Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
AVERY
T he headlights penetrated the growing dark, illuminating a neatly adorable craftsman cottage painted a light green, trimmed in darker green, with two pumpkins on the front stoop. West parked in front of the matching single-car garage.
“This is your place?” I asked.
“Yeah. Why? You look surprised.”
“It’s so pretty,” I said.
He laughed. “Did you think I’d live in a log cabin or something?”
“Yeah, I guess I did,” I said, trying to figure out what I’d pictured for West. “I don’t know. Something manly, with a stuffed bear on the porch.”
He laughed again. West wasn’t overly serious, but he wasn’t a big laugher either. The sound of it, rich and full and true, did something to my insides. I loved making this man laugh.
“Nah, log cabins are drafty, and when they really start settling, they’re a pain in the ass to keep up. This beauty was built eighty years ago, and it’s rock solid. It needed some new appliances, a few coats of paint, floors refinished, and a little work in the bathrooms. Now it’s good as new.”
“How long have you lived here?” I asked, opening my door before he could round the SUV to do it for me. I ignored his slight scowl and followed him to the front porch.
“I bought it six years ago, not long after I got the job as chief.” West unlocked the door and swung it open.
“I was renting, had been saving up, and I decided it was time to find my own place. I wanted a little space from town. It was a little too easy for people to ring my doorbell when I was in the apartment above the pizza place, you know?”
“I can imagine,” I said. The lights were already on inside, and the smells—fresh baked bread, lemon, basil—had my mouth watering. “Did you cook?”
“Yeah, Finn gave me the recipe,” he said with a shrug, a hint of pink hitting his cheeks.
“You can leave your jacket and your purse over there.” He lifted his chin in the direction of an antique bench with a tall back that had coat hooks running along the top.
I hung my jacket, my purse, and sat to take off the boots I was wearing.
“This is perfect.” It looked like an antique.
“My mom did some of the decorating. I didn’t have the heart to stop her.”
I looked around. “Your mom has great taste, and she didn’t make it fussy.
” I didn’t know Mrs. Garfield well, but I’d seen her ruffled blouses and pearls.
None of that was evident here. It wasn’t overly masculine.
No antlers or buffalo plaid. I couldn’t see West searching through antique stores in his free time to pick out the bench where I’d taken off my boots or the hickory coffee table, the black iron lamps in the living room, or the rustic kitchen table, which looked both well-loved and fit the space perfectly.
It was clear she both knew her son and had excellent taste.
The kitchen was bigger than I expected, the cabinets creamy white with black iron handles, the countertops granite, the center island topped with butcher block, the cutting board there spread with freshly washed basil and sliced lemons.
On the gas stove, a stainless-steel pot held water, and a package of pasta on the counter beside it.
“Did Finn give you the recipe for my favorite dinner?” I asked, the familiar ingredients making my mouth water.
“Kind of,” West said, going to the refrigerator to get out a container of ricotta cheese.
“He said your very favorite dinner was steak with asparagus and hollandaise, but I got to the butcher too late. They didn’t have anything that looked good.
Finn said this lemon ricotta pasta was your second favorite. ”
My heart squeezed at the sweetness of it—that he hadn’t just picked up pizza or wings, which I would have been perfectly happy with, but had taken the time to ask my brother what I’d want for dinner. “Finn give you a hard time?” Knowing Finn, I had to ask.
West shook his head, leaning into the fridge. He pulled out a beer and held it up. One of mine, my favorite IPA.
I took it. “Good taste. ”
“My favorite,” he said. “And, you know, it’s Finn, so of course he gave me shit.”
“I think he’s constitutionally incapable of not giving shit if he has the opportunity,” I said after a long pull on my beer. “At least since Savannah and Nicky, he’s graduated from surly to just occasionally obnoxious.”
“Yeah, talk about a good influence,” West said, turning up the heat on the pot of water. “You know, Savannah wouldn’t put up with surly for long. She’d smack him upside the head.”
I laughed. I had no doubt that was true.
Savannah didn’t take shit from anybody. When she’d hooked up with Finn, who was brimming with attitude on a good day, I’d figured one of them would end up dead.
How wrong I’d been. They’d fallen head over heels in love, and all of Finn’s surliness had melted away, leaving him with a sharp tongue and a wicked sense of humor, but more often smiling than snarling.
I took another long pull of the crisp, hoppy IPA and smiled. “Goddamn, that’s a good beer,” I said.
“You should know,” West said, slicing a shallot almost as well as Finn did. He wasn’t messing around. He actually knew how to cook. Sexy. And helpful since I could brew a hell of a beer, but I wasn’t much good in the kitchen otherwise.
“That’s what I love about being a brewer,” I said. “I love beer. I love stouts and porters. I love a pilsner, but my favorite is a crisp, citrusy IPA. And I get to make all of them exactly the way I like them.”
“Lucky for you, a lot of people share your taste.”
“True,” I agreed, “lucky for me. ”
“How’s the new recipe coming along?” he asked, drizzling olive oil in a pan.
I let out a breath and shook my head. “I don’t know. I think it’s close.” I paused, watching as he added garlic and a handful of spinach. My stomach rumbled again, and my mouth watered, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the delicious smells in the kitchen or from watching West.
