Chapter 19
The following two days pass in a blur. It’s Saturday, and Veronica and her friends will be here tonight, so it’s crunch time.
There’s so much going on that I don’t even have time to dwell on the fact that Parker didn’t come home last night until midnight, not long after I’d finished transforming the loft.
Today, the only things that matter are the ones that have to do with the party. Everything else can wait.
Though I didn’t ask her to, Tabitha has been sprucing up the yard to add to the aesthetic.
I’d be mad if she was using it as an excuse to procrastinate, but her creative block seems to be well under control by now.
I’m sure that her covering some of my chores this week—and the supposed uptick in meeting Jim to discuss the farmer’s market—is doing the trick.
Now that she’s not singularly focused on her work and has gone back to the type of daily structure she’s used to, rather than force herself to sit in the studio all day and stress, she’s been able to get more done when she manages to find time to spend working in shorter spurts.
Today, she arranged pumpkins from the patch beside the house to the front porch and stacked a few hay bales at the barn entrance with some pumpkins on top, which gives it a nice, welcoming aesthetic that I know will be great for photos.
Parker’s been busy all day with his regular work, and he’s spent two nights in a row watching Mason, not trusting the babysitter to show up.
He took fifteen minutes to help me lug up the tables and get them roughly into place over the mishmash of area rugs I dragged up from the house this morning, but I’ve managed the rest independently.
There hasn’t been much time for anything else, let alone a conversation.
Miraculously, by late Saturday afternoon, I think I might be ready.
Wiping my arm across my damp brow, I take it all in.
The tables in the loft are set up, each seating identical with its supplies: pencils, markers, and brushes held in ceramic mugs from Tabitha’s collection of unsold items, creating a common thread among the assortments.
Each is similar in size and made from the same material, but is also unique in color and pattern.
She hates making the same thing twice, which is exactly why her dishware has never sold well.
But with the rustic-chic scheme of everything else, it adds charm to the décor.
I finish hanging the last of my sample pieces on the walls and let the smile tug my lips free.
It’s nothing like the chic vibe I pictured when Lyla and I talked about opening our own shop. But I might like it even better. Now I only have to hope Veronica and her guest of honor feel the same.
With a happy sigh, hardly believing that I’m ready, I go downstairs, at a loss for what to do with the next couple of hours.
After running full tilt for days, sitting doesn’t feel like an option.
As I head towards the big door of the barn that opens onto the driveway, I pause at the chalkboard screwed to the wall outside the office.
It’s so dirty it almost blends into the wall, but a light flashes excitedly in my head and I rush to get a bucket and rag.
I snap a quick picture on my phone before I wipe away the feeding instructions and emergency numbers listed there, including my own, which I added the other day. With the board empty, I pick up a piece of white chalk and start. Halfway through the word welcome, Parker’s deep voice sounds behind me.
“Finishing touches?” he asks, his tone breezy.
“Pretty much.” Sparing him only a glance, I smile, but he doesn’t move away.
His eyes are on the board, but I feel like they’re on me. For a few seconds, I stare at the slope of his nose, the tilt of his focused brow.
In my T-shirt—it’s a warm fall day and I worked up a decent sweat moving around all day—I can feel his breath on my arm and find myself fighting an involuntary rush of feelings.
I turn back to the board, finish the words, and fill the corners with embellishments, flowers, decorative leaves, and swirls.
This part didn’t come naturally to me when I was first learning, but I’ve worked hard at finding my unique style, and I’m pretty happy with how this turned out on the first try.
“I guess the artistic streak runs in your family.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “I’m sure there’s a special Ryan family trait you inherited.
Though my guess is, it’s the last thing people would expect.
Like, you come from a family of trapeze artists or something.
Please tell me I’m right, because the thought of you in a leotard …
” I trail off, realizing that instead of making him laugh, my comment seems to have done the opposite.
“Parker? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he says, but it’s short and gruff.
I stand there awkwardly, wondering what I said to upset him, and what I can say to fix it.
“I’m sorry, by the way, that I haven’t been able to help out much,” he says. “I got a bit of a late start this morning. It was pretty late when I got back from watching Mason.”
“I’ll say.” I cringe. I hadn’t meant to let that slip out. It’s not my place to have an opinion on how Parker spends his evenings.
