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“Nothing I wouldn’t do unless I’d done some actual proposing.” I don’t want her getting the wrong idea. “I’m going to run home real fast, grab some sleeping bags—two separate ones—and I’ll meet you at your Aunt Dee’s. We’re going to have a sleep out.”
Tessa’s eyes narrow in a question. “You’re making a lot of presumptions about me trusting you to stay overnight without expecting anything more than some stargazing.”
“Girl.” I let out a long breath. “I kept my eyes off you when you were stark naked. If I can accomplish that Herculean task, I’ve got the willpower to keep my hands to myself tonight.” I let my mouth tug into a smile. “Unless you don't want me to.”
Tessa purses her lips, but there’s a grin trying to get out there. Her eyes drop slowly to my toes, then back to my face again, like she’s studying every part of me. “You know the address?”
“I know how to find you.” I pull the brim of my hat lower and tug the back down, then walk to my motorcycle, feeling Tessa’s eyes on me every step of the way.
Chapter 9
Tessa
Do I watch Rowdy walk away, my eyes glued to his Wranglers and the way they hug the curve of his… tush? Of course not.
That’s a lie. Obviously.
I stare so hard at his butt, it’s perfect shape is burned into my brain long after I leave The Garden of Eatin’. Hopefully, it’s burned there forever, because I would like to refer to it frequently. For example, whenever I’m struck with writer’s block and need some creative juju. I will think about Rowdy’s Wranglers, and the words will pour forth.
Those words will all be about the health benefits of a pair of good-fitting jeans—especially when worn by a good-looking man and viewed by a love-starved woman. I’m sure there are readers clamoring for a detailed description of a cowboy in Wranglers.
Right now, however, I’m going to lock that memory away. Along with the memory of dancing with Rowdy, his arms wrapped around me, chin resting on the top of my head, smelling like leather and sage, and basically fulfilling all the cowboy fantasies I never knew I had.
Nope. Not going to think about that. Not at all. Starting… now.
I’m having a stargazing sleepover with Rowdy tonight. That’s it. Nothing else. I will not rush into another relationship the way I did with Dan, my ex.
Not that Rowdy is anything like Dan. Dan wouldn’t have looked away if he’d caught me naked the first time we met. He didn’t have the quiet confidence that Rowdy does. Rowdy, I can tell already, is the kind of guy who knows who he is and what he believes.
But he’s also a guy who lives over a thousand miles away from where I do, so there’s really no point in treating whatever’s happening between us as a flirty, short-term friendship. Which may be exactly the kind of relationship I need right now—nothing serious. Nothing close.
If Rowdy finds a summer house for me, then maybe something bigger, more permanent, could grow between us. But I’m getting way ahead of myself there, especially since there are few houses that fit into my very specific requirements.
A sigh slips out as I scan Aunt D’s front room. It’s old and run down. Everywhere I look, I see something that needs repaired. No one in their right mind would want to buy this place.
But, I love it as much as I did when I was a kid.
Knowing there’s someone like Rowdy in Paradise makes the idea of never coming back here even harder. And suddenly I’m struck with a sadness that makes me wish I hadn’t said he could come over. A sadness that threatens to burrow deep enough to make me wish I’d never met him.
Just as I decide I’ll have to tell Rowdy to turn around and go home when he gets here, there’s a knock. I take a breath, push myself up from the couch, and chase away the Wranglers trying to strut into my brain. My slow walk to the door gives me time to prepare what I’m going to say—how I’m going to tell him to leave without looking into his gentle eyes.
When I open the door, he’s playing with the wind chime hanging outside of it, gently tapping the driftwood chimes so they bump together in soft, rhythmic thuds.
“Where’d you get this?” he asks, glancing from the chime to me.
“My Aunt D and I made it. Probably twenty years ago.” I’m flooded with the memory of quiet days spent talking and creating.
“You mean Dorothy Woodland is your Aunt D?” Rowdy’s hand drops from the chime and he looks at me with surprise. “When you said D, I thought you were saying D-E-E.”
“You knew my aunt?”
“Everyone knows Dorothy. I’ve got one of her chimes hanging at my house. I bought it years ago at her booth during Huckleberry Days. She used to scour the beach outside my grandparents’ house for driftwood every summer.” His words slow and suddenly his face cracks into a smile. “Wait a minute. She always had a little blonde girl with her, sometimes at the beach, but always at the booth. That was you, wasn’t it?”
I nod, returning his smile, wondering why every connection I find with Rowdy feels less like a coincidence than the universe at work, pushing us together.
As though the universe is agreeing with my conclusion, a pillar of smoke and sparks travels up into the air behind Rowdy. I look around him to see a fire burning in a metal outdoor fire thing, two sleeping bags laid out on either side of it, and two fold-up chairs are in front of the fire.
“What’s all this?” I ask, stepping cautiously closer.
