Chapter 10

Willow

"Who on earth could that be?"

The next day, I hear the doorbell ring from downstairs as I'm getting ready for work in the master bathroom. I'm finishing my makeup before I hop on a conference call with my firm. These Zoom calls have taught me the critical importance of decent makeup and strategic lighting—without them, I"d resemble a troll that has crawled out from under a bridge.

I finish the last coat of my mascara and then cinch the tie around the waist of my white silk robe, hoping maybe it was just a package being dropped off on the doorstep. Online shopping has been a godsend for finding products that the stores in this small town don't carry. It's given me a much broader selection of choices when it comes to home décor and essentials as well, compared to the hardware store that I seem to know like the back of my hand now.

As I tread lightly down the stairs, I cast my eyes over my home that looks fairly put-together considering the construction going on around me.

My home.

The more I utter those words out loud and to myself, the more that reality sets in.

Living in an apartment for most of my adult life and then moving into a house has made me realize that the walls I've called home in D.C. don't hold as much sentiment as this house does in even one square inch. These walls have character, the floor holds secrets, and the windows offer breathtaking views of the ocean just a few hundred feet away.

The desired feeling of belonging and finding roots is starting to take shape, which only adds to the conundrum I've found myself in—my desire to sell this place dwindling with each project Penn and I complete on the house, turning it into a place I could actually see myself living in.

I push my hair from my face, knowing that by now the person that rang the doorbell has to be long gone, so I pull open the door—with my new, non-sticking doorknob installed just yesterday—expecting to see a box on the porch.

And there is a box.

But it's in Dallas's hands.

"Dallas?" I gasp, clutching at the neck of my robe, cursing the fact that the instant I see him my nipples get hard, which are glaringly easy to detect through the thin silk.

I see his eyes widen, drop down to my offending chest, and then glance back up just as fast, clearing his throat as he finds his words and averts his eyes. "Good morning."

"Uh, good morning. What are you doing here?" My grip on my robe grows tighter.

"I, um, came by to give you something." He stares at me as I wait for him to continue, but it takes us both a minute to process what's going on here.

"Okay?"

He finally blinks. "Can I come in?"

"Um." I glance down at my robe, feeling borderline naked the longer I stand here.

"It will just take a minute."

"Sure." I open the door wide, allowing his large frame to walk through, watching him wander toward the kitchen where he deposits the box on the counter.

"I was cleaning out a closet at the bar and found this box of painting stuff." He motions toward the cardboard as I step closer, still holding my robe together. Cool air hits the underside of my thighs while I make sure to keep my back to him so he doesn't get a show. The only thing I have on under this flimsy piece of fabric is a light pink thong.

"Okay…"

"It's from when we remodeled the place last year. There are brushes, brand new paint rollers, and gloves. I think there's half a can of navy blue paint in there too, which is probably still good." He finally meets my eyes. "I don't know. I just figured you could probably use this more than I can."

"Oh." The racing beat of my heart is both from surprise and skepticism. He came all the way out here to bring me painting supplies—basic things, really, that I can easily grab from the store. It"s thoughtful, sure, but why go to the effort?

"It's the little things that mean the most sometimes."

Astrid's words from weeks ago jump back into my mind, and one of the walls I built up toward this man slowly crumbles as we stand there.

"Thank you. That was—this was really thoughtful of you."

He waves his hand dismissively, trying to play off my gratitude. "It's nothing. Hell, I wrestled with myself about even bringing it by. But I just thought…"

Without contemplation, I step around the counter and gently lay my hand on his chest, letting my robe go in the process but holding his stare. "I appreciate it. No one has ever done anything like this for me before."

I watch his throat bob as he swallows roughly. "No one has brought you painting supplies?"

I grin, shaking my head slowly. "Nope. And no one has brought me a scarecrow before, or built me a rocking chair either."

His gaze holds me captive as his response comes out low and gruff. "Well, I'm glad I got to be the first then."

We stand there, our eyes bouncing back and forth between each other, deciphering the air around us and feeling the ground beneath us shift all at the same time.

What the hell is going on here?

We're being nice to each other. He's showing me that he listens when I speak, he's not as bad of a guy as I initially thought, and…

And why am I desperate to kiss him right now?

