Chapter 1 #2
When I’d finally, finally pulled down the long driveway from the road, it had been the golden hour.
The place had been gorgeous in the early evening light—menacing cattle aside—and very nearly empty, since the orchard was closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
Webb had greeted me with a handshake and introduced me to his uncle Drew, his sister Emma, his son Aiden, and his younger brother Hawk, all of whom had been welcoming and friendly and lovely.
He’d shown me briefly around the office and given me a plate of dinner they’d kept warm for me.
Then he’d helped me drag my big suitcase up to my new barn-apartment.
I’d been so tired from the drive that I’d nearly been sleepwalking at that point, so I hadn’t seen Knox emerge from the apartment’s tiny bathroom dressed in nothing but a low-slung towel until I’d walked smack into his naked chest and bounced off it.
He’d been startled, obviously, and he’d reached out his hands to steady me, while I’d tried very hard not to chub up right then and there, because ohmyflippingGod, he was the guy from the picture.
That guy from the picture.
The happy-go-lucky one with the devilish grin that made my stomach fizz like pop rocks. And he was standing right in front of me, close enough that I could watch the lucky little water droplets cascade from his beard down his thick, muscular shoulders.
I would swear to you until my dying day that when I first glanced up at his face, his fingers had clenched around my biceps for half a second and his eyes had flared with interest—with want—like Webb hadn’t even been in the room with us.
And at that moment, you could have told me that Vermont contained nothing but rabid tourists and homicidal cows, and I would have told you it was all worthwhile, because holy shit, lumbersexuals were even hotter in their natural habitat.
But then Knox had taken a step back, given me a single up-down, from the toes of my worn Birks to my Mordor Fun-Run T-shirt, and proclaimed, “This child is the programmer you’re paying an arm and a leg for, Webb?
The one you expect me to share an apartment with?
For fuck’s sake, the kid was supposed to be here hours ago. He can’t even tell time.”
Then he’d stalked off to his bedroom, leaving me gaping after him while Webb stammered out a lame-assed explanation about Knox’s “minor health issues” forcing him to leave his “dream job” in Boston, and how he was having a “tough time adjusting” and blah blah blah.
Like that was an excuse to be rude to someone? Please.
The old expression says to never meet your heroes, right? The real trick is to never meet the hot guys you’ve randomly jerked to because, trust me, the disappointment was epic.
Sadly, that had been the high point of our relationship, and it had all gone south from there.
Later that night, I’d knocked on his sliding door to apologize for showing up late and explain about the traffic, but even though his light had been on and I’d fucking heard him moving around in there, he hadn’t acknowledged me.
It was so nonsensical, I was confident that there’d been some kind of mix-up, so I’d tried talking to Knox again the next day.
I’d rocked up to the office promptly at eight, taken my seat at the empty desk Webb had shown me the day before, and smiled at Knox so hard it hurt my cheeks.
Then I’d done the whole “I think we got off on the wrong foot” thing.
Knox had looked calmly back at me and said nothing.
So I did what I always did when I was feeling uncomfortable in a situation—I’d started talking. And talking. And talking.
I’d told him I was excited to be in Vermont for the first time.
I’d told him about my love for caramel-flavored coffee.
I’d told him I had two brothers, plus a cousin who was like a brother, and wasn’t it a strange coincidence that we were all gay?
I’d even told him a crazy story Toby had texted me from home, about how Gerry Twomey had started a photography business taking intimate boudoir shots, and how Lorenna and George McKetcham, Whispering Key’s favorite sex-positive octogenarians, had loved their pictures so much they were turning them into Christmas cards.
I’d told Knox I couldn’t wait to see an actual covered bridge and shared that cows really freaked me out. I’d gotten vulnerable, for fuck’s sake.
Then I’d asked him—begged him, really—to grab lunch in town later.
The man had remained quiet through my entire recitation, and only when I’d run out of shit to talk about had he said, “Jesus Christ you talk a lot, Goodman. Are you done now? Because work begins promptly at eight.” Then he’d focused on his laptop for the next four hours like I wasn’t even there.
That had been it.
That had been all.
Not a single word about lunch, and the smile that had made my knees weak from the website picture? I’d only seen it twice in the past two weeks, and it had been aimed at his adorable little nephew each time. It was like Knox had had a smile-ectomy. A surgical removal of his sense of humor.
