Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Joey
I’m beyond ready to move into my cute little cottage. I’ve spent too many nights with Vera in my bed and waking up with a cold, wet nose in my ear. How can one dog take up so much damn space?
I blame Charlie. Not once since I’ve been here has she brought Vera into her room with her. Instead, she shuts the door, leaving me to suffer with the snoring, groaning golden retriever.
I think this is payback for the bear hug I gave her when I got here.
And the ones I’ve given her every night since.
Sighing, I shake my head. Older siblings can be so dramatic.
I’m feeling optimistic as I hum along with the music playing from Poppy’s speakers.
I don’t have much, preferring all my belongings to fit snugly inside this vehicle.
Though I have all the essentials, including a few duffel bags full of clothes, my well-loved laptop, and an embarrassing number of travel coffee mugs.
Before I embraced my nomadic life, I tucked a few special belongings into a storage unit near the house where I grew up.
Who knows where I’ll be in five, ten, even fifteen years?
Maybe I’ll keep traveling, maybe I’ll tire of this life.
Either way, I wasn’t ready to part with any of it.
And for now, I’m content with the open road and the possibilities ahead of me.
Occasionally, my optimistic spirit transforms into a cynical one—for example, anytime I hear from my new nemesis Norma, who thinks my email address is her personal diary.
Thankfully, a proper meal typically quells the agitation, and now that I’m not living out of a vehicle, I’ve been getting more of those.
When I’m on the road, I can go a day or two consuming nothing but pretzels and sports drinks.
Sometimes a woman’s gotta do what she can to survive.
Even if that means demolishing a family size pack of Oreos in a day and washing it down with an unhealthy amount of espresso.
As I navigate the winding road leading to my new place, I take in the towering spruce trees.
They’re a blur of green and brown as I cruise to the outer edge of Hemlock.
The cottage, nestled deep in the forest, was a lucky find.
I stumbled upon the listing online and instantly knew I wanted to live there.
The home looks like something out of a storybook, with ivy creeping over its log siding and vibrant flowers decorating the open porch.
On the drive to Oregon, I even had a brief daydream about wandering through the dense woods and befriending curious squirrels and rabbits. Not that I would admit that out loud, of course. I’d rather not have the people around me questioning my sanity.
Behind me, my overprotective brother follows a little too close. Every few minutes, I tense up, my body preparing for the jolt.
I swear on my mom and dad’s urn if he so much as dents my van with his tailgating, I’ll kill him with my bare hands and feminine rage.
Jack, who runs his own construction company, was vehement about accompanying me today so he could ensure the house is up to code. Really, all I want is for him to check for serial killers under my bed.
Unsurprisingly, he grumbled and rolled his eyes when I asked, like he thought I was joking.
So here we are. Jack once again tailgating, and me white-knuckling the wheel, waiting for his obnoxiously large four-by-four to strike my van.
“In half a mile, your destination is on the right,” the GPS announces.
Relief washes over me as I force myself to focus on the road ahead.
The last few days at work have almost broken me.
Norma’s attitude makes me want to kick her ass straight into early retirement.
Nothing I do makes her happy. She once stopped me in the middle of a presentation because a letter on my slide wasn’t properly capitalized.
My pettiness may have gotten the best of me when I respectfully pulled out the editorial style guide to prove her wrong. The satisfaction I got fueled me for a couple of days, though right now, all I want is a nap and a nice, deep cry.
The GPS directs me down a long dirt path canopied by towering trees that ends yards from the adorable cottage.
As I climb out, Jack parks beside me and hops down.
“You really didn’t need to come with me,” I tell him. “Sometimes I think you forget I’m an adult and can take care of myself.”
My brother scoffs, running his hand down his dark beard. “Huh. Feels like just last week, Charlie and I had to play rock, paper, scissors to figure out who would save you when your location quit moving and we knew you’d run out of gas.”
I suppose it really was only a week ago. “That tracks,” I say. “And I appreciate the way you two stopped to play a game before searching for me. Good use of your time.”
“We—” The thunderous roar of a motorcycle drowns out his words, and in unison, we turn to the driveway, where a figure on a jet-black bike approaches.
“Stand behind me, Jo,” my brother says, grasping my arm and shoving me behind him.
For once, I’m not a stubborn asshole and I do what he says. Because when a mysterious looming figure on an intimidating piece of steel on wheels is coming directly toward me—while I’m in the woods, no less—it only makes sense to use my lumberjack brother as a human shield.
I’m too pretty and young to die.
The bike comes to a stop beside my van, the man on it dressed in black from head to toe, including the helmet with a tinted face shield that hides his features.
Terrified or not, I can’t help but wonder who would win in a battle between a biker bro and a lumberjack.
I love Jack. I do. He’s reliable and has an excellent resting bitch face, but at the end of the day, he’d probably lose against the menacing figure now dismounting the bike.