I feel my lips fall open as I suck in a breath, desperate for oxygen to pull me out of this haze. And when I do, I watch Dallas's eyes drop to my mouth, studying my lips before dipping lower to the opening of my robe which I'm sure is parted enough at this moment to give him a perfect view of my cleavage.

"Your hair is down," he whispers, moving his hand to my hip as I pull in a sharp breath again.

"Yeah."

"You never wear it down."

"I—I was going to put it in a bun."

"Don't." One word. One command, and my body relents to his order instantly.

"Okay."

Dallas's face moves only an inch closer to mine as he leans forward, and I swear the world stops spinning while I anticipate his next move.

Is he going to kiss me?

Are those full lips I've been admiring way too much going to press against mine?

Will I finally know what that beard is going to feel like against my skin?

Inch by inch he moves closer until I swear a spark fires between us…

And my phone rings.

We both jump apart as we're jolted back to reality. I smooth my hair from my face as I move away from him and his eyes widen, processing what almost happened.

"Uh…" I clear my throat "I need to get that. And I have a call…"

Glancing behind me at the clock on the microwave, I note the time and curse the fact that I need to log in to my meeting in less than ten minutes.

"No, yeah. I understand. Shit, I'm sorry I bothered you." He turns to walk away, running a hand through his hair and nearly runs into the couch while he finds hit footing.

I follow him to the door, not wanting to leave things like this—not wanting him to leave at all.

What the hell is that about?

And were we seriously about to kiss?

"It was no bother. Thank you again, Dallas. I mean it."

"No problem, Willow. Hope your call goes well." As he shuts the door behind him, the ringing from my phone continues to echo from upstairs. Cursing the timing of it all, I huff up the stairs to my room, answering the phone without trying to sound angry and frustrated, and finish getting ready for work.

And as I log in to my meeting, I fight my subconscious for the next hour with trying not to think about what would have happened if Dallas would have kissed me. And if maybe I should wear my hair down more often.

***

"I can't believe you convinced me to come here," I whisper, leaning over the counter so Astrid can hear me.

"You needed to come out. You can't hide in that house of yours and be scared of seeing Dallas after your little almost kiss." She waves her hand at me while she fills up her tray with drinks.

"I knew I shouldn't have told you about that," I grate out, slinking back in my chair and taking a large sip from my martini as she smirks at me from her side of the counter.

It's been five days since Dallas showed up on my front doorstep and, like the strong, independent woman I am, I've been avoiding him ever since. After our almost kiss and his front-row seat to my nipples beneath thin silk, I felt like keeping some space from him would help remind myself that no matter how badly I want to know what he's like in bed, no good can come from crossing that line.

If only my libido would get the message.

"But you did. And now it's my job as your friend to torture you about it."

"I'm not sure that's how friendship is supposed to work."

"That's how good friendships work," she counters, depositing two fishbowl margaritas on her tray. "We support each other, talk about our feelings, and then give each other shit when the other one is acting like a chicken."

"I am not acting like a chicken."

"Who's acting like a chicken?" Dallas's question pulls both of our attention to where he stands behind the bar, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

"No one," I answer before Astrid can get another word in. My eyes dance appreciatively down his torso and the denim that encases his thick thighs, but then I return them to his face as quickly as I can before he notices.

"Hey, Dallas. Willow's drink is almost empty. Why don't you give her a refill?" Astrid suggests as she lifts up her tray and waltzes off, leaving the two of us alone.

And despite my desire to ebb my growing attraction toward him by staying away, the second he stands directly in front of me, my entire body comes alive.

Guess five days with no contact wasn't long enough.

"You ready for a refill?" Dallas asks as he clears a few empty glasses from the bar.

"Uh, sure. Thanks."

"No problem. You must have been busy this week. Haven't seen you out and about much…"

Did he notice I was avoiding going out in public so we wouldn't run into each other?

Or more importantly, was he looking for me?

"Oh, yeah. I've been busy."

Leaning over the bar, his face comes within inches of mine. "Busy avoiding me?"

"No," I lie.

The lift of his lips tells me he knows that. But then his face falls serious again, and he reaches out to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear.

God. Why is he touching me and why don't I want him to stop?

"You don't have to hide from me, Goose."

