CHAPTER 9
He followed Willa into the house.
She was wearing a sundress with reddish-pink flowers on it, he noticed, something perfect for an old house without air-conditioning in the Pacific Northwest in June. Her hair was cut about shoulder length, and in the daylight, he could see it was a glossy blue-black, mixed in with a few threads of gray ... not a one out of place. If she was wearing makeup, he couldn’t tell, other than that her full lips looked rosy again. Yet as casual as the whole getup probably was, he still had that impression of ...
Quality. That wasn’t quite right, he realized, and he’d never been much of a word guy anyway. But she was quality in the way that porcelain was, or cars. Or clocks. They didn’t need a whole lot of bells and whistles to be amazing. His father always told him that cars like Rolls-Royces, or Maybachs at this point, weren’t flashy like sports cars, but they were expensive because of the details. Every “quiet” bit of them was made with loving care, the highest attention to detail, the finest materials.
That’s what he felt like, seeing her.
A lot of it might have had to do with her expressiveness. Her wide-eyed shock at the basket, for a starter. Her affection for Noodle. Her soft voice. Her quiet caution.
It was the caution that reminded him to be careful around her. One of the main goals of his coming over here was to make sure she wasn’t uncomfortable in any way. He hated the thought of that, especially if he was the one who was triggering it.
Which was when he noticed she was lugging the too-heavy basket, and he felt like an ass. “Sorry,” he said, reaching for her and grabbing the handle. “Let me—”
“No, that’s fine,” she rushed out, her voice soft and sweet, with an underlying note of stubbornness. “I’ve got this ...”
But by that point, he’d already lifted it a bit. His fingers brushed against hers accidentally on the thick wicker handle, and she made a tiny little meep sound before letting it go.
“You okay?” he checked in.
She made a noncommittal noise, then cleared her throat. “Thank you. What’s in here, though?”
“Things from our farm, or things that people make with things from our farm,” he said. He put it on the sturdy pine kitchen table, noticing that it was the same—that it was Caroline’s. “We raise some goats—my daughter, Kimber, does—and we sell the milk or use it to make soap, so that’s in there. We’ve got some beehives too.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Really?”
“My mom’s expanded her garden too,” he said, seeing that she was engaged, the words sort of tumbling out. “And my daughter’s looking to grow it even more. It’s early in the season, especially for the west side, but we’ve got established cane berries: blackberries, raspberries, even some loganberries. We’ve also got some cherry trees. Sour and Rainier.”
“There are Rainiers in there?” She stared at him, brown eyes shining like tigereye.
He couldn’t help but smile back. Not that he did a lot with the farm, other than maintain things and do ... well, whatever his mom or Kimber needed done, just like his dad did. But Willa was looking at him like he’d somehow given her gold.
Guess she likes cherries. His brain made a small note. “Yup,” he said proudly. “And some veggies ... again, little early in the season, but some beets, asparagus, stuff like that. Maybe radish?” Honestly, he hadn’t been paying attention at that point, as Kimber and his mother had gone into hyperdrive and gathered the basket together while he made sure he looked okay, despite having just gone on a client quote.
Which he’d think about later.
“This is too much,” she protested again, obviously flustered. “You ... you can’t just give me all this!”
“Why not?”
She spluttered. “Because ... it’s too much? Do you know how much Rainiers cost ? And all that stuff!”
“We have a huge tree, and we don’t mind sharing. We count on each other on the island,” he said with a shrug. Then laughed. “Which doesn’t make us sound like a cult at all. Guess you’re not used to a small town?”
“Not at all,” she admitted, with a small smile on those dusky-pink lips. “Grew up in Irvine, then moved to the Bay Area after college. Always a city ... or a big suburb, at the least.”
“Small towns are different,” he said, then wondered if he sounded like a hick. He cleared his throat. “Islands especially. We’re at the mercy of the ferry, unless you’ve got a boat of your own, and even then, nothing’s really easy . We get used to taking care of each other. Your aunt was like that.”
