn’t.” He cuts me off. Not unkindly. More like arguing with him is futile. “You forget to feed yourself when you’re stressed. And I figured today of all days, you’d be …” He lets his voice trail off.

Guess he doesn’t want to call me out directly.

“You figured I’d be stressed because I’m going to end my days as a broke, lonely spinster?”

His smile is lopsided. “Methinks the English teacher doth resort to hyperbole too much.”

“Maybe.” I snort. “Horrible Shakespeare, by the way.”

“You’re doing great, Lo.”

I open my mouth to protest, then I close it again. This is just Bridger being Bridger. He’s an encourager. A doer. And as much as I hate being coddled, I’ve spent the past few years in the role of caregiver. In other words, I need this little bit of grace more than I need to be stubborn.

“Here.” He slips a donut from the bag and pushes it at me on a napkin.

“I do eat, you know,” I insist. Except for the stretch of time between right now and dinner last night.

“You’re telling me you had breakfast this morning?” He dips his chin until our eyes lock. Circles of darker gray edge his irises. I’ve never noticed them before. “Lunch?” he persists.

That’s a no.

“I split a pepperoni pizza with my dad last night,” I say.

“Yeah, not good enough.” He pins me with a stare, waiting until I take a big bite.

“Ahhhh-maaaaay-zzzzing,” I say around the mouthful of donut. I nod and offer him a thumbs-up. Finally satisfied, he hauls himself up from the couch and collects the toolbox he left in the entryway. I swallow and try to take another bite, but my stomach doesn’t have the heart.

Or something like that.