"I—I wasn't."

"I'm not so sure about that. In fact, I feel like you hide an awful lot from the whole world."

My stomach twists in knots. I feel like he can see right through me, see the scars I keep hidden on the inside, see the pain that is resting right underneath the surface—pain that was buried deep until I traveled to this little town and started thinking about all the "what ifs."

"I told you. I was busy," I manage to croak out.

"Busy doing what?"

"Working."

"And…" he draws out, waiting for me to continue.

"Uh, and working, Dallas."

He eyes me skeptically as he stands again. "You're telling me that all you did this week was work?"

The way the words leave his lips makes me feel as if I have some infectious disease or something. The truth of the matter is that I was actually bored out of my mind this week. I only had three calls with Katrina, and my email inbox is going through the longest dry spell it's ever had. It might catch up to the dry spell my vagina has been experiencing as well. In fact, I kept refreshing it, making sure I hadn't missed something.

And I hadn't. Katrina and my team are proving to be the well-oiled machine I know they are which means I was bored this week. There, I said it.

And if it weren't for the painting, I might have actually gone a teensy bit insane.

"What do you do for fun then, Goose?"

Glaring at him from his use of the nickname he coined for me, I reply, "Uh, I work, Dallas."

"Your front yard is the ocean. You're in a town that has plenty to explore. Did you at least make it down to the boardwalk?" he asks.

"Uh, no."

Shaking his head, he tsks. "That's unacceptable, Goose. All work and no play is just going to make you cranky. And you can't see everything Carrington Cove has to offer if you stay tucked away in that house."

"I'm not cranky," I argue, ready for a fight. At least when he riles me up, it makes me forget that he almost kissed me.

Is that what he's doing? Trying to move past that moment because he thought it would be a mistake too?

He smirks at me. "That's debatable. Well, tell me how the painting went at least."

"It went well…I mean, as well as painting can go. I finished the downstairs bathroom, the master, and moved on to one of the other bedrooms. They're empty, so it went pretty fast. But I swear, no matter what you do, the paint gets everywhere."

"Like in your hair?" he asks, glancing to my hair that is still in my bun from work today. Suddenly, I'm reminded of his comment from the other day. "You never wear it down."

"Yes."

"I can see that."

"What?"

I watch him slide my drink across the counter and then reach up to play with my hair, pulling a few strands of my bangs forward. "You still have some paint in your hair, Willow."

Oh God. Bury me alive in this moment, please.

"What?" I whisper as he carefully scratches his short nails against my hair, flecks of gray paint falling to the bar like imaginary tears of my mortification.

Dallas chuckles as he slides his eyes to my face and then back to what he's doing. "Don't worry. It wasn't that noticeable since your hair is light anyway. But I saw it the moment you sat down when the light overhead caught it."

"You were going to let me sit here like that all night?" I ask as he pulls his hand away.

His brow furrows. "No. I did just remove it for you, didn't I?"

Conflicted about his intent, I decide to focus on my drink instead, pulling the glass toward me and taking a large gulp. "Well, thanks, I guess."

He leans over the bar, supporting his body on his forearms, his voice low as he says, "I know that was your attempt at manners, but the sarcasm under there was detectable." He chuckles, wipes the paint from the bar, and walks away, leaving me embarrassed and no clearer about the status between the two of us.

From the moment we met, we've been frank with one another.

But now that frankness is laced with flirtation and something else—intrigue, maybe? The more we interact, the more I feel like Dallas is just as curious about me as I am about him—and the sexual tension is racing toward the point of erupting.

"Was Dallas playing with your hair?" Astrid comes up behind me, whispering in my ear as I spin on my stool to face her.

"No," I huff. "He was getting paint out of my hair."

Astrid snorts. "Oh God."

Slapping my hand to my forehead, I say, "I know. It was mortifying."

"But he touched you," she argues. "And believe me, Dallas doesn't touch women. Hell, I can't remember the last time I've seen him pay attention to any woman. It's been years."

"I don't want his attention."

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

"Oh, Willow," she tsks before patting me on the head. "Just keep telling yourself that." And then she's off, checking on her customers once more.

"You play darts?" A gravelly voice from my left has me spinning on my stool once more.

"Excuse me?"

