Reckless Hearts (5 page)

But
that’s behind me now. My life was broken, so I’m fixing
it, just like Grandpa said: stripping it down to the essentials, the
way we used to with the cogs and carburetor spread over the front
driveway all those hot summer afternoons. Sure, coming here is
impulsive. Crazy. I’ve made my fortune on taking risks:
checking the odds, playing the market, making sure all those little
red flags pay off in my direction, but this is different. I’m
not dealing with numbers on a screen anymore, but I’m sick of
playing pretend. I made the smart moves my whole damn life, and look
where that left me. No, this time, I needed to do it all differently.

Stop
thinking, start following my instincts.

And
what I felt in Delilah’s arms for that brief, reckless kiss
seems worth the risk. It was the push I needed, and after that,
everything fell into place so fast I didn’t have time to pause
for doubts. A couple of weeks later, here I am with the blank slate I
was looking for.

The
question is, what am I going to do with it now?

I’m
clearing junk from the workshop out back when I hear another engine
coming up the track. I head around front and find a guy about my age
in work boots and a
Rolling
Stones
T-shirt staring
up at the house. “Ryland?” I ask, going forward to meet
him. His construction company, Callahan and Ray, came recommended by
a friend, so they were one of my first calls after arriving in town.

“That’s
me.” He shakes my hand. “Good to meet you. You weren’t
lying when you said this place needed some work. Are you sure you
don’t want to tear down and just go from the ground up?”
he adds, taking a few steps to peer inside. “We could do
something pretty spectacular with this square footage. My
brother-in-law fancies himself an architect, but the guy knows his
shit.”

“Maybe
down the line,” I tell him. “But for now, I’m just
looking to make it habitable. Roof, floors, plumbing.”

“Uh
huh.” Ryland already has a notepad out, jotting down things as
he walks the property. “What about the workshop?” he
asks, when we reach the back of the house. “If you tore it
down, we could do a guesthouse, or maybe put in a pool?”

“The
workshop stays,” I say firmly. It was one of the reasons I
bought this house at all. “It’s actually built pretty
sturdy. I just need to clean it out, and it’s good to go.”

“Suit
yourself.” Ryland grins. He looks back at the house, and I can
see him weighing quotes and pricing. “Any timeframe?”

“ASAP.”

“It’ll
cost you,” Ryland says apologetically. “Nothing happens
fast around here.”

“That’s
fine. Whatever you need.”

He
arches an eyebrow. “Alright then. I can have some guys out for
the roof tomorrow.”

“Sounds
good to me.” I shake his hand, and we go over some more details
before he heads out. The sound of his truck recedes into the woods,
and then silence reigns, all over again.

I
head inside, grab a beer from the cooler, then wander out back to
take it all in. The silence is still weird to me, after all the
constant noise of the city, but I like it. Back in New York, I’d
still be in the office now, three screens running as I checked stock
prices and market dives. Or maybe I’d be heading out to some
fancy restaurant, slipping a fifty to the doorman to stroll into the
new hottest club. Now I’ve got nothing but trees, grass,
crickets, and the creek.

And
I haven’t felt this good in years.

I
think of Delilah again. She was thrown to see me again for sure.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so upfront about my reasons for
moving here, but I’ve never been the type to play games. I see
what I want, and I go for it. And damn, do I want her.

That
kiss . . . 

It
took me by surprise alright, but the instant her sweet mouth was on
mine, I knew I never wanted it to end. I’ve never felt heat
like that, never known such an overwhelming urge to wrap my arms
tight around a woman and never let go. Call it chemistry, call it
fate, I don’t need to know the name. It’s the one damn
thing I’ve been sure of after a world of confusion and doubt.

I
need more.

My
phone buzzes, and when I fish it from my pocket, I find a familiar
number taunting me on-screen.

Damn
it.

My
fist clenches around the handset, but I stop myself before I can get
too tense. I’ve left all that behind me now. I don’t have
to get dragged back anymore.

I
hit “decline,” toss the phone aside, and settle back in a
lawn chair to finish my beer. I’ve got a to-do list a mile
long, but there’s only one thing I need to figure out right
now:

How
to get the girl.