He acted fine with everyone else. I mean, for sure no one would describe him as happy-go-lucky anymore, but he was polite at the dinner table, he colored pictures with Aiden, and he was forever making dry little observations that sent his brothers howling.
He and Drew helped their neighbor Marco tie fishing lures for hours when Marco’s arthritis flared, while listening to Marco’s stories about his daughter and toddler granddaughter who lived a couple of hours west in a town called Poultney.
He was endlessly patient when his sister sat in front of him and explained every single facet of some young adult book she’d read while he was just trying to eat his morning oatmeal.
It was only me he didn’t like, and for no reason I could fathom.
I’d deadass never had that happen to me before. My face was in the dictionary beside the word “delightful,” for fuck’s sake, and nearly a dozen inhabitants of a small Florida island would attest to it. People didn’t just not like me. I was undislikable.
So, fuck him. If he didn’t want to be friends, then we wouldn’t be, obvs.
But it still hurt, damn it. And not in a boo-hoo-the-hot-guy-rejected-me kind of way, because it wasn’t about attraction or the lack thereof, but in a way that made me wonder if I had some big internal flaw that only he could see.
And that—the fact that Knox Sunday, with his bottle-green eyes and his need to treat me like he was my paid babysitter, made me doubt myself when I’d spent years and years not giving a shit what people thought of me—pissed me off.
Which was why I made it my job to annoy him just a little bit every single day.
I mean, I was being paid to make sure all the systems at Sunday Orchard worked better, after all. So theoretically, bringing Knox down a peg or two so that he could be a better human was kind of in my job description. Right?
“Daydreaming,” he repeated in a warning voice, drawing my attention back to our convo.
“Hmm? Oh, oops! Kinda slipped away again for a minute there. Not sure why, but the sound of your voice just makes me zone out,” I lied.
“Weird, huh? Maybe ’cause it’s kinda got that vibratey, white-noise thing going on, like a swarm of bees in my ear?
You start talking and I just hear bzzzbzzzbzzz, you know?
Oh! Oh, dude. Dude!” I gasped and pointed a finger at him.
“Have you thought of recording a sleep video? ’Cause you could just sit in front of the camera and be all, ‘Goodman, you need to wash your coffee cup right away and not leave it in the sink for five minutes while you go get dressed,’” I said in a monotonous, robotic voice, “and people would wake up eight hours later feeling super refreshed! And didn’t Webb say you needed to relax more?
I’m basically your life coach over here! ”
If we were being accurate, Webb had told me privately that Knox left Boston because he needed a slower pace of life.
His stressful career in finance had taken a toll on his health, so he’d quit his job, was selling his condo, and had moved home earlier in the summer to focus on his health and happiness.
He seemed perfectly healthy to me—the very fuckable picture of good health—but the man needed some remedial tutoring in being happy.
And that was not in my job description.
Knox sat forward, making his chair squeak. A shaft of sunlight coming through the high window burnished his dark hair white. “Goodman, I swear to God—”
Ugh. So unfair.
That deep, growly, commanding voice—the kind that gave me sexy, schmexy vibes—should not be attached to such a patronizing, workaholic, stick-up-his-ass-and-not-in-a-fun-way individual.
“Ooh, hey! Has anyone ever told you the vein in your temple throbs sometimes?” I frowned in mock concern and drew a finger down the center of my own forehead. “You should get that checked out.”
I leaned back in my chair, propped my feet up on the desk, and focused on the fading tan line where my shorts rode up my thigh. God, I needed a hookup. It had been precisely forty-seven days, and if I was going to work with Knox Sunday and not kill him or myself, I needed relief.
“Could you listen to me for two minutes, please? As your boss, if nothing else?” Knox growled, pushing himself half out of his chair.
“First, you’re not my boss. Webb is. You told me so the first day when I asked you what the timeline for this project was. Second… Like, I can try to listen?” I sighed dubiously. “But also, I’m really hungry. So. Probs gonna be daydreaming about dinner again.”
He frowned, like I’d caught his attention against his will, and sat back down slightly. “Dinner.”
“Yep.”
“You had two enormous burritos at lunch, plus rice.”
“Awww.” I tilted my head to one side. “Yes, I did! Sweet of you to notice.” Probably keeping an account of all that I ate to make sure he got his money’s worth.
“And a peanut butter banana sandwich two hours ago.”