"You play darts?" he asks again, completely serious. The man is older than dirt, dressed in a blue checkered flannel and dark blue ball cap with a Marine's Veteran logo on it that looks eerily familiar, but his eyes and smile are sincere.

"Uh, not really."

"Well, we need another player, and you look like you might be able to throw a few."

"I do?"

"Yeah. There's a fire in you, sweetheart, and a death glare. I'm sure you could narrow your eyes on the target real fast and hit the bullseye."

"You think so?" I smirk, fighting with the pull I'm having toward this old man and genuinely enjoying his determination and conversation.

"I'm rarely wrong. And better yet, if you can't, I'll buy your drinks tonight."

I twirl the toothpick that still has one olive around in my glass. "That's a hard bargain to pass up."

"Then you'll play?" His entire forehead crinkles as he waits for my answer.

I've never played darts a day in my life, even during the handful of times I've gone out to bars, and that was back in college. Frankly, I can't remember the last time I spent a Friday night in a bar having fun. But I'm here, I'm two drinks in, and it's not like I have anything better to do.

When in Carrington Cove, right?

"I've never played, so this is your warning if I suck."

"Like I said, I have a gut feeling about you. Let's go." He takes my hand, pulling me up from my chair and leading me over to the corner of the bar where the dartboards are set up. Two of his friends are waiting for him, nursing beers.

"I got our fourth," he states proudly, putting his arm around me. If a strange man did that any other time, I'd be kneeing him in the junk, but I can tell he means no harm. "Little lady, this here is Thompson and Baron, and I'm Harold, by the way."

"Willow, and it's nice to meet you gentlemen." I notice they're all wearing the same hats with the same logo on the front. "I tried to tell Harold here that I've never played, but he wouldn't take no for an answer."

"That's ‘cause you're a pretty little thing, Willow, and Harold is a dirty old man."

"Shut your pie hole," Harold scolds his friend, Thompson, I think it is. "Willow, I am an utter gentleman, I assure you."

"Sure," the one who must be Baron adds.

"Well, how about we play some darts and we'll see who the real man is after all?" I challenge, and they all smile in my direction.

I watch Baron collect the darts for our two teams, writing our names on the scoreboard. But as I turn around to take another sip of my drink, I catch Dallas watching me from behind the bar, his scowl apparent even though there's a considerable distance between us. And my entire body hearts up from his stare, like he's keeping an eye on these men, making sure I'm okay.

When I turn around, I try to focus on the game and even do pretty well for my first time, all the while battling this feeling of contentment that makes the evening go by in a blur.

Before I know it, I'm three martinis deep and Harold and I have won two rounds of darts.

"Never played before, my ass," Thompson grumbles as Harold and I celebrate our win with a hug.

"Beginner's luck, I swear." I hold up three fingers like a boy scout, giggling just as I feel an ominous presence come up behind me.

"Can I get you gentlemen a refill?" Dallas's voice sends a shiver down my spine, followed by a trail of heat that could be the alcohol, but I'm beginning to doubt that since it happens every time he's near.

"I think we're done, Dallas. Goldilocks here hustled us," Baron whines jokingly.

"Is that so?"

I hold my hands up defensively. "I swear, I've never played before. They don't believe me."

"I believe you," he says, staring down into my eyes.

And that makes my hands drop. "Why?"

"Something tells me you're not the type to play darts on a Friday night in a bar…am I right?"

As if he just took a pair of scissors to a balloon, Dallas bursts the bubble I've been swimming in for the past hour, reading me like an open book and I hate that he's right.

"Well, she's a natural," Harold interjects, breaking the moment and squashing my inner turmoil for the moment.

"Good to know. You guys have a good night and I'll see you at the center sometime this week," he says, ushering me away like he's my bodyguard.

"I wasn't done playing."

"Yes, you are," he murmurs in my ear. "Come on. Let me get you a glass of water."

Sulking, I huff but don't argue as I follow him back to the bar where Astrid is grinning from ear to ear as she watches us.

Taking a seat on an empty stool, I roll my eyes and she hides her laugh. Dallas slides me a glass of water. "Thanks."

"Looks like you were having fun," Astrid says, standing across from me with her hands on her hips.

