Move Me (Cherry Blossom Lake Romantic Comedies #6)

Chapter 1

Hazel

I stare at the pee-soaked stick in my hand, feeling my heart whack the walls of my chest like the housekeeper beating a Turkish wool rug.

Two lines.

I check the instructions again, though there’s no point. It’s the fourth test I’ve taken this morning, all of them yielding the same result.

Pregnant.

That’s what it says, right here in tiny black script. There’s even a diagram in case my overpriced Ivy League education left me ill-equipped to gauge what two looks like.

It looks like my world spinning out of control.

It looks like the biggest mistake of my life.

It looks like a moment I’d go back and change if I could.

Gripping the stick, I squeeze my eyes shut. I picture the whole thing like yesterday, though it’s technically been more than three months.

Three months, thirteen days, and roughly eight hours and thirty-two minutes.

Shall I set the stage? Sketch out a map to show how I journeyed from ice princess CEO to un-showered floozy wearing her father’s old dress shirt while dunking a stick in a Waterford glass of urine?

Picture me driving the damp coastal pass, wind whipping my hair in my black Mercedes-Benz AMG GT 43. It’s raining a little, so it’s silly to have the sunroof open as I cruise home from seeing my father at Oregon’s federal prison.

But it’s also silly to keep having the same conversations with Dad. His words fill my ears, expanding an ache that balloons through my shoulders and belly.

“You owe me this, Hazel.” Dad always finds the best words to pierce through my armor. “If my own daughter hadn’t turned on me—”

“Stop it!” Squeezing the wheel tight, I ease off the highway and onto the side road that leads to the stupid-huge mansion I live in alone.

That was part of the deal when Dad went to prison. I took over his house, along with the reins of his construction and development firm. Not much of a stretch, since I’ve practically run things since the day I brought home a shiny-new business degree, along with my keen eye for numbers and details.

Suffice it to say, that’s how I found the breadcrumbs that led to my father’s conviction for arson and fraud.

“Fuck!” Pounding the steering wheel with a fist, I curse the stupid voices in my head. The ones whispering that I’m a bad boss, a terrible daughter, a not-so-great human. That I’m destined to end up lonely and rich and rotting as my cat eats the eyelids off my well-dressed corpse.

I should get a cat.

“What the—” I brake hard, wheels skidding on wet asphalt as I take in the scene at the edge of my property.

A battered green truck, parked at an angle next to the black iron fence ringing my home on the lake shore. The nose of the truck nearly touches the gate. The bent, crumpled gate that my father kept locked when he lived here.

I never shut it, and judging by the wrecked state of things, I’m not likely to do so anytime soon.

“Son of a—” I stop when I spot him. A broad-shouldered man, on his knees at the edge of the driveway. He’s inspecting the gate with a wrench in his hand, eyes flashing up as I skid. “Oh.”

Luke Lovelin.

I know who he is. Luke moved here a few years ago, working as a groundskeeper for his famous brother-in-law while securing a job on one of my father’s construction crews.

His background check revealed time spent in prison, not that Luke tried to hide it.

He wrote it right there on the job app, and I sleuthed out more detail before I let Dad sign off on his hiring.

Luke watches me pull to a stop beside him.

The tool in his hand and his guilty expression leave no doubt he’s responsible for the destruction.

Drawing a few calming breaths, I hit the button to close off the sunroof.

The gentle rain sprinkles have switched to a downpour, a fact that’s abundantly clear as I step from the car and catch a fierce slap of rainwater right in the face.

“Ow.” A wet shank of my waist-length dark hair whips from my chignon and clings to my cheek like a sea snail. Peeling it off, I glare at Luke Lovelin. “What the hell?”

He’s on his feet now, wiping his hands on ripped jeans that look like he chewed out the knees, then dragged them behind his old truck. “What a mess, huh?”

I’m not sure if he means my hair, the gate, my life, or this rainstorm that came out of nowhere. Either way, I’m in no mood to make idle chatter.

“I sincerely hope you plan to repair this to its original state.”

Luke tilts his head, tossing the wrench from one hand to the other. “Yes, ma’am.”

For some reason that sets me off. Maybe it’s how the prison guards leer at me, calling me ma’am with a taunting lilt of false respect. Their hands drag my body, making the pat-downs more of a grope-fest than a safety procedure.

I feel myself gritting my teeth, preparing to let Luke Lovelin have it.

“I also hope you don’t drive this recklessly when you’re behind the wheel of a Spencer Development vehicle.

” Crossing my arms, I stare into his pale blue eyes.

