31. Tilly
Chapter thirty-one
Tilly
I ’ve never been to an estate sale, but I didn’t think it’d get as raucous as it does. Two naked statues bring out the claws and an elderly lady argues with a younger man over splitting them up or buying them as a set. A wrought iron chandelier goes for more money than my entire house is worth, and I realize I’m extremely out of my depth here. I came for one item, and one item only. Will I have to fight someone for it? How much am I willing to pay for a display case for my desserts?
“Looks like we might have some competition for the case.” Archer points to a middle-aged man staring intently at the next item up for sale.
They wheel the case out and my heart implodes. It’s amazing. The bottom half is a lighter distressed wood that could be sanded down and painted, and the sides of the case have beautiful artwork on them. Inside, the shelves are cracked, and the door to the back of the case needs new hinges, gaskets, and a glass pane, but everything is fixable.
I chew on my lip, gaze darting back and forth from the man to the bakery case. He rubs his hands together like he’s got an evil plan, and the announcer tells everyone to take their seats so the bidding can begin. I hold my breath, hoping everyone else looked at the case and figured it’d be too much work.
“I can fix it up.” Archer stretches his arm across the back of my chair and rubs the base of my neck. A chill runs down my arms, and I lean into his embrace. He kisses my temple, and I smile behind my number panel .
Feral Felix, as we’ve taken to calling him, doesn’t back down on the case. What started as a nice back and forth quickly spirals into a tennis match of numbers thrown at each other.
“I don’t want to pay more than three thousand for this,” I say. “If it means that much to him, let him have it.” I lay my hand across Archer’s wrist holding the number panel. His mouth is tight, and I can tell he wants to keep going, wants to get me that case, but it’s not in the budget I made. “I’ll find another one.”
“Four thousand,” Archer yells.
My mouth drops and I smack his leg. “Archibald Wilson!”
His eyes open wide at my use of his full name.
He’s lucky I didn’t call him ‘the second.’
“Sold to the man in the yellow and black flannel shirt,” the announcer calls.
“Tilda St. James,” he grits out. “There’s no amount of money that I’d let get between you and your bakery.”
Air rushes out of me, and my tiny heart grows three sizes too big for my chest. The announcer tells us where to pay for the case, and when I try to hand him a check, Archer places his in the cashier’s hand first. I squeeze his arm, trying to hold back the tears. I know he’s not trying to buy my affection, but I can’t deny his belief in me—his support—has given me a piece of myself back. Slowly but surely, Archer Wilson is wiggling his way back into my heart.
We secure the case to the truck, and something takes over my body. I’m alive, jittery, filled to the brim with emotions I can’t name. I leap into Archer’s arms and press my lips to his. Like soft pillows, they cushion mine, forming to the curves as he returns my kiss. Arms snaking around my back, he pulls me flush to him and sucks my lip into his mouth, nibbling before he releases me and exhales .
“Get in the truck.” His order, accompanied with the darkness swirling behind his eyes, lights a fire under my ass.
We get onto the road before the light rain begins. Archer’s hand rests on my leg, and I play with the longer strands of hair at the back of his head. Occasionally he’ll pull my hand in for a kiss, or rub my leg, other times we chat about my bakery plans. It’s not lost on me that he strays away from talking about his job and the potential of him leaving.
I don’t want to think about it just yet either.
A loud boom echoes through the car. My hands fly to the dashboard, heart thrashing around as Archer swerves before regaining traction. He safely pulls over to the side of the road and gets out.
“Shit,” he says when he gets back into the truck.
“What happened?”
“Blowout,” is all he says as he grabs his phone.
“Oh.”
“Damn it.” He chuckles and slams the phone down on his dashboard. “No service.”
“I’m sorry, Arch.” I rest my head on my hands, elbows on my knees.
“You have no reason to be sorry.”
“We wouldn’t be stuck out here if I didn’t want that bakery case.”
“We wouldn’t be stuck out here if I didn’t forget to replace my spare tire.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him. “And even if you weren’t with me, I still would’ve come to get you that case. It was my decision, not yours.”
I hear his words, but they don’t have the effect I need them to. I still feel crappy that we’re stuck with no service as a storm rolls into the hill country.
A truck appears behind us, their lights bright against the darkening sky .
“Stay in here.” Archer gets out of the truck to meet the driver.
“Y’all broken down?” I can hear the older man ask.
He doesn’t look like a serial killer, but neither did Ted Bundy. Archer sizes him up too, and I can tell he knows he could take him if something went wrong.
“What type of tire do ya need? I have a few in my barn up the road.”
Him and Archer chat for a few minutes about the truck while I sit in the warmth of the cab. The wind has picked up, and the sun is speeding toward the horizon like it can’t wait to go to sleep after a long day.
Archer leans through my open window. “Mr. Bob has graciously offered us use of his barn apartment for the evening if he can’t find a tire.”
“What if he’s a killer?” I whisper.
“You think I’d let anything happen to you?”
I nod. “Any person in their right mind would save themselves.”
He laughs and grabs my hand, placing a kiss on my knuckles. “I’m not sure whether to be proud or offended you would ditch me. If it helps, I’d happily fight off a pack of wolves—or a serial killer disguised as a sweet old grandpa—if it meant you made it safely home.”
Bob disappears over the hill to go check his barn. Archer rests his forehead against mine, and exhales. “I’m so glad that guy backed down and you got your case.”
“Me, too.” I nuzzle his nose and kiss him until we’re both breathless and panting. I almost forgot what it felt like to be teenagers making out in the front seat of a truck.
Too soon, Bob returns with bad news. No tire to match, and with the cell service down and night descending, calling for a tow isn’t an option. Archer looks to me to decide on whether or not we are staying in Bob’s barn. I nod and follow him out of the truck .
“What about the display case?” I ask. “Someone might steal it.”
“We can move it into my garage for the night,” Bob says. “Have y’all eaten yet? My wife Minnie cooked.”
On cue, my stomach grumbles. Archer chuckles and helps Bob move the display case. We’re all crammed in the front of Bob’s old, two-door Chevy, and a month ago I would’ve hated every minute of being so close to Archer, but now? Now, I can’t get close enough.
Bob’s wife, Minnie, cooked a feast for us and tried to send us to the barn with extras. We politely declined, and using Bob’s truck, drove the mile down to the ranch hand’s apartment attached to the barn. It sits on the back half of their ten-acre property, surrounded by stables and fields of cattle. The animals are all in the pen when we walk in, and they bay, shifting around like they’re greeting us.
“This way.” Archer leads me up the stairs past a chest.
All my thoughts of relaxation grind to a screeching halt when he opens the door and turns on the lights, illuminating the singular bed in the middle of the room.