"I was." My answer is so easy, and that makes me feel unsettled because it's been so long since it felt natural to admit something like that.

I shouldn't feel guilty for having fun. And part of me does, but part of me doesn't. Part of me…really enjoyed myself tonight. "Then the ‘big bad bar owner' had to come break it up."

Astrid smiles and Dallas just glares in my direction. "Those old men were leaving anyway."

"Still…"

"Harold, Baron, and Thompson are the sweetest." Astrid leans forward on the bar. I notice the restaurant has emptied out a bit, so I glance at the clock and realize it's after ten already.

"They were very nice." And it felt good to have genuine company for the evening. Most of my evenings at home are spent alone. Hell, I don't even have a pet to go home to after work. And I thought that's the life that suited me, but after a few weeks here, I'm discovering new possibilities.

"Are you ready to go?" Astrid stands up straight again. "I'm almost off and I can give you a ride home."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Dallas interjects. "You've had three martinis. You're not driving."

"You're not my keeper," I fire back at him, aiming my lingering frustration on the man that has caused it.

"No, but I am the owner of this place and I have a responsibility. I can't let anyone take a risk like that. Let Astrid drive you home, and you can come get your car tomorrow."

"But…"

"It will be fine here, Willow. Nothing happens here in Carrington Cove."

Yeah, nothing but inheriting a house you didn't want, becoming addicted to delicious blueberry muffins, and salivating over the broody bar owner that is everywhere I go.

With a harsh exhale, I relent. I already planned to get a ride from Tommy—of Tommy's Taxi and Tours—anyway. But I hate that it feels more like Dallas just trying to boss me around and exude his authority.

It'd be okay if he bossed you around in bed though, right?

"Yeah, I think I'm done for the night." My brain is obviously being affected by the alcohol as images of Dallas handcuffing me to my bed flash behind my eyelids.

Jesus, get me out of here before I surrender to him in front of all these people.

"Perfect. Let me finish up a few things and then we'll get going." Astrid strides away, leaving me alone with Dallas once more.

"How are the geese?" he asks, which confuses me at first. Then my mind catches up.

"Oh, well, I think they're starting to like the scarecrow. They ventured up on the deck again yesterday."

"You might need more repellent."

"Or a scarecrow with your face on it like I suggested in the first place. You seem to be keen on scaring people away. I'd still be playing darts and having fun if it weren't for you."

Dallas comes around the bar, standing so close to me that I have to crane my neck back to look up at him from my seat. But then he lowers his voice, dips his head down, and grates out, "I'm just looking out for you."

"I didn't ask you to do that. I'm a big girl, and I can handle myself just fine. And honestly, Dallas…those men are old and just looking to play darts. You can't possibly be jealous? Can you?" I tease as a hiccup leaves my lips.

His eyes get even more narrow. "I'm not jealous."

"Could have fooled me."

We stare at each other as I continue to wonder why he had a problem with me hanging out with those men.

Was it because I was having fun? Was it because I was hanging out with men old enough to be my grandfather?

Or was it because I am in his bar, his town, and the house that he wants, and he doesn't want me here?

"I'm ready," Astrid says behind me, breaking our stare and the whiplash I'm experiencing every time I'm around this man.

Just the other day I thought he was going to kiss me. And then tonight, he looks like he's about to kidnap me and lock me up in his basement.

"Yeah. Me too." I stand up so my chest brushes against Dallas's, who quickly steps back, suddenly aware that there are people all around us potentially watching our exchange.

"Get her home safe, Astrid." He turns away from me, not bothering to glance in my direction again as he pushes through the door that leads to the kitchen and disappears.

"Oh boy…" Astrid clicks her tongue once we leave the restaurant and arrive at her car. After situating ourselves, she pulls out of the parking lot and heads for my house. "Did you say something to rile him up?"

"Nope. I played darts with three old men. Apparently that was enough of an offense."

Astrid laughs. "God, I can't wait until this blows up."

"Nothing is going to blow up."

"Uh, yes it is. There's a storm brewing, Willow. And you'd better be prepared because I have a feeling you've never dealt with a man like Dallas before."

Why do her words give me a thrill like it's a challenge rather than a warning? A warning I shouldn't ignore but, truthfully, deep down I hope to meet head-on.