Maybe fifty.
They’re on one side of the road amid the straggly, drying grass, the herd slowly following the leader across in front of our car, some noshing on whatever they can find on the ground, one with smallish antlers trying to mount another, and way more than just one baby.
“Aren’t they pretty?” I whisper back.
“They’re gorgeous.”
Her eyes are wide as she leans forward in her seat. “Put your blinkers on. Don’t be a sitting target on the highway. And flash your lights so the cars coming the other direction aren’t stupid either.”
“Aww, look at you with all the driver’s-ed smarts. Does this mean you’re ready to try it behind the wheel again? We do have a lot of flat acres you could practice on.”
“Don’t be sarcastic in the presence of elk. They’ll eat you.”
I watch the herd cross the road for a bit, but mostly, I watch Junie.
The sheer awe on her face—she wouldn’t have gotten this if we’d stayed in Iowa.
Maybe this move didn’t ruin her life after all.
Chapter 13
Flint
I suck at apologizing.
It’s been mostly intentional through my adult life, mainly because I try to live my life in a way that doesn’t lend itself to regrets or the necessity of an apology.
Or to getting attached enough to anyone to have to apologize to them.
When I do screw up, I’ll apologize to Opal. I’ll apologize to my colleagues.
But I’ve made a point to not apologize to a woman. Especially a woman who might think we have a future.
The one time I did—don’t want to talk about it.
Much as I’m certain Maisey Spencer doesn’t think we have a future—even a very short-lived quickie kind of future—it’s still hard to make myself knock on her door early Sunday morning. I know June’s at a sleepover with half the soccer team, which means this is my only chance to catch Maisey alone.
I knock three times before she answers, and when she finally swings the door open, I have instant regrets.
She’s wearing bright-pink pajama pants decorated with squirrels, a Half-Cocked Heroes concert T-shirt, and there’s an eye mask shoved up onto her forehead, making her bedhead stick out even worse.
Her feet are bare. The dark smudges under her eyes are pronounced against her pale cheeks, and there’s no question in my mind that she’s braless.
I don’t want to apologize to Maisey Spencer.
I want to lift her off her feet, shove her against a wall, and devour her.
“Tony has a secret root cellar that should be cleaned out soon,” I blurt, and it sounds pretty much exactly like my brain at 3:00 a.m., when I bolted awake suddenly remembering that I’d willfully forgotten about it and that June should not be the person who finds it.
Or even Maisey.
Maisey should definitely not find it until I clean it out.
Also?
Never mind my practiced I’m sorry I was an ass, here’s a coffee. Let me tell you about some of the quirks of the property, beyond the aging well.
Nope.
The sight of those sleepy baby blues and that short blonde bedhead has rendered me stupid, and it’s all I can do to hang on to the one ounce of reason remaining in my brain to spit out my purpose in being here.
She rubs one eye and stares at me like it’s too early in the morning for my words to compute.
Probably is.
Shit.
It’s not even seven o’clock.
On a Sunday.
“What about the—” She pauses, her jaw stretching wide as she yawns so big, I can see her tonsils. When she’s done yawning, she smacks her lips three times, swipes away the tears glistening in her eyes—Jesus, that was a yawn—and slouches in the doorway. “What about the root cellar?”
I wince. “I’m gonna take care of it. I just wanted you to know there’s a root cellar, and I’ll be down in it today, taking care of cleaning it out. So you don’t have to. And so June doesn’t . . . know.”
Apparently, I’m gonna clean out your root cellar is code for You need to wake up immediately because there is way more to this story than I’m telling you, because Maisey visibly jolts awake like her brain has been snapped with a rubber band.
“What’s in the root cellar?” she asks.
“Mold.” The word flies out of my mouth with all the force a normal person would use to say hazardous waste with a side of serial killers.
Her lips purse, and her eyes telegraph a very clear I don’t believe you. “What’s in the root cellar?” she repeats in a voice that has my dick twitching and my brain conjuring dirty librarian fantasies.
“Look, I know you have no reason to like me or trust me right now, but you should trust me on this.”
“When’s the last time you were in the root cellar?”
To the best of my knowledge, she doesn’t know where the entrance is.
But also to the best of my knowledge, teenagers have a way of figuring this shit out, and the first time June has a sleepover here and offers to show her friends around, they’ll notice.
Anytime I bring kids out here to work, we stay far away from the house. Respect for the owner, I always told them.
And they were good kids, so they listened.
“You’re gonna have to trust me on this,” I repeat, trying my own teacher voice on her.
She folds her arms over her chest.
No watch.
No jewelry.
Just toned arms covering her lovely—erm, her chest.
It’s just a chest.
And they’re just arms.
I am not attracted to them in the least.
Especially not in ways that I shouldn’t be.
“The last time I trusted you, I ended up trapped in a janitor’s closet with a crazy person. So please excuse me if I’d like a little further information on what, exactly, is going on in my uncle’s root cellar.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t sound sorry. I sound desperate and irritated, and I know it. See, again, I don’t apologize well. So I take a deep breath, and I try again.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, and this time, I almost believe myself. “That was not my best behavior. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry. And I’d like to make it up to you by taking care of a mess before June and her friends find it.”
She studies me with those plump lips still pursed, her eyes far more alert than they were a minute ago, faint lines marring her forehead. “I told Junie that you’d have to be a completely different person before I’d ever consider dating you.”
And now my balls are sweating. “I don’t want to date you. I just want to do something nice for Tony’s family. And Tony. This is really more for Tony than it is for you.”
“You don’t want to date me.”
“I’m a serial heartbreaker.”
Not the single brow lift.
Jesus.
Not the single brow lift.
Such a small gesture to say so much. You really think anyone could care enough about you for you to break their heart? You’re not that attractive, Flint Jackson. And you’re an ass to boot.
Or maybe it says, I’m well aware there’s more to that story, and if you think I’m going to take you at face value, you are sadly mistaken.