“Did you know her well?” she asked, and he detected a note of ... he wasn’t quite sure. Nostalgia, maybe? Or regret? Discomfort?
“Until she moved away a few years ago, sure. She’d been to a bunch of our barbecues, and I fixed stuff when she needed it. Ms. Caroline made the best cobbler on the island,” he added as memory hit him. “Maybe western Washington, even.”
Her smile was worth coaxing out. “She’s the one who encouraged me to cook, taught me the basics. Even baking.”
“Did she teach you how to make those cream cheese cookies? Because those were my favorites, behind the cobbler, anyway.”
He was rewarded with a little laugh, and his chest warmed. Hell, yeah! Progress!
Then his brain did a double take.
Progress?
Dude! This wasn’t happy hour at some dive bar, and she was just starting to trust him. Was he trying to screw this up?
She shifted her weight a little. “So . . . um, the oven . . . ?”
“Right!” Right. The whole reason he was here. He shook his head, like that would somehow help him focus. “Let’s see what’s up.”
He started to pull the oven back.
“Oh! Um . . .”
He paused and looked over his shoulder. She was biting her full lower lip and looking anxious again.
“You okay?” he repeated.
“Don’t . . . um, hurt yourself?”
He forced himself not to grin. “It’s okay. I move heavy stuff all the time.” Did that sound like bragging? Jesus. He really needed to get it together. “It’s kinda part of the job. Sometimes. And stoves aren’t actually that heavy.”
“I knew that,” he heard her mutter, but it didn’t sound like she was annoyed with him. More at herself. Then she spoke up. “I’m more used to commercial stoves.”
He noticed her fidgeting with her hands as she explained it, even though her expression was calmer than it had been.
She’s a worrier.
He smiled, hopefully with reassurance.
He pulled it farther out, then looked at the gas line. It was an older appliance. He now vaguely remembered Ms. Caroline complaining about the oven. Hudson had volunteered to fix it for free, but before he could, Caroline had been moved to an elder living facility. The son hadn’t even bothered to buy a new oven, instead renting the place out as an Airbnb.
Yet another reason to be glad that Willa had moved in.
He frowned. The gas shutoff valve should’ve been right there, behind the oven, but it wasn’t ... and the line led to a hole in the cabinet. He huffed out a slight groan, barely an exhalation.
“What is it?” she asked immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he quickly said. “Just gonna have to go into one of the cabinets to find this valve, that’s all. Do you mind if I empty this?”
“No. Do whatever you have to do.”
He quickly pulled stuff out of the cabinet: old Farberware pots, ancient Tupperware. The CorningWare square things, white with blue flowers, just like his mother owned. When the cabinet was empty, he pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and shone it around. Sure enough, covered in dust, there was the red metal valve ... in the perpendicular shutoff position. He tugged at it, and it twisted easily back into the on position. He went back and tested it. The stove lit with a quiet fwump .
“Really? That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“Why was it shut off, though?” she asked, peering into the cabinet. “Do you think there’s anything wrong with it? The oven, the stove? I don’t want a gas leak.”
“Let me look it over.”
He opened it up, looking at the tubing, sniffing carefully and looking for any potential splits or weaknesses. After about fifteen minutes, he closed the cabinet, then turned on every burner and the oven. “The range is kinda dirty,” he admitted. “That could be blocking some of the gas. But I don’t think that’s a big problem. Still, if you smell any gas, you let me know, and then go outside, okay?”
She nodded solemnly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Why do you think he shut off the gas stove?”
Hudson grimaced. “When she told me there was something going on with the stove, her son had been hanging around a lot. He was”—he was about to say an asshole , but then remembered that Willa was this guy’s niece—“concerned about Ms. Caroline’s ability to cook. I think he brought his own repair guy, from Seattle or wherever.”
She sighed. “You think the repairman shut off the gas? Maybe so my great-aunt couldn’t cook anymore?”
He had his own suspicions, but he wasn’t sure of his place on this, so he shrugged.
She looked sad.
“I’m surprised none of the Airbnb people complained, actually,” he mused after he’d shoved the stove back in place.
