Chapter 15 Autumn #2
Behind the counter stood a woman with a crown of silver hair tucked into a clip. She smiled easily, wrapping up orders and chatting with customers.
She looked up and beamed. “Well, if it isn’t Dominic Powell. Four days in a row? That might be a record.”
Then her gaze slid to me, and her smile softened with recognition. “Ah, so this must be the young lady who needed the TLC.”
I shot Dom a look. He offered an innocent shrug, all too pleased with himself.
“The soup was lovely, Mrs. Sutton,” I said. “I’m Autumn. A friend of Dom’s.”
I glanced at Dom. Yep, he clocked the friend label.
“Well, aren’t you just a picture,” she said, eyeing my crutch. “Feeling better, sweetheart?”
“Getting there. I’m mobile, and that’s a start,” I replied.
“Good to hear. You’ve got that strong look about you.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Now then, what can I get for you two?”
“Two orders of the glazed meatballs,” Dom said.
“Ah.” She nodded. “Starting with the good stuff. Would you like rice and pickled veg with those?”
“Wouldn’t say no,” he replied.
She handed over a couple of compostable containers, then grabbed two glass-bottled drinks from a wooden crate and plunked them onto the counter. “Here. You take these too.”
I eyed the glass bottles, their reddish-orange glow almost teasing under the condensation.
Mrs. Sutton winked. “My own recipe. On the house.”
I glanced at Dom, waiting for him to argue, but he didn’t. He just tipped an imaginary hat and said, “Much appreciated.”
Still a little awestruck, I followed him outside. People in this town were just like that, friendly and generous.
I started toward the nearest bench, but Dom’s hand brushed my wrist, tugging me toward his truck instead.
“Let’s eat in the park.”
The park was beautiful. The river stretched out ahead, its surface rippling with the breeze, and behind us, a tree-lined avenue framed rows of houses, each one charming in its own way, with white picket fences, wide porches, and window boxes overflowing with color.
The kind of place where people planted roots.
We sat on a bench, and the moment I took my first bite of the meatball, I nearly groaned. It was sweet, garlicky, sticky in all the right ways, and full of flavor that hugged back.
Dom chuckled. “That good?”
I held up a hand. “Don’t talk to me right now. I’m having a moment.”
He smirked, handing me a bottle of lemonade. “Try this. I’m guessing you haven’t had buffaloberries yet.”
I eyed the drink. It was almost peachy. “I thought this was huckleberry.”
“Nope.” He stretched out his legs, tipping his chin toward the river. “Buffaloberries are native around here. They grow in these thorny little bushes and taste awful if you eat them raw. Bitter as hell.”
“Fantastic endorsement.”
He laughed. “But once you do it right—dry them, sweeten them—they’re one of the best things you’ll ever have. They’ve got this tart, citrusy flavor with a honey finish.”
I took a sip, and wow. It was crisp and tangy, just sweet enough to smooth out the sharp edges.
“Okay,” I admitted. “That’s pretty incredible.”
“See?” He nudged my cup. “Mrs. Sutton knows what she’s doing.”
I passed a meatball to Lulu, and she made quick work of it. Then, I speared one for myself and dragged it through the rice. “So, what’s your plan, Dominic Powell?”
He stretched his arms over the back of the bench. “Well, my grand plan got slightly derailed by a certain someone who wandered into the wilderness and sent a four-legged telegram for help.”
I gave him a light kick. “That should count as a brownie point for you in the afterlife. Lawyers need all the help they can get. St. Peter’s not exactly handing out fast passes.”
He let out a laugh, nearly choking on his meatball. “Oh, Autumn. I didn’t realize you had jokes.”
“Stick around. I’ve got a whole arsenal.”
He smirked, shaking his head before glancing around the park. “But seriously? First order of business, I need a home. How about you? What’s your plan, Autumn—?”
“Jones.”
“Autumn Jones.”
“Yeah, same. Home.” I tried not to sound like I was dreading. “I’m going back soon.”
He glanced over. “Where’s home?”
The question split my thoughts clean down the middle.
Part of me wanted to give him the truth. That’s what normal people did, right? They shared pieces of themselves when the air between them felt like something more.