There was something about his strong, capable hands slicing the basil into thin strips, the bright scent of it filling the room that was so fucking sexy.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d watched a man cook.
Finn didn’t count. This was a whole different bag than watching my brother in the kitchen.
I shifted on my tired feet and took another long sip from my beer, telling my hormones to chill the fuck out.
Food first. I was going to be civilized about this, right?
“It was hard,” I said. “Watching everyone fall in love with the fall brew that night at the Orchard. They loved it.”
“They were crazy for it,” he agreed. “Did you have any left at the end of the night?”
I shook my head. “Nah, Dave told me they sold out of all of it. People were asking if they could come by the brewery and pick up a six-pack or a growler, but they drank it all. I held back a few bottles to sample as I work on the recipe, but that’s it.”
“I can see where that would burn a little,” he said. “I mean, great to know you made something everyone loves that much, but?—”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It was amazing how much everyone loved it, but I not only didn’t have any more, I also don’t know how to make it.”
“Sure you do,” he said. “You made it in the first place, right?”
I took another sip of beer, the familiar flavor bursting over my tongue. “Yeah,” I said, sounding less than confident. “Yeah,” I said again, this time meaning it. “I did. Fuck, I hate how I let him get in my head. You know, they were my recipes.”
“Why’d you hire him anyway?” West asked, looking back at me.
I sighed. “There’s a big gap between brewing beer on a small scale and being able to brew it on a commercial scale.
I knew how to brew beer, knew what I liked, knew it tasted good, made enough friends in the business to talk recipes, and experiment with ingredients, but I didn’t know the ins and outs of running a commercial brewery.
I needed someone to teach me. He was qualified. He just...” I shook my head.
West finished my thought. “He wanted to be more than just the brewmaster.”
“Yep. He saw me as a way to get his own place. But I don’t want to give up Sawyers Bend Brewing. I don’t want to sell out, and I don’t want to put somebody else in charge. I love what I do, even when it’s long days and my feet hurt. Even when things go wrong.”
“Yeah,” West said. “I know what you mean. This time of year, I wonder, what the hell am I thinking? Police chief of a small town in Western North Carolina seems like an easy gig, except this time of year, when it’s anything but.
” He shrugged, rolling his shoulders back, and lifted his chin.
“It’s not like I’m dealing with heavy drug trade or a ton of violent crime, but we’ve got a lot of people coming into town.
They think it’s like a fairyland. The mountains and rivers are pretty.
They’re used to things being safe and packaged, you know?
Half the time, the trouble is just tourists drinking a little too much, getting into a fight like the other night, or car accidents, petty larceny, stuff like that.
But then we get people who go hiking or tubing, don’t know what they’re getting into. Those aren’t my favorite.”
“Yeah, I bet,” I agreed.
“And the waterfalls,” he said, shaking his head.
He didn’t need to go into detail. I knew exactly what he meant.
Western North Carolina is chock-full of gorgeous waterfalls—big ones and little ones, all beautiful, most accessible by easily marked hiking trails, and every single one deadly.
These days, tourists want to get a selfie at the top of the falls and think, I’ll just climb over this rail that says, “Do not pass. Slippery terrain .” They climb over, take a step too far, lift their phone to get a great pic, and boom—right over the edge.
Sometimes they could be rescued, but at the bottom of waterfalls, you’ve got churning water and sharp rocks, neither of which gently receives a falling body.
We tried to educate visitors, but people having fun don’t always like to listen.
I knew West had accompanied a body bag out of the rivers more than once every tourist season. Every time, it was heartbreaking.
“Your job is definitely rougher than mine,” I said.
“When it gets bad, yeah,” he said. “Fortunately, most days it’s not. You want to slice the bread? ”
“Sure, where is it?” I asked, looking around the kitchen. I could smell it, but I didn’t see it.
“In the oven.”
I grabbed potholders and pulled out the crispy loaf. “Did you stop by Sweetheart Bakery?” I asked.
“I did,” he said.
“Really?” I wondered if there was anything in the fridge for dessert.
My brother Royal’s girlfriend Daisy ran the bakery with her grandmother, and those two were geniuses when it came to anything bread or pastry related.
My stomach rumbled again, a loud, angry growl.
I looked over my shoulder at West. “Sorry, I missed lunch.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “It’s just making me want to feed you more.”
I set the bread on the cutting board. Before I could reach for the knife, his arm snaked around my waist and pulled me back.
“Just an appetizer,” he murmured, his lips against my ear.
Then I was turning, my face lifting, my arms sliding around his shoulders as if we’d done this a million times.
His lips didn’t touch mine. They skimmed the side of my jaw, dipping down to my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
I strained towards him, the kiss in the hospital flooding my brain.
West. I wanted West. I turned my head, catching his mouth as he straightened.
He tasted just like I remembered, his lips soft but firm.
My empty stomach was forgotten. I arched into him, sinking my fingers into his hair, my body flooding with heat.
This is what I’d wanted ever since he’d kissed me the first time.
My mouth followed his as he stepped back.