Delilah

Sunday
mornings are usually for getting over Saturday night, but thanks to
Will distracting me, I wasn’t in the mood to hit the town. I
turn in early, get a full eight hours, and still wake in time to
see . . . is that
sunrise
filtering through my bedroom drapes?

I
leap out of bed, restless. I still can’t shake that unsettled
feeling I’ve had ever since Will showed up in town, like a
flock of nervous butterflies is whirling in my stomach, so I decide
to harness all this energy instead: I pull on some workout shorts,
lace up my track shoes, and head out for a morning run.

My
feet pound the empty sidewalks. It’s barely six a.m., and Oak
Harbor is still asleep, but the air is crisp with a salty ocean tang,
and the breeze feels great as I stretch my muscles and lengthen my
stride, jogging along the boardwalk and cutting across the silent
town square. It feels good to be running again. I was never much for
fitness, but I took it up in college to keep the dreaded freshman
fifteen at bay. Now, I fit it in around the rest of my schedule, but
it’s been months since I’ve had a good long workout like
this: pushing myself until my lungs are burning, and I feel the
pleasant ache in my limbs. I do three circuits, winding around town
and back, before I finally come to a stop, breathing heavily, outside
the bakery on Windward Street.

Time
for my reward.

Inside,
the air smells yeasty and delicious, and the old baker, Franny, is
just setting out a tray of fresh, gooey cinnamon rolls. “When I
die, someone better be waiting for me at the pearly gates with one of
your fresh-baked rolls,” I tell her. “Otherwise I’m
coming right back here.”

Franny
waves away my praise, but her face still glows. “Why wait? Will
one be enough, honey, or do you want another for the road?”

“Don’t
tempt me,” I groan, laughing. “And a cup of coffee too,
please.”

“Great
minds think alike.”

I
turn, startled, at the voice. Will is lounging in a chair by the
windows, drinking coffee with a newspaper in his lap. “Mornin’,”
he drawls, with a smile that would send my heart racing—if it
wasn’t already still beating hard in my chest from the run.

“Morning,”
I manage to reply. He’s still casual, still scruffy, and damn,
he still looks way too good. I see his eyes slip over me, and realize
too late that I’m in my ratty jogging shorts and a bright pink
sports bra, my hair in a sweaty mess, and not a lick of makeup on my
face.

Just
because I have no intention of dating the guy, it doesn’t mean
I want him seeing me as a complete mess. I try to act like I don’t
care I have damp circles under my armpits and ask, “You managed
to find the best coffee in town then?”

“First
morning out, can’t be without it.” He raises his mug,
watching me with a thoughtful look. “I didn’t take you
for an early riser.”

“I’m
not,” I admit. “Not on weekends, anyway. You?”

“Always.”
He gives a rueful grin. “I was in the office by seven every
day, I guess I can’t shake the habit now.”

I
try to picture him in his suit and tie again, but even after just
these couple of encounters, I can’t imagine it. He looks like
he was born in jeans, and if the gods had any justice, he would never
take them off.

Except,
when someone takes them off him
 . . . 

Franny
returns with my paper cup of coffee, and a bag for the cinnamon bun.
I fish a five-dollar bill from my sports bra, but she waves it away.
“No need, sweetheart. We still owe you for finding that
apartment for my Becky.”

“Fran!”
I protest, but she shakes her head firmly. “Fine.” I
pretend to surrender, but I stuff the bill in the tip jar instead.
“How’s she getting on?” I ask after her niece. “She
must be starting that new job now.”

“Next
week, she can’t wait.” Franny smiles affectionately. “And
there’s a new guy, too.”

“Do
we like him?”

“We
do.” Franny nods. “This one might work out.”

“Well,
let me know when they need an upgrade,” I wink. “I know
some great single-families . . .”

Franny
laughs. “Ooh, that reminds me, I heard on the grapevine that
Liv Sullivan’s sister is thinking of moving to town. She just
lost her husband, poor thing, and wants to be close to Liv and the
grandkids.”

“Makes
sense.” I nod. “Any update on Rich Hargreaves and, you
know?”