Jack steels his spine, shoulders pulled back, his fists clenched tight at his sides. Tension radiates off him, like he’s about to kick this guy’s ass and then bury his body in the woods behind us.
Fine. Maybe I didn’t give Jack enough credit. Maybe he has a fair shot at kicking biker bro’s ass.
Heavy black leather boots crunch against the gravel driveway, filling the ominous silence surrounding us. The man peels off his worn leather gloves as he saunters closer, revealing strong, callused hands. Then he unfastens his helmet and pulls it over his head.
Immediately, moss green eyes meet mine in confusion.
I peek over Jack’s shoulder, frowning at the newcomer. “Beckett?”
“Beckett?” Jack glances back at me, then scrutinizes the man decked out in leather and denim.
“Beckett,” the hot nurse echoes.
My brother crosses his arms over his chest. “Ah. You used to live in our neighborhood.”
I reel back, my breath catching. “He lived in our neighborhood?”
Beckett—devastatingly attractive, as always—stands casually with his helmet under his arm. “I lived in your neighborhood?”
Finally, I step around Jack and tentatively approach him. “W-what are you doing here?”
“Yeah. What are you doing here?” My brother takes a step closer, eyes narrowed.
Beckett clears his throat. “What am I doing—” He waves a hand in front of him. “Actually, I’m going to break the cycle and not repeat everything you say. It’s getting to be a little much.” A flush slowly creeps up his cheeks, his eyes darting between us.
Head ducked, my brother scrubs his hand down his stubbled jaw and chuckles.
“Bashful Beckett. Ms. Hart’s son,” he says to himself.
“My dad and I used to help your mom with yardwork in the summer. She was a nurse, right? She’d leave cookies on our front porch before she’d head to work as a thank you. ”
How the hell do I not remember this? How does Beckett not remember this? Surely we’d remember each other if we were neighbors as children.
“How do I not remember this?” I blurt out, my mouth working faster than my brain.
“We helped during the summer,” Jack says, smirking. “While you were off on mini excursions. You know, trespassing onto other neighbors’ property and stealing—I mean picking—flowers from their gardens for Mom.”
Wincing, I turn to Beckett. “And how do you not remember?”
“My nickname was literally bashful Beckett. I really was too shy to leave the house back then. Plus,” he sighs, “I have seasonal allergies. Guess I assumed my mom hired a yard service. I never knew the neighbors were doing the work.” He gives a small shrug, his cheeks going pink, evidence that his nickname was accurate.
“My dad and I were convinced you weren’t real,” Jack says, his tone full of amusement. “We thought maybe your mom made you up to give us the impression that she didn’t live alone.”
Beckett nods, his lips twitching. “That wouldn’t be too far-fetched for her. She’s conjured up wilder stories before.”
Jack chuckles. “Especially because I never saw you at school.”
“Private school.” Beckett grips the back of his neck, squeezing.
“Really? Wow.” My brother shakes his head, grinning. “This decades-long mystery is coming together now. You know—”
“I’m glad we’re all having this caring, sharing moment,” I say, my voice playfully sarcastic, “but if you never saw him at school, how did you know it was him?”
“Ms. Hart calls me from time to time to fix things at her condo.” Jack cocks a brow. “You know your mom has a whole wall of photos of you, right? It’s hard to miss a shrine of that size.”
Beckett lowers his head, kicking at a stray pebble. “Don’t remind me. It’s hard to sleep when twenty pairs of my own eyes are on me.” He shudders.
A laugh bubbles out of me. The absurdity of this situation makes my head spin. Still, he hasn’t answered my question.
“What are you doing here?” When my tone comes out a little more forceful than I like, I take a step back, cringing.
It happens. Sometimes, when my mind is a tornado of confusion, my questions come out sharp and fast. That personality trait is a bug, not a feature.
Jack puts a hand on my shoulder and jostles me lightly. “Jesus, Jo. Go easy on the guy. He’s harmless.”
I glower at my idiot brother. “You were the one about to punch him. And you’re telling me to go easy on him?”
“I’m right here, you know.” Beckett’s deep voice is quiet, but his words are clear. “Please don’t punch me, though. I’ve already got a deviated septum that makes it tough to breathe at night,” he says, tapping the bridge of his nose.
My shoulders sag as I let out an exhausted sigh. I’m having a painfully difficult time trying to tame all the questions in my brain.
Is this a stranger danger situation? Is he following me? Or is this a weird coincidence? Please let it be a coincidence. Though maybe I wouldn’t be mad if a tattooed biker was following me.
How was I so oblivious that I didn’t know this guy lived on my street growing up? Is this why my parents said my head was always in the clouds?
I take a few deep breaths, centering myself because I’m a tad overwhelmed. When my thoughts stop spinning and my nerves settle, the pieces fall into place.
He’s here for a few months. I’m here for a few months.
He needs a temporary place to stay. I need a temporary place to stay.
This was the only short-term rental I could find in Hemlock.
My heart races as the reality of the situation washes over me like cold water.
Are we. . .roommates?