“Surely you don’t need an additional motor vehicle infraction on your record, Mr. Lovelin. ”

My dart hits its mark, and I watch those eyes flash with anger. He knows I’m aware of what sent him to prison when he was just out of high school.

But instead of retreating, he takes a step toward me. “Ma’am.” He softens his tone when I flinch. “Hazel. Wasn’t me who plowed into your gate. That was Harry Hartman, on his way home from paying a visit to Mrs. Hartman at the old folks’ home.”

“Oh, God.” The blood drains out of my face. “Is he okay?”

“Yep.” Luke doesn’t step back. He’s so close I feel the heat of his breath on my cheeks. “Checked him over myself and stayed with him ’til the ambulance got here. The EMT says he’ll be fine, but I’ll visit him later to be sure.”

“Dammit.” I squeeze my eyes shut, not sure how this day could get worse. “I’m sorry. I just assumed—”

“That I’m a piece-of-shit criminal who’s reckless and selfish and destructive when it comes to other people’s property?” The snark in his voice makes me open my eyes. “No, wait—that’d be your dad, wouldn’t it?”

Well now I’m mad all over again. “What do you know about my father?”

“I know enough, Hazel.” The soft way he says my name sends a strange pulse of heat through my core. “I also know you should get your sweet ass in the house. No sense in us both getting soaked.”

“But—”

“Go!” He barks the word sharply, and I back up so fast I bump into my car. “Get out of my way and let me work.”

Pressing my lips tight together, I try to decide what to do. Should I tell him to leave, and I’ll hire out the work? Should I stand here and argue that he knows nothing—nothing—about me or my family?

But words fail me for some reason, so I spin on my heels, getting into my car and zipping inside the garage where it’s dry.

I kick off my shoes and pad through the house with bare feet, gathering things I think Luke might need.

An umbrella, a tarp, a bottle of water. A fresh change of clothes from my father’s old things, the dry cleaner’s plastic encasing Dad’s blue Tom Ford shirt.

I grab some snacks, too, muttering the whole time about men who think they know me. Who boss me around, believing the fact that my father’s in prison gives them the right to treat me like shit.

And yes, I’ll admit I was a jerk to Luke. That’s why I’m stuffing these things in a waterproof bag, then beelining it out the front door and—

“Ooof.” I collide with a thick wall of muscle.

Luke’s big, gloved hands catch my arms, holding me steady as I spit out a damp hunk of hair.

“Going somewhere?” he asks. Blue eyes pierce mine, and I’m hyperaware that my top is still damp and a little bit see-through.

“I thought you might need some things.” I drop the bag on his boots as he takes a step into my foyer. “What are you doing?”

“Coming inside to wash up.” Toeing the bag out of his way, he kicks my door shut and points to the powder room off to the right. “That all right with you?”

“Yes, of course.” My hands flutter helplessly to my sides. “There’s some dry clothing here and a few tools I found in my father’s belongings.”

“Already got what I need.” He stomps to the powder room and slams the door shut. Seconds later, the water starts running. “Your gate’s fixed,” he shouts.

“Oh.” I glance out the window and wow. “How did you do that?”

“We criminals tend to be good with our hands. All that brawling and fighting, making shanks and lock picks out of chicken bones.” He’s obnoxiously cheerful on the other side of the door.

“Don’t tell, but I might’ve stashed one in your fencepost. Never know when I might need to come back and burgle your house in the dead of night. ”

Asshole.

But he did fix my gate, so I’m grateful. “At least take the fresh change of clothes so you don’t go home soaked.” It’s the least I can do for his trouble. “I’ll leave them out here so you can—oh.”

He throws open the door to stand here in front of me bare-chested and rippling with muscle. Tawny skin shimmers with droplets of water, and a thin, jagged scar snakes from his ribs to his hip.

Swallowing hard, I peel my cardboard tongue off the roof of my mouth. It takes all my nerve to meet his eyes. Ocean-blue eyes flecked with bright bits of copper. I’ve never seen eyes quite like his. “I’ll, um…just leave the things right here.”

I pick up the bag and set it right next to the powder room door. When I straighten I find that I’ve somehow stepped into Luke’s personal space. I’m so close I feel my hand lifting to touch one firm, rounded pec.

No!

I’m just tucking my hair behind an ear, keeping my hands to myself like a good little hostess.

So why is my palm on his chest?

“I’m sorry.” I am, but I don’t drop my hand. What is wrong with me?

Luke looks down at my hand, lips quirking up. “Sorry for being a bitch to me, or sorry for groping me?”

“I wasn’t—”