Chapter 6 Lonesome
Lonesome
WALKER
Sadie follows me into the kitchen and I put my back to her, opening cabinets, going through the routine. It's easier when I'm not looking at her.
It doesn't help that I can still smell her shampoo, something fruity and warm, with a hint of coconut sunscreen underneath it, and my brain keeps focusing on things it shouldn’t. The curve of her neck. Whether her skin tastes as good as it smells.
Doesn’t help that I had her in my arms five minutes ago and my body hasn’t forgotten it. The softness and warmth of her against me. Those big blue eyes gazing up at me. Those pillowy lips inches from mine.
Jesus, I need to get laid.
Three months of this woman in my house and I'm going to lose my mind.
I show her the list of emergency contacts. “Dad is first on the list, then my brother Slade. Then next on the list is my youngest brother, Tanner. Then my sister Josie. She’s living in Florida now, but she’s a nurse, so you can call her with any non-urgent question too.”
“Got it.”
“Jonah's up at seven. He'll tell you he's allowed to have pancakes for breakfast every day. He's not. Eggs and toast or oatmeal with berries.” I open the fridge and gesture inside at the ingredients. “Lunch is provided at camp but Jonah doesn’t like the chicken salad they make, so you’ll have to pack him something on those days. He likes turkey sandwiches, no crust.”
“Okay.”
I close the fridge and turn around.
That's a mistake.
Sadie is standing in the middle of my kitchen with her arms loosely crossed, watching me with those bright eyes, and she looks… perfect.
She’s in another sundress, this one green, and with that red hair, she looks like a flower. Like a bouquet you put in the middle of the room to bring color and life to it.
I swallow hard.
Any woman would have the same effect, I tell myself. Just so happens there hasn’t been a woman in this house yet.
Besides Margaret, of course. But even though she was Jonah’s nanny too, it wasn’t exactly the same.
And why is that? an inner voice taunts. Could it have anything to do with the fact that Margaret is a warm, grandmotherly type, and the woman standing here now is a gorgeous little firecracker? Is that why she’s been here two minutes and you’re already composing song lyrics about her in your head?
I ignore that voice.
I lean back against the counter and cross my arms.
“You can leave here at seven-forty to get him to camp at eight. Camp runs until three.” I keep my voice even. “Don’t worry about cleaning. I have a service that comes. And I’ll be out before you're up most mornings.”
From my back pocket, I pull out a credit card and hand it to her. “Put any expenses on here.”
She turns it around in her delicate fingers. “Metal. Fancy.”
“Pretentious bullshit,” I mutter.
She takes a wallet out of her purse that’s on the counter and slides the card into a slot. “What about dinner?”
“I handle that. Once I’m home, you’re off the clock. Dinner and bedtime is all me.”
“And weekends?”
“They’re off.”
She looks relieved. “Cool.”
I bite back the impulse to pry. To ask her what she’ll be doing on the weekends. To ask her if there’s someone she’s hurrying back to.
Like a boyfriend.
It stupidly hasn't occurred to me until now that a girl as pretty as Sadie probably has someone waiting eagerly for her to run back to his arms.
On her weekends off she's probably driving back to him. He’s probably very aware of how she looks standing in his kitchen in the morning light, and he gets to lift her onto the countertop and push himself between her thighs and taste her everywhere.
I’m not going there. I can’t go there.
But it prompts me to say, “No guests. I’m not gonna make you sign a non-disclosure agreement or whatever bullshit, but I don’t want strangers here.”
“Understood.”
“I mean it. Even if Jonah’s not here during the day, I don’t want to come back home and find you getting screwed by your boyfriend on my couch.”
Her eyes flare with that now-familiar spark. “You seriously think I’d do that? Bring my boyfriend here so I could fuck him in the middle of the day?”
No, I don’t actually think she’d do something like that. But the image of it in my head has me ready to bare my teeth.
So she does have a boyfriend. I’d like to meet the man who managed to wrangle this wildcat into a relationship.
Whether to shake his hand or to punch him, I’m not sure.
“I don’t care what you do when you’re alone here,” I say. “But you better be alone.”
I know I’m in trouble when her eyes get that glitter in them. When she gives me that fake but still gorgeous smile that makes my blood pressure spike and my cock hard.
“I can have plenty of fun alone,” she says sweetly. “Don’t need a boyfriend to have a good time all by my lonesome. Just maybe knock first, or you’ll get an eyeful.”
The image of what that would look like floods my brain. Sadie, touching herself everywhere…
It stuns me into silence.
She bats her eyelashes at me. “Or should I say, another eyeful?”
Such a brat.
This girl is going to drive me insane.
And she’s living under my roof for the next three months.
What the fuck have I done?
“Your room is this way,” I tell her, leading her up the stairs. “Think you can handle the stairs or need some assistance?”
She smiles fake-sweetly again. Somehow Sadie Sullivan can make a smile look like a middle finger in the air. It’s a talent.
I push open the door to the guest suite I got ready for her. The bed is made with crisp white sheets. There’s a breeze fluttering the curtains. I stacked her bag and purse neatly at the foot of the bed, by the antique wooden storage chest waiting to be filled with her things.
I spent way too long fussing over everything. Making sure the lightbulbs were all brand new, that the towels were crisply folded, that there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere to be seen. But she doesn’t need to know any of that.