“He rented this place out ?”
Hudson studied her. “Well ... yeah?”
“No wonder she left this place to me,” she muttered. “And made me executor of her will. Uncle Harold was so pissed when he found out I was, not him.”
Hudson felt his shoulders tense, his hands balling into fists before he knew it. “Did he give you a hard time?”
She looked surprised, and he supposed he’d growled it a little. He winced, hoping he wasn’t scaring her.
Instead, she gave him a little smile. “Don’t worry. I was raised by my mother to respect my elders, but I was raised by my father not to back down either. Uncle Harold’s more bluster than actual bite.”
Hudson shook the tension out of his hands, acknowledging what she’d said. Of course she was capable. Just because she was fine didn’t mean she was fragile—quality had strength to it too. Hell, a lot of times it was built right in. So of course she wouldn’t need him to, what, protect her?
A white knight in torn jeans and patched boots. Yeah. That makes sense.
He knew that the work was done, but he didn’t want to leave immediately. That said, he also didn’t want to wear out his welcome. He liked her, and she no longer seemed scared of him. That was probably as much of a win as he was gonna get.
“You’ve got my number,” he reminded her, “and if anything else comes up, please reach out.”
“Of course,” she said, and he could’ve sworn her cheeks and the tips of her ears went pink.
He grinned. She might be polished and pressed and all, and she screamed “cultured.” She might be a bottle of fine wine next to his beer can.
But when she blushed—holy shit, she was cute.
Too bad he doubted she’d take him up on the offer, unless something was dire .
He started walking back to the front door, passing the living room. He hadn’t paid any attention to it when he walked in, too focused on her. Now, he got a look at the room, and he yelped.
“What the hell ?” he breathed.
She walked into his back with a slight oof . “What?”
“Sorry,” he quickly said, but walked into the room regardless. “Oh, crap. Tell me that your uncle isn’t responsible for ... for this .”
When he turned to her, he noticed that she looked around. “This doesn’t look like it did when I visited during summers,” she agreed slowly. “I just figured her tastes had changed?”
“Hell no,” Hudson said. “Trust me. She would never have agreed to this. This is to make it look good for those rental pictures,” he added darkly. “He took out the built-in bookcases so he could fit in two pullout sofas. And that mantel? What kind of prefab gaudy monstrosity is that, and what was he thinking? This is more of an Arts and Crafts house. It doesn’t go with the stair banister, or the window frames ... Seriously, what the hell?”
He winced, shutting up immediately. He’d come all this way to show her he wasn’t scary, and being pissed about a slapdash shitty “remodel” was probably going to make her think he had anger issues.
“Sorry,” he said, contrite. “I don’t mean to ... I’m not actually angry. Other than the fact that I think he took advantage of Ms. Caroline.”
To his surprise, her eyes were blazing, and she nodded. Not a shrinking violet, he noticed with approval. “ I’m angry,” she said with a short, decided nod. “Aunt Caroline would’ve hated this, I think.”
“I know she would’ve,” he said with a sigh. He smiled. “The stuff in here was gorgeous. The woodwork, the built-ins, everything. This whole house could be a showpiece, but it was even better as just a home.”
“I love that,” she said.
They stood there for a long second, just smiling in agreement.
And his heart double-beat for a second, just a second.
I like this woman.
A whole lot.
He nodded. “Come stop by the farm anytime,” he invited. “If you want more of anything in the basket.”
“Oh! The basket,” she said, startled. “Let me empty it, and you can bring it back.”
“Nah.” He winked at her, and she looked like he’d goosed her. “You can return it whenever. Just pop by.”
With that, he retreated, getting into his truck. He was gratified when she stood on the porch, looking at him, her head tilted.
He waved, and after a second, she sent him a shy wave back before returning to the house.
This had all the hallmarks of a bad idea, he thought as he started the truck. But damned if he didn’t like this woman.
Besides, like the saying went—just because it was a bad idea didn’t mean it wasn’t gonna be a good time.