Or who he spends them with.
But, since my foot is already well in my mouth, I’m in it now, regardless.
“What was that tone?” he asks, amused.
“Nothing, I just meant … nothing.”
I add a final flourish on the board, satisfied that my “Welcome Team Bride” sign is complete. I turn and head for the feed room, using the sink to wash the chalk from my hands. Note to self, sweat makes chalk dust extra clingy, just like Parker, who follows me into the small room.
“Hold up, what did you mean?”
I raise my voice to be heard over the running water. “I meant that you were gone a long time.” I finish rinsing my hands and grab a towel hanging nearby to dry them, turning back to face him. When I’m finished, I ditch the towel and lean back, resting against the edge of the plastic wash basin.
“So,” I go on when Parker stares at me. “I guess you and Cass must have had a good time.”
His chin drops and he draws his arms in, folding them across his chest. I suck in a breath, bracing myself for him to tell me to butt out of his business.
Then he laughs. It’s a low chuckle, and when he raises his eyes to mine again, they’re soft. “Is that what you think?”
“Well …” I did. Now I’m not so sure.
“Cass and me, it’s not like that.”
He must see the doubt across my face, because he keeps talking, taking a step closer. His hands drop to his sides.
“So Mason is …?” I hold my breath, waiting for him to fill in the blank.
His eyes trace my face. “My nephew. They’re family, Sloan.”
“Is that how Cass sees it?” I ask, remembering how she looked at me yesterday, like a bull deciding whether or not to charge. “She didn’t seem happy about you bringing me along the other day.”
“Yeah, well. That’s Cass. She doesn’t like new people, so don’t take it personally. She hasn’t exactly had an easy life.” His words hold a heaviness that has my mind churning out more questions about this woman and the past she and Parker share.
“You may know Cass, but I know women. That wasn’t your average look of contempt. She practically turned green.”
His face twitches into an adorable frown. “Like the Hulk?”
I laugh. “With envy, you idiot.”
His eyebrows dart up. “You think she was jealous?”
With a subtle shift, he moves a little closer and the hairs on my arms prick to attention. I shrug, like it doesn’t matter either way. The edge of his mouth quirks up.
“You know, you’re looking a little green yourself.”
My pulse quickens. “What?”
“You’ve got a little there, still.” He steps forward, licking his thumb and moving towards my face as if he’s going to brush away some dirt.
I swat his hand before he can touch my cheek, but I’m not quick enough to hide the smile on my face. I can tell from his smile that he knows I don’t mind his teasing. And it’s too late to deny it now, so there’s no use pretending.
“Maybe I was jealous,” I say, straightening up defiantly. “But only because I had to do all that work alone. And it’s not even like she offered to pay you. I’m disappointed in your lack of loyalty, Parker.”
“Oh, so one night alone with me in a dark, secluded barn wasn’t enough?”
He steps closer now, a bold, obvious motion—no subtle shifting this time—and my breath hitches. With the sink behind me, I have nowhere to go, and from the sudden, thrilling darkening of his eyes, it’s clear that he knows it too. Then his hand is on my hip, sending shivers up my body.
Okay, I’m not misreading signals.
His nose is inches from mine, his lips filling my field of vision. Sharing the same air, all I can think of is how desperately I want to feel them. My back arches and I sway closer, closing the distance between us. His fingertips tighten on my hip, pressing deliciously into my soft flesh.
“Still jealous?” His voice is a low rumble, thick with something that wasn’t there a second ago.
I answer him by gliding both hands up his chest to his neck, my body alight with a thousand nerve endings, rapid-firing at once, all of them screaming at me to get closer. “Jealous of who?”
Those soft, straight lips twitch again, sending a blaze of anticipation through me. A thought tries faintly to cut through the sudden haze of my brain.
“Parker,” I whisper, struggling to find words. “I thought … you said you didn’t want …”
“I know,” he rushes, his eyes dark and hooded with lust. “I don’t care anymore.”
This pulls my gaze from his lips to his eyes. I don’t want to be an impulse decision he regrets later. His free hand comes up to cup my cheek, steadying me, anchoring me to him. Or him to me—I’m not exactly sure.