Chapter 3 Layla
Layla
Hayes Fielder has arrived in town.
I heard about it from Phil Grimley, who heard it from Joe Blanchard, who heard it from Michelle Olson, the counselor at the high school.
My palms are sweating.
I wipe them on my jeans and give my father’s rickety old truck a pep talk as we rattle past the last stand of pines and into the lodge’s parking lot.
“You get me to the lodge, and I’ll buy you premium gasoline.” I lie smoothly because the truck cannot call me out on my bullshit later.
In the bed: a dozen hay bales, heirloom pumpkins, two bunches of corn stalks, and as many gourds as I could pile inside, along with a hand-painted sign that proclaims Pies! Axes! Hay! all held in by one tired bungee.
This load is headed for the welcome display downtown. I should’ve stopped at the hardware store for a ratchet strap; instead I said “It’ll be fine” like I always do. Famous last words.
The truck hits a dip.
Then a pothole.
Then a honk—long, urgent—behind me.
I glance in the rearview, and my stomach yanks straight through the seat. The tailgate has dropped.
Pumpkins and hay bales and who knows what else are falling onto the pavement in a grandiose explosion, the red pickup truck behind me laying on its horn.
“Shit!” Shit, shit shit!
The tired bungee dangles like a rubber noodle. Hay bales are now dumped onto the once-pristine parking lot, and in my side mirror I catch sight of a small, round pumpkin rolling downhill.
Dammit.
The horn behind me blasts again.
“Calm down, dude!” I shout at the offender, throwing the truck into park, then hurriedly jumping out.
“Stay!” I tell the piece-of-shit truck that I now hate, because I’m panicked and also because it sometimes works.
At the same time, a man steps out of the red truck, planting his feet in the path of the runaway pumpkin.
“Sorry!” I apologize emphatically, already hustling to the tailgate to inspect the damage. “I knew this bungee wasn’t going to make it, and I kept it on the truck anyway. I am so so sorry!”
The man grunts. Bends to grab the small pumpkin at his feet, then holds it toward me in his palm.
“Trade?” he says. “You take this, I’ll grab the hay.”
“Deal.” I cradle the pumpkin like a football that failed algebra and set it on the curb. Straw is already everywhere—confetti for a parade I did not plan. Another smaller gourd toddles past my ankle like it has errands.
“Benny, sidewalk,” the man calls over his shoulder without looking away from the mess I’ve created. His tone is calm, not sharp, and a young girl about nine or ten years old in an oversize navy hoodie appears at his side anyway, braids swinging.
She scoops up two pumpkins. “Permission to pursue orange guy under the front tire?”
“Denied.”
The child wants to argue. I can see it in her eyes.
I, on the other hand, am babbling apologies. “I knew the bungee wasn’t going to hold. Ugh! Like, hi, I’m the person your liability waivers warned you about.”
I force out a laugh and hope the man cracks a smile.
“All good,” the big dude says. “We’ve seen worse.”
Worse? In the middle of a parking lot? Not likely.
And then his face tilts up and my brain finally files him under the correct tab.
Oh.
Oh no . . .
Hayes Fielder. The actual one. The reason I begged Annabelle for help is because I’m worried my organizational skills suck and that I’m going to need saving, and this is the man who has come to do the job.
I told myself I would act normal when I greeted him. Professional and not . . . not . . . whatever this is.
He’s huge. Six-three easy, with broad shoulders hidden under a green jacket, forearms ropey where his cuffs are pushed back. That thick black hair I’ve seen in pictures, a scar through one eyebrow like a punctuation mark, his mouth set in a line that says, I am not here for nonsense, lady.
His eyes are onyx pools you only get on lakes right before it rains. Jawline has stubble.
Hasn’t smiled once.
He’s got resting bitch face and I.
Am.
Into.
It.
I know attraction when I feel it, and unfortunately . . . I’m feeling it. The flutters, the dumb little elevator drop in my stomach. Terrific. Exactly what you want while you’re creating a mess in public and shedding straw like a feral scarecrow.
“Welcome to Star Lake. I’m sorry.” I wince. “Sorry, I said that part already. I’m still sorry. And also welcome.”
Stop talking, Layla.
His expression doesn’t change.
He rescues another pumpkin with his foot and looks around him at the debris on the asphalt. “Where do you want these?”
“Back in the truck bed, please.” My voice sounds normal at the same time my brain is busy cataloging: deep, sexy voice; gravelly; could read a phone book and I would listen all damn day.
“I’ll, um—” I point at the fallen hay bale and promptly rap my knuckles on the tailgate.
“Ow. We can—yep—put them there, and you can pull around me, and I’ll just, um. Clean up.”
I force my hand to behave. “I’m Layla, by the way. Annabelle McBride’s friend.”
“Hayes,” he says, short. The name lands like a weight on the asphalt. He jerks his chin toward the girl. “Benny.”