“Hope this’ll do,” I say gruffly.
Her eyes widen as she takes it in. She walks in slowly, then goes and stands by the window and looks out at the view onto the mountains.
“It’s perfect,” she says. “Thank you.”
It’s a rare hint of softness from her, so I decide to push my luck. “So. Your momma is sick?”
Shit. There was probably a less blunt way to introduce that subject.
She gives me a guarded look. “It’s a chronic condition.”
“What condition?”
“Her kidneys are no good. She’s on dialysis.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
A half-shrug. “It’s under control right now. But she’s not so great at taking care of herself.”
“Sounds like you spend a lot of time taking care of everyone else. Who takes care of you?”
Her eyes harden.
Fuck, I hit a nerve there.
“I take care of myself just fine,” she says. “And if you truly don’t believe I’m capable of that, then why are you having me take care of your precious little boy?”
“Just because you’re good at taking caring of everyone else doesn’t mean you’re good at taking care of yourself. In my experience, the people who are good at the first thing are often terrible at the second thing.”
Those blue eyes stare into mine, not cowed for a second. “Just because you saw me in my underwear doesn’t mean you know a thing about what’s going on inside me, Walker.”
It’s the first time she’s said my name. I like the sound of it on her lips way too much.
“Funny,” I tell her. “Because if what I said wasn’t true, you wouldn’t be looking so cornered right now.” I make my way out of the room slowly. “I’ll back off, copperhead. Save your venom for someone you can sink your teeth into.”
I don't know why I said it like that. Like it was an endearment.
I make my way out of the room. Leaving her to get settled in, I head downstairs. I put on a pot of coffee, enough for two people, and fill up my thermos.
I should leave now. I never linger at home when Jonah’s not here.
It feels too empty. I built this house small on purpose, because I grew to hate that giant fucking mansion my ex insisted on when we got married.
Isabella is a billionaire’s daughter and she expected a particular lifestyle. One I learned to fucking despise.
In Nashville, there was a security team that had to go everywhere with me. There was a private chef and an entourage and people on my payroll just hanging around all the time. I hated it. Hated all the bullshit that was turning me into a pampered fucking poodle.
Here I’ve got a normal family home. I cook my own meals for me and my son and my security team is the revolver on my hip.
Last time the paparazzi tried to follow me to Montana, one of the idiots got too close to a bison and got himself mauled.
The paps don’t come around here anymore.
Marble Falls is a small town. Some tourists, but not enough to overrun the place. No one bothers me. But when I’m alone in this house I built, so much smaller and more homey than the one before, it still feels like too much.
It still feels like something’s missing.
But Sadie's upstairs now. I can hear her moving around. Opening and closing dresser drawers, her soft footsteps, the small sounds of someone settling in.
Every instinct I have says: good. She's here. She's safe. She's getting comfortable.
She’s got a smart mouth and spine of steel and she might drive me crazy, but my instincts tell me bringing her here was the right thing to do.
My son adores her. My father is fond of her.
She’s young, but she looks after her sick mom and is great with kids and everyone I’ve talked to about her seems to think she has a heart of gold.
Which is probably exactly why she and I don’t get along.
If I could bring myself to pick up my guitar, I could probably write some miserable and self-pitying ballad about what little is left of my heart.
Good thing I can't pick up that fucking guitar, then. At least I’m sparing the world of that drivel.
I take a sip of my bitter coffee as I hear her coming down the stairs again.
“I'm heading out,” I tell her, not looking up from where I'm checking the weather report on my phone. There's a summer storm brewing later this week, and I need to ride the fence line before it hits.
Two years ago I'd have been heading to a recording studio or a private jet on tour. Now I head out to check cattle and mend fences, and I've never been more at peace with anything in my life.
“There’s fresh coffee in the pot,” I continue. “You need something, you've got my number.”
“Wait,” she says, approaching me. “Where's your bedroom?”
I was about to take another drink of coffee, but the hand holding my thermos freezes halfway to my mouth. Slowly, I set my phone face-down on the counter. I raise an eyebrow.
Her cheeks turn bright pink. “I mean, in case I need to find you here at home, if there's an emergency.”
There's a secret part of me that likes that she's calling this place home already.
I don't answer right away. I take a long, unhurried sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of the thermos, then move past her toward the front door. I catch the faint smell of her fruity, juicy shampoo.
Why does she have to smell so good all I can think about is taking a bite?
I drop down onto the bench by the door and pull my boots on one at a time, taking my time with the left one like the buckle's giving me trouble.
“What kind of emergency would that be?” I venture, eyes still down. But I can't resist the chance to turn the tables on her after she taunted me. “One where you're playing all by your lonesome, and get a little too lonely?”
I look up to see her glaring at me, arms crossed over her chest now, hip against the doorframe.
“A work-related one,” she says. “That's the only reason I would come to you in desperation.”
Immediately, she realizes just how that sounds. I watch the color climb her neck, all the way to her ears.
I'm way too fucking delighted, but I keep my expression neutral as I rise from the bench and lift my Stetson off the hook by the door. I settle it on slow, adjusting the brim.
I lift my chin and gesture down the hallway. “Bedroom's down there. In case you desperately need to come.”
Then I tip my hat, reach past her for the door handle, and step out into the morning.
If she's gonna send the blood rushing to my cock all summer, least I can do is send the blood rushing to her cheeks.