CHAPTER THREE
WILLOW
There's a moment in every woman's life when she regrets wearing comfy cat-covered underwear rather than the sexy black panties tucked safely back home in her dresser drawer.
And for me, that moment is now—with my body sprawled on the sidewalk and the orange kittens I thought resembled Carrot prancing around on my cotton panties.
They were cute this morning. Punny even, but I failed to foresee running smack dab into a freaking oak tree and landing on my ass for all to view my clever choice of underwear.
“Here, take my hand. Are you okay?” A low baritone sweeps over me as a masculine hand comes into view.
Glancing up—and up—my gaze finally lands on who I ran into: a giant of a man who looks like he can bench press my considerable weight with no problem.
Heck, he could probably scale Black Mountain with me on his back without breaking a sweat.
Okay, that may be an exaggeration, but damn he’s huge.
I’ve seen my fair share of mountain men wandering around Suitor’s Crossing. Hard not to when you’re nestled against a mountain range covered in rustic cabins, providing the ideal home for plaid-wearing, axe-toting lumberjacks. But this guy takes the cake.
He must not frequent Main Street often either because I've never seen him before.
"Are you okay?" He repeats, his hand still waiting for mine. Blushing in embarrassment at my blatant staring, my head dips in a nod as I accept his help.
Dashes of black mottle the side of his thumb, and I wonder at its origin. Is it grease? Is he a mechanic? Different scenarios race through my flustered brain as he helps me to my feet.
"I'm fine, thanks. Sorry for bumping into you.
I should've paid better attention to where I was going.
" And not searching my purse for the white gloves I told my blind date I'd be wearing.
Speaking of which... "I hate to literally hit and run, but I'm meeting someone and have to go.
I'm already late and I'm sure he thinks I'm a flake and he doesn't even know me yet and. .."
The stranger squeezes my hand, which I realize he's still holding, amusement creeping into his brown eyes.
Damn, I was rambling.
Now, I'm breathless from over-talking… and falling… and this hot man's rough palm cradling my smaller one. It's a lot for a girl who's already nervous about meeting a stranger for her date tonight.
"Breathe, kitten." His other hand smooths a caught strand of hair off my forehead, and I shiver at the intimate touch. "You're worth the wait... TheCarrotsMeow?"
Shock burns away some of the embarrassment coursing through my veins. Just my luck—crashing into my potential heart spark like an uncontrolled vehicle flying down the highway. "ForgedByFire? You're my match?"
He bends to pick up a slightly crushed red carnation, offering it to me with a confident grin. "Guilty."
Heart sparks.
Suitor’s Crossing's legend of love come to life.
I've always believed in it. Envied the happy couples who had it. But in the back of my mind, there's been a well of doubt that's deepened each time another one of my friends found love, while I settled for the rare match on an app.
Doesn't matter now.
Because I only need one match.
The match.
And I might have just found him.
Reluctantly pulling my hand from his, my chin ducks down as I focus on straightening my skirt and brushing off any lingering dirt clinging to my backside. "What's your name? I'm Willow."
“Rhys.”
Wait, that sounds familiar. I pause and glance upward to meet his friendly gaze. “Rhys? As in the guy who made Hannah Welsh’s engagement ring?”
“Yeah, I’m friends with King. I’m guessing you’re friends with her?”
I nod, marveling at small-town magic, and motion toward Daffodil’s which looks pretty full. “Should we grab a table inside? We can talk more when my legs aren’t about to freeze to death in this skirt.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” Rhys smiles and steps back for me to go ahead of him. “Ladies first.”
Scooting by him in the narrow entryway, my back grazes his broad chest, and a shiver of awareness erupts over my skin. This is the first time a man’s had this immediate effect on my body, and it’s exhilarating.
Brides have gushed about those first sparks when they met their future husband—love at first sight. And a lot of the romances I read feature a moment when the heroine just knows the hero is meant for her.
But it seemed like an impossibility for me considering my past of lackluster dates. However, maybe my luck is changing because I definitely feel a spark with Rhys.
Like he’s the guy for me.
Intuitively. No rhyme or reason to it. Just a gut feeling.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Try talking with the man first.
A waitress guides us to a table for two, and we take seats opposite each other. Poor Rhys squeezes behind the table, his massive body not meant for an intimate setting like Daffodil’s.
“Are you gonna be comfortable here? We can go somewhere else if you’d like,” I suggest. Truthfully, it’s a bit of a tight fit for my large hips and belly, as well, especially with the man behind me pushing his chair further back, edging into my space.
“While I definitely underestimated Daffodil’s popularity tonight, I’ll manage. Let’s just hope they don’t sit someone behind me because I’m not sure there’s gonna be room for them to pull the chair out, let alone sit.” Rhys glances backward at a tiny table shoved into the corner.
We’re at the rear of the restaurant where it looks like they tried to make every last inch count, despite the lack of room for maneuvering around. “I’d rather spend time chatting with you rather than searching town for another dinner spot anyway.”
“As long as you’re comfortable…” A flush of pleasure warms my cheeks as I fidget in my chair. “So, Mr. ForgedbyFire, how’d you become a blacksmith? The last time I heard about that job was in a historical rom—novel.”
A romantic novella by Tessa Dare almost spilled from my mouth before I caught myself in time.
I wouldn’t say I’m embarrassed about my preference for reading romance novels, but it’s not something I lead with on dates.
It tends to freak guys out like I’m asking them to live up to astronomical standards.
You know… because asking for respect and orgasms in a loving relationship is too much to expect from a man these days.
A mental eye roll springs forth, and I study Rhys. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who gets freaked out by much. He’s got that whole “I’m as sturdy as a mountain and can withstand whatever comes my way” vibe. But looks can be deceiving.
“That’s where I first learned about it, too, actually. A history book in seventh grade. I’ve always liked working with my hands and dealing with molten metal sounded badass. So, I found an apprenticeship in Seattle after high school before moving back here to start my own business.”
“So, you grew up here?” I’m always a little envious of the people who are from Suitor’s Crossing. It’s an idyllic town, perfect for families with its tight-knit community, and I wish I had something similar while I was growing up.
Unfortunately, my childhood was spent moving around the country following my dad as his job uprooted our family every few years. Hard to plant roots or befriend a community when you’re leaving right around the time you start to feel settled.
“Yep, born and raised. My dad used to be a foreman with a timber company near High Ridge,” he explains after we give our dinner order to a harried waitress.
“What about your mom?”
A shadow crosses Rhys’s face and his lips thin into a flat line. “Don’t know. She left us when I was two.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
“No, it’s fine.” He shakes his head. “It’s a reasonable question since I mentioned my dad. Besides, her leaving wasn’t all bad. It taught me a valuable lesson at a young age.” Rhys pauses, his gaze studying me, and I get the impression he’s contemplating whether or not to share this lesson with me.
My belly seizes into a knot as a sense of foreboding creeps in. Get a grip, Willow. It’s not going to be bad. But I can’t shake the feeling he’s about to impart a major facet of his life—one that may put an end to us before we’ve even begun.
“My parents were high school sweethearts, believed in the stupid myth about Suitor’s Crossing and heart sparks.
Until my mom decided she didn’t love my dad anymore and took off with another man.
Apparently, he was her heart spark, not Dad.
” Rhys spits out the words heart spark with enough venom to kill, and a shudder of concern sets my heart to beating double-time.
“Which is why I don’t believe in the bullshit about heart sparks or love. It’s not real.”
Not real.
The conviction in his voice is an arrow straight through my chest.
My potential heart spark doesn’t believe in love.
Can that even be possible?
Told you not to get ahead of yourself…