His daughter is as adorable as she looked in the few photos I found online, and no—I was not being creepy about it! They were there when I was searching for information on him, and, well. She’s sunshine and rainbows.
“Question,” Benny begins, bright as a siren. “Does that truck have a name?”
“Yes,” I say. “Bluebell—but only when she behaves. Today she’s on probation, so she gets no name.”
Benny nods, solemn. “Justice. Any pets?” she fires off.
“Uh, no.”
I glance at Hayes. He’s busy sending his kid the universal dad look that means wrap it up. “Benny—now is not the time.”
I wonder what that means as I reach for the end of a hay bale; it resists, too heavy for me to lift on my own. Hayes takes the other end without commentary. We lift in tandem. His forearms flex, and why am I noticing forearms?
Be professional!
The bale slides back into the bed of the truck, where it belongs. Then I reach for a hand-painted Pies! Axes! Hay! sign that took four hours to paint, steadying it and accidentally tipping it within an inch of his shoulder.
“Please don’t,” he says, not unkind, not kind—not exactly. He’s just very done with me. “It looks heavy.”
Because it is.
A gourd resists the top of my boot like it has an appointment it’s late for, and Benny ninja-scoops it up, tucks it into her hoodie pocket, and whispers, “You’re safe now, Kevin.” She looks up. “Follow-ups: Favorite pie? Do you like corgis?”
“Apple,” I answer, thankful for solvable problems. “Pro-corgi, pro–British family. Love a good London moment.”
“Elite,” the girl declares, shooting me a pleased grin. “Dad, she’s our people.”
Hayes doesn’t react. He’s scanning the lane, every line of him reading get the kid inside as I spot a man raising his phone, drawn by the celebrity scooping up hay in his midst.
“Hey, hello?” I call out to him and lift a palm at the same time to stop him. “The pumpkins are public,” I call, friendly. “Kids are private—ask first. Thanks!”
I turn back to Hayes and his daughter as his gaze flicks over me, gracing me with a small nod that says thanks without wasting a syllable.
Hayes shuts the tailgate, using the limp rubber bungee cord to hold it closed, yanking it around a metal hook, testing the latch. Pulling.
“Phew! Okay, all secure.” Relieved, I brush the errant straw off my sleeves.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I cannot thank you enough, and I imagine that you’d love a hot shower.
” I give them my friendliest smile, pointing toward the entrance of the lodge.
“Check-in desk is through those doors—they’re already waiting with keys and your VIP pass.
There shouldn’t be anything you have to pay for this weekend. ”
I clear my throat. “Once again, I’m sorry we had to meet this way. I’ll finish cleaning all this up, you two go inside and get settled.”
Instead of taking the easy out, he moves. “We’ll help,” he says. “We don’t leave messes.”
Benny nods. “I’m excellent at picking things up.”
“It’s misting,” I protest weakly, wiping at my cheeks with the back of my wrist. My mascara is almost certainly on a slow migration south. I probably look like a less cute version of Alice Cooper, and if you don’t know who that is, it’s worth a google. “You’ve had a travel day. Go be warm.”
“We’re waterproof,” Benny tells me. “And no offense to my dad, but this is way more fun than exploring the hotel with him.”
“Gee, thanks,” he deadpans.
She grins at me like I’ve passed some secret test. “For the record, you’re handling this mini disaster with grace. Ten out of ten.”
“Tell that to my face,” I say, dragging a finger under my eye. The finger comes away raccoon. “I’m melting.”
“It’s cute.” She’s sweet for saying so, but I know I look like a freaking mess. I’m soggy, streaking, and embarrassed.
By the time we’ve wrangled the last of the hay into a bale and exiled the mini gourds to a crate, the mist has stopped at long last. My hoodie is damp, my hair is flat, and my dignity is being held together by the baling twine holding what remains of the hay bales intact.
When we’re through, Hayes leans against the truck, then turns that weathered gaze on me. It softens a fraction. “You okay?”
It’s the first question he’s asked that’s about me. The honest answer is I’m fine because you stayed, but instead, I go with my go-to:
“I will be.” My shoulders drop a notch. “Thank you for not leaving me to drown in hay.”
“We don’t leave messes.” He repeats the sentiment, punctuating it with a definitive nod.
“I’ve added you to my list,” Benny informs me. “Even with mascara rivers. Maybe especially because of it.” Pause. “Want to come inside with us?”
“Benny,” Hayes warns her.
She is nonplussed. “What? We’re on vacation.”
“It’s ambushing.”
“It’s hospitality,” she argues, palms up.
I hold up a hand before they begin arguing, and I don’t want the kid to get in any kind of trouble.
“Tempting. I appreciate the offer, but I have a date with several food vendors and about six hundred feet of string lights. Also I’m ninety percent drowned rat right now.
” I swipe under one eye; my palm comes away streaky and black. “If I go inside, I’ll never leave.”
Should have worn waterproof mascara.
Live and learn.