Chapter 7 Willow
I stuff the sheets into the washer and start the cycle, grateful the house is equipped with working machines.
Washing his sheets won’t clear my conscience for last night—it’s just common courtesy.
The comforter, on the other hand . . . No way I’m stuffing that California king into the washer after just one night.
Not like I used it much, practically kicked it off in the middle of the night with that space heater cranked up so high.
And I . . . may have kicked off my panties in the process.
But I will not be judged. Broody Dallas I met at the bar months ago was sexy enough.
But shirtless Dallas? All rough-edged with a thread of tenderness?
That was damn near criminal. How else is a girl to shake visions of broad chests and abs for days out of her system?
Hence the extra splash of fabric softener this morning.
I step back into the master bedroom for my things, squinting against the sunlight cutting through the uncovered windows. Dust catches in the rays as I pad across the cool floorboards looking for those damned panties.
I thought stripping the bed would help, but they’re still missing.
I fling pillows aside again, frustrated. It couldn’t have been a sock or scrunchie I lost. It had to be underwear.
Giving up for now, I grab the rest of my things and make my way down before Mountain Man returns and finds me snooping. Last thing I need is for him to “help me look” for them.
With any luck, a coyote will sneak in and sneak off with them. And that’ll be the most action my panties have seen in over a year.
I inhale deep to clear my mind and find that peace I felt when I settled in last night. The place still faintly smells of fresh lumber and something muskier, earthier.
My gaze drifts over the wall as I make my way down the stairs. The wooden beams, the rustic wagon-wheel chandelier, the subtle, intentional way the still-wrapped furniture has been placed.
My heart breaks for him in a new way.
And a little bit for her. She’ll never get to see what he’s done here.
I reach the bottom step with a creak and nearly jump out of my skin with the sudden sound.
“Jesus.”
Shaking it off, I hurry to the kitchen, taking in the view of the riverbend and mountains through the open windows, remembering it with the sunset last night.
I place my oversized tote on the counter and begin searching for my charger in the black hole of a bag.
A dead battery played a key part in my inability to call or text Rose last night.
You know, just to let her know that if I’m arrested for trespassing, I’m taking her down with me as my accomplice.
I growl in frustration, giving up on my charger—well now, that’s two things I’ve lost. But that also depends on where you start.
This morning—two. Four days ago—my apartment, my mother’s respect, assuming I once had it, and basically most of my belongings, since I have no doubt Billy will have sold them all by now.
Uh-oh. I check the time on the clock above the stove. Nine fifteen. Yep, it’s after nine and I’m spinning out of control.
I need coffee.
My predator eyes start scanning the dusty white countertops looking for a clue that there’s caffeine in this place.
It’s not looking good. Not even a kettle.
My eyes lift to the cabinets—a beautiful navy blue with gold hardware—hanging above the white-tiled splashback. Three brass-finish pendants hang low over the island.
It’s the perfect kitchen. In the perfect house. Built by an imperfect man who’s either endlessly grieving with his hands or scared to finish something because of the new chapter it’ll bring.
One with a new girl in his life.
I look around sadly. Give us a day and Rose and I could definitely do some damage here. All it needs is a woman’s touch.
And maybe a working heater. I shiver from the chill as I move around the kitchen, pulling on a few under-counter cabinets to check for supplies.
I find a few clean rags under the sink and a spray bottle that smells citrusy. “Might as well make myself useful.”
I aim at the dusty counters and shoot like a kid with a water gun. Hitting every target in sight. Then set it down and get to work, bringing out its natural shine.
I coat the island next and do the same, until a knock on the door makes me jump. My head snaps to the sliding doors.
Dallas is standing outside, eyes peering out toward the fields. He’s holding a purple coffee mug and a paper bag.
Confused, I move toward the door and pull it open. “You knock?”
“Last time I didn’t, I was attacked.”
I inhale the morning air and scent of leather drifting off him and roll my eyes. “Hardly.”
He steps in with a frown. “What’s that smell?”
I close the door and sweep my gaze over him. “Was about to ask you the same thing.”
“Still making a habit of sniffing people?”
I’m usually quick with my comebacks. But the fact that he remembers that little detail makes my brain go hazy.
“Here—” he starts, setting the mug and bag on the counter, then scowling at the remaining mist along the marble. “Rose warned me not to engage until you’ve had this. Then I’m taking you back over there.”
“See you follow directions well,” I mutter before lifting the mug and taking a sip of coffee.
He spreads his hands defensively. “What, it was the first thing I said.”
“No. You knocked on your own door just so you can comment on being attacked last night, grunted about the Refreshing Grapefruit all-purpose cleaner I found under your sink, called me out on sniffing you—which I did one time. Then made me sound like some sort of addict who needs a fix.”
He stares at me for a moment, and it feels a little too long. “Drink your coffee, darlin’, I got work to do.”
I release a breath and take another sip.
There’s a small ache in my chest. Can’t blame the man for wanting me out. Heck, I don’t even blame my ex for wanting me out.
I’m no one to them.
I set the mug down, pulling at the greasy paper bag. “What’s in here?”
“Pumpkin bread. Ginger made it.”
I stick my nose in and inhale the fresh-baked goodness. “Hmm. Rose told me about Ginger.”
I take a bite, chewing slowly, which only seems to irritate him more as he sighs heavily, looking around the place like he just wants to get to work.
“All right,” I say, washing it down with the warm liquid. “I know when I’m not welcome. Let’s go ‘saddle your truck’ or ‘hit the hay’ or ‘wrrrangle the road’?”
A laugh breaks out of him. A genuine one that lights up his eyes as he looks at me like I’m crazy. “What the hell were those?”
“Oh, come on, one of ’em had to be right.”