Franny
leans in. “You didn’t hear it from me, but someone saw
him in Charlotte, talking to a divorce lawyer, I bet.”

“How
do you find out all the gossip first?” I ask, impressed.

Franny
winks. “I ply them with sugar, that’s the secret.”

“Well,
keep it up.”

She
heads back to work, and I make a mental note to call Liv—and
Richard, too. Town gossip isn’t just for fun; for me, it’s
a constant source of new clients. Births, deaths, and divorces: they
all mean real estate changing hands down the line, and nobody’s
better placed to help them through it than me.

I
turn to find Will still watching me. “Well, have a good day,”
I say brightly, and head to the door.

“Join
me?” he asks casually, nodding to the empty chair beside him.

“I
don’t think that’s a good idea.” I pause, feeling
my cheeks flush.

“Why’s
that?”

I
shrug. “Just, you know, I don’t want you to get the wrong
idea.”

“And
what would that be?” he asks, still smiling—clearly
enjoying my rejection for some reason.

“That
I don’t think you’re slightly crazy for moving down here
to be with me without calling first?” I try to be delicate.

He
laughs. “Only slightly?”

“Fine.
Totally, all-out crazy,” I agree, then pause. “Look, not
to sound harsh or anything, but I want to be clear. I don’t do
relationships, they’re just not my style. So if you came here
expecting something . . .” I trail off, awkward,
but Will just lifts an eyebrow.

“Good
to know,” he says. “And just for the record, I moved down
here because of you, not to be with you.”

“There’s
a difference?” Now I’m really confused.

“Maybe
not.” Will unfolds himself and gets up, tucking the newspaper
under one arm. “It depends.”

“On
what?” I ask, my breath catching as he saunters closer. He
pauses, right beside me, close enough to see the flecks of gold in
his hazel eyes. Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I’m suddenly hit
with the memory of kissing him, blazing in Technicolor in my mind.
Those hands on my body, that mouth seducing mine . . . 

Maybe
Will can see it too, because he gives me knowing look.

“On
how long you can resist me.”

He
winks, then strolls past me out onto the street, leaving me flushed
and breathless in the doorway.

Because
of my run, I tell myself. Just because of my run.

Back
at my place, I jump in the shower then do a quick clean-up and throw
on a load of laundry to be ready for the week ahead. I love my
apartment; it’s part of a brand-new building they converted
from an old carriage house, set back just a few blocks from the town
square. Everything is brand-new, low maintenance, and stress-free,
just the way I like it. It barely takes ten minutes to run a duster
over the bookshelves and set the cycle to spin—leaving me way
too much time to replay my morning run-in with Will. I’m
jittery and on edge, and I haven’t even touched my coffee.

That
guy is more powerful than a gallon of caffeine.

I
shouldn’t be affected like this; I’ve turned down plenty
of guys, and had my fair share of rejection too. That’s why I
never take it too seriously: either something turns out fun, or it
doesn’t, but it’s not worth getting hung up over. I can
count on the fingers of one hand the nights I’ve spent waiting
around for the phone to ring, or wondering if a guy is thinking about
me or not. It’s not my style to waste a moment’s thought
analyzing their text messages, or all of the other things my
girlfriends wind up agonizing over.

So
what is it about this man that’s so infuriatingly distracting?

At
least now I’ve made it clear nothing’s going to happen
between us. That should be the end of that. I’m about to grab
my computer and try to get a head-start on work when my cellphone
rings. Mom.

I
brace myself as her enthusiastic voice chatters down the line.
“Sweetie, are you OK? You didn’t reply to my text.”

“Which
one?” I ask lightly. “You sent me like, two dozen. You
don’t need to give me a running commentary on the new
Real
Housewives
episodes,”
I add. “I can watch them myself.”

“But
it’s always more fun, you know your father won’t watch
any of those shows. If it doesn’t have a cop or a dead body,
he’s not interested.”

Mom
launches into a recap of her week, so I go sit on the front steps,
and watch the town slowly come to life in the morning sun. One day, I
want a big wrap-around porch with a swing to hang out in all day, but
for now, I like my little corner of the world just fine.