But then there was the other part. The one that hadn’t forgotten Stiff-Neck’s threat. Family, friends. I couldn’t risk letting Dom get close, not if it meant putting him in someone’s crosshairs.
“Cheyenne,” I said. The last thing I wanted was Dom following if I ever had to run away from Stiff-Neck.
“Right,” he said.
Did he believe me?
Maybe not.
Reading lies must’ve been part of the whole lawyer package.
We packed up our trash in silence, then stood. But instead of heading back to the truck, Dom nodded toward the avenue. “You up for a little walk?” He nodded at my crutch. “Flat path. Just a couple of minutes, tops.”
I pretended to think it over.
“Fine. As long as Uber Dom stays on standby.”
“You know I’ll carry you if I have to,” he said, dead serious.
I followed him past the houses, taking in the details I hadn’t noticed before—the porch swings, the flowerbeds, and the way some houses had bikes propped against fences, as if kids had just hopped off them. Then Dom stopped in front of one.
It was a little different. It was newer, more like a chateau, but it still managed to blend in with the forest backdrop.
Tall windows reflected the trees, and pale stucco walls, steep rooflines, and a wide stone patio gave it a clean elegance without being showy.
Outdoor furniture was arranged neatly near a cluster of boulders and what looked like the start of a water feature.
It was the kind of place where I could picture a golden retriever sprinting across the grass. Maybe even kids playing.
I planted my good leg, then cocked my head. “Nice.”
“French influenced, but still Montana,” he said.
“Huge yard.”
“And the back too.”
My feet itched to check it out, but the car in the driveway said someone still lived here.
“I’m putting an offer in,” he revealed.
My brows lifted. “Wow, you’re really going for it.”
He shrugged. “I love it.”
I gave the whole facade another glance. “I bet. Near the park, the river.”
“Yeah. Big enough for a family.” His voice was easy, but something flickered in his expression, as if he wasn’t quite used to saying family.
I nudged him. “They in L.A. now?”
His head snapped toward me. “What?”
“Wife, kids.”
Dom let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Autumn, do I look like a guy who left behind a family interstate?”
I stared at him, my heart tripping.
He’s single?
Something in my stomach flipped, diving straight into the deep end, freestyle, Olympic record speed.
“You know,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Moving here just makes me think ahead.”
I nodded, my mouth all berried-out, my pulse skidding.
Then he turned toward me.
His hands found my waist, holding it steady but not forceful. He was giving me a moment to stop this if I wanted to. Last night, he’d backed off. But here, in daylight that left no room for guessing, he wasn’t budging.
Night and day. Literally.
His nose skimmed mine, his breath warming my lips. A countdown.
One last second of patience.
“What’s this?” I challenged. “Redoing last night? Or just circling for sport?”
He hummed, calm and maddening.
“You want this?” I asked, my body already closing the space between us, even as my mouth held the line. “You want me? Or are you just trying to ruin me for other men?”
“Quit stalling and let me kiss you.”
My every muscle went liquid, but my hands were already on him, my fingers digging into the slope of his shoulders. It was permission. And he felt it.
His mouth crashed into mine.
No warm-up. No second-guessing. Just heat and hunger and everything he’d held back until now.
Goddamn, Dominic Powell. This wasn’t a kiss! This was a dance, a seduction, a Sunday mass, and a break-in, all in one.
Clearly, he’d already made his choice before he even knocked on my door. Gentleman or not, he was never planning to give me fair warning, the same tactic as the shoulder ambush. Only, this time, the hit came with a whole different kind of ache.
“Sorry about last night,” he murmured against my lips. It was not the fear that comes with being rejected, and not the kind of panic you’d get dodging a tossed bouquet. He didn’t want to mess this up, perhaps scared I might slip through his fingers.
I huffed, my way of giving him forgiveness.
And he got it. Oh, he got it.
His lips coaxed mine open, tasting and learning. His hands followed, one sliding into my hair, the other pressing into the small of my back, drawing me in.
Like he wanted me to feel it.
And God, I did.
I curled my fingers into his shirt, holding on as the world around us blurred.
Because this?
This wasn’t just falling.
This was free-falling.