“Not even close. ‘Hit the hay’ means go to bed, wiseass.”
“Least I got the ‘go’ part right,” I mutter.
He folds his arms and cocks his head to the side. “You done?”
“Do you have a charger I can borrow?”
“For heaven’s sake.”
“What? My phone is dead. Since you’re clearly on some warpath to work on the house—and want no one around—I was going to call Rose to pick me up.” I lift my bag off the floor and onto my shoulder. “But if you’re higher on getting me out of there, then let’s—”
Dallas plucks the straps off my shoulder and tosses the bag back down. “What exactly did Rose tell you about me?”
“Nothing,” I snap in defense of my friend. Then sigh. “Enough to know you built this for someone you lost.”
He steps back, running his hand down his face. “Yeah well, pretty much everyone knows that.” His jaw ticks.
I narrow my eyes at him. Surprised at how well I’m reading him. He’s impatient. There’s an urgency here. And I don’t think it’s just me. It’s why he’s here instead of with his daughter after being away for three days. Rose said he only spends the night when he’s working on the house.
“You need to finish it,” I guess.
His eyes snap to me. “Only thing I need right now is for you to stop talkin’.”
I hold his gaze for a moment, wishing I knew how to back down, but I don’t want to. “Why don’t I help you?”
He scowls, glancing at the counters briefly. “And how on earth do you plan to do that? Talkin’ a mile a minute sure as hell ain’t movin’ things along for me.”
I fold my arms. “I mean over this weekend. I can help you. You don’t have to do it all alone.”
He stills and for a second it seems like I’ve cut through that thick layer he keeps around his heart. But then something flickers in his gaze. Raw and heated. Studying me like I’m the one under the microscope.
“Look, I get you either got no place to go, or you’re runnin’ from something.” His voice turns ragged. “But I’m not your guy.”
I swallow the stab against my chest. I’m not hurt by his comment—just offended. I don’t need him as “my guy.” I don’t need this place as my temporary sanctuary. I was only trying to help.
Dumbstruck, my mouth drops before I speak. “I’m not running from anything,” I breathe, wishing it didn’t sound like I’ve been caught.
“No?” He cocks his head with a step forward. I take one back. “Why the hell you taking self-defense classes then?”
My pulse jumps but it’s not because he intimidates me. It’s the heat radiating off him. It sizzles. Before I realize, I’ve moved back enough to hit the back wall that separates the kitchen from the walk-in pantry. “So I could clobber assholes like you for getting in my face.”
He huffs a laugh. “Well, you ain’t gonna do it by clippin’ them in the shoulder and thigh.”
My eyes drop to his crotch. “I won’t miss next time.” I lift my knee but his hand snaps around it, catching me mid-kick.
I lean back against the wall, shoulders falling with a breath. Surprised at how easily I’m surrendering to him. As if realizing I don’t find him threatening, his arms come up on either side of me, caging me in. “What’d he do?” he rasps, sharp and demanding, like he has a desperate need to know.
My breath hitches and my pulse spikes. His body is so solid. Radiating strength. The kind that promises protection.
Warmth spreads below my belly. And if anything is scaring me right now—it’s my reaction to him. I shouldn’t be curious. I shouldn’t want to be pressed up against this wall as long as he’s the one holding me. This is my cue to run.
But why does it feel like a test of everything I’ve convinced myself I never want again?
He leans in, exhaling just enough to make me shiver. His question still lingering between us.
“What’d who do?” I ask.
“Don’t play dumb,” he warns. “Tell me what he did and I’ll show you how to protect yourself.”
I blink, because my instincts were right.
And they’re never right when it comes to the opposite sex.
I swallow. My body buzzing with something electric. A fire I can’t seem to put out. But also something I don’t want ruined with memories of my ex.
My jaw hardens because something tells me this is the way to do it. “He held me up against the wall just like this and told me I couldn’t defend myself.”
As suspected, he steps back, giving me space. “What’d this class teach you?”
I glance down, take a breath, and demonstrate. “Step in, palm out, hit up.”
He grabs my wrist mid-thrust, then the other, and tosses them both over my head, holding tight. “Now what? And the right answer isn’t ‘scream fire.’”
I suppress a swallow. “Why not?”
“That only works in a public place. Where’d he attack you?”
“He didn’t attack—”
“Where, Willow?”
“In an office,” I shout in one breath. “My boss’s office—when he came to the bar and saw a customer getting friendly after my set.”
There’s a beat before he continues—like he can picture it. “Headbutt right to the nose.”
I meet his eyes. He can’t be serious.
“No one’s going to expect you to cause yourself pain. Might hurt like a bitch, but the second you do, you’ve bought yourself time to get away. Or as I’ve seen some cowgirls do at the local bar, dig your claws into his groin—then headbutt him. And now you’ve hurt more than just his pride.”
My eyes stretch wide. “You teach a local class or something?”
He steps back with a heavy sigh. “Just stay out of trouble, and if you can’t—remember: groin, nose.” He picks my bag up off the floor. “Come on, let’s ‘saddle my truck.’” He chuckles to himself.
I don’t move. “Do I have to claw you in the groin to let me stay and help?”
He throws his head back with a growl. “Willow, enough. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this place needs more than all-purpose cleaner to get it ready for Ellie by tomorrow. I need to get moving, now, so grab your shit and let’s go.”
“Why tomorrow?” I demand.
“Because her grandmother died two days ago. I need to give her something.”
I blink, trying to piece what one has to do with the other. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. She—she doesn’t know. And before I tell her, I need to give her something permanent she can hold on to. Something to believe in the life I want to give her. That I’m ready for it and she should be too.” He swallows. “It has to be tomorrow.”