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“No,” Brook Lynn said. “He was called in for a meeting, but he told me to take care of you while he was gone.”
A contented thrill—followed by an irritating realization. He hadn’t cared enough to see her? Wow. Well, screw him. He disturbed her, rendering her breathless and shaky with a simple glance, but so what? Physical attraction never lasted. And neither did he! One and done, the king of the one-night stand.
Harlow had no interest in being used and tossed aside, nothing but an afterthought to the man she’d welcomed into her body. She wanted affection and love, the kind she’d read about in books and seen in movies. The kind where couples fought to stay together, even during the worst of times. The kind that protected. Defended. Cherished.
A pang of longing razed her. There’d be no name-calling. No shaming. No being made to feel worthless.
Before dropping out of high school in favor of being homeschooled, she’d had boyfriends. A lot of boyfriends. She’d dated and dumped them at Beck-speed, searching for someone, anyone, to fill the void inside her. A void somehow made bigger when a machine exploded at Dairyland, the milk plant just south of town, killing half the workforce—including her dad.
As horrible as he’d been, she should have rejoiced, right? All of her problems should have vanished in a puff of smoke. But that couldn’t have been further from reality.
Brook Lynn turned and, without uttering another word, walked away, the dog prancing behind her.
“Brook Lynn,” she called, and the girl stopped without spinning around. “I’m sorry for the way I acted. In the past, I mean...and recently.” RIP, blueberry pie.
“That’s great, I’m glad” was the response, “but actions mean more than words, and so far you’ve proved nothing.”
“I know. But I’m still here, subjecting myself to this, so that I can prove I’ve changed.”
“Please. This, as you call it, is payment.” Brook Lynn glanced over her shoulder, looking very much like an avenging angel. “But I wonder. Are you ruining the garden on purpose? A way to strike at Beck for...what? What supposed crime did he commit against you? The same crime as the rest of us? Simply existing?”
Her chin fell and her shoulders drew inward. I deserve this. I really do. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s wonderful.” And he was. As a boss, or whatever he happened to be to her—debt holder?—he totally rocked. He wasn’t hovering but allowing her to do her own thing, and knowing he wouldn’t be here, he’d taken steps to ensure she had everything she needed.
But Beck, the guy? Him, she wasn’t so sure about. There was the one-and-done thing, of course, but also the fact that he’d bought Harlow’s ancestral home even though she hadn’t sold it. The bank had forced her off the property, voiding her claim to it, all because her mother had taken out a small loan a few years before, using the house as collateral. When her mother died, Harlow had tried to get a job.
She’d visited every business in town and asked to paint murals on store windows, or to do portraits of family members. Even to paint houses. When those requests were denied, she’d applied for basically any position available—trash collector, bird-poop cleaner, bunion scraper—but everyone had turned her away. Most had laughed. Moving to the city would have been wise. No one knew the old Harlow, and someone, surely, would hire her somewhere to do something. But her heart beat for Strawberry Valley. Her mother had grown up here. She’d grown up here. She trusted the townsfolk not to hurt her, despite their hatred of her, which was far more than she could say for a city full of strangers.
Plus, she had a five-step plan. Up first? Proving she wasn’t the incarnation of evil. So far no luck, but as she’d learned, circumstances could change in a blink.
“I don’t know how to garden,” she admitted, “but I’m trying.”
One of the blonde’s brows winged up, her expression total disbelief. “Well, then, I guess you should try harder.”
“Angel?” A husky male voice drifted across the daylight, followed by squeaking hinges as the back door opened.
Brook Lynn skipped over to greet her fiancé, Jase. He nodded at Harlow, his green eyes shrewd and curious, before he focused on Brook Lynn.
“I missed you,” he said, uncaring that Harlow could hear. He brushed his fingers through the girl’s pale hair.
“I was only gone a few minutes,” Brook Lynn replied with an adoring smile.
“A second is too long. Maybe it’s time to have that surgery we talked about and finally get you attached to my side.”
Brook Lynn chuckled. “Adding an extra two hundred and fifty pounds to this body will make it harder for me to kick zombie butt.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure you’ll be one of the first to be bitten.”
He nipped her lips. “Fine. Let me show you what I’ll do to you when I’m turned into a zombie.”
The two lovebirds reminded Harlow of Beauty and the Beast. Romance at its best. Jase was a big man, tall and muscled, his dark hair styled in bad-boy spikes. Rumors claimed Brook Lynn had mentioned liking the style, and boom, the next day he’d changed his. He had tattoos running from the base of his neck to the waist of his pants. Maybe other places, too. Harlow had only glimpsed him shirtless as he worked on the outside of the house; she’d marveled that a man like him actually existed.
Brook Lynn, on the other hand, appeared fragile and as useless as a doll, though everyone knew she was as far from a child’s toy as possible. Not only had she tamed the town’s new dragon—a feat in and of itself—but she’d started her own flourishing catering business.
Their love had inspired Harlow’s dream of happily-ever-after, and if canvas and paints hadn’t been out of her zero-dollar budget, she would have immortalized them in a portrait.
As they disappeared inside, she dusted the dirt from her hands. No more of this, she decided. Not today, at least. Not until she’d done a little gardening research. Which meant heading into town...facing ridicule...
She rarely ventured far from her property—even before she’d been ousted from her home, but especially since. Her job search had led her into town on a few occasions, but she’d quickly learned she had to pay a hefty price for daring to go where she wasn’t wanted.
Suck it up. Take your medicine like a good girl.
Head down, shoulders in, she made her way to the side of an unpaved and narrow road. It wasn’t long before a car slowed down, allowing the driver to rubberneck.
The attention unnerved her, and she found herself rubbing the scars on her stomach. Sometimes she thought she could still feel the flames licking all the way from her navel to her collarbone, using her shirt as kindling.
But she wasn’t going to think about the worst day of her life. Distraction wasn’t her friend any more than the next driver who passed her, rolling down his window and leaning out to snicker at her. She quickened her step, breathing a sigh of relief when the vehicle finally disappeared beyond the hill.
The third car to come along actually pulled up alongside her, keeping pace.
“Harlow Glass,” the driver said with a sneer.
She suppressed a moan. Scott Cameron. In high school, he’d been Popular Jock Boy and one of the first to receive the infamous “Glass Pass.” Her special brand of cruel dismissal postdating. It had been especially cruel in Scott’s case because he’d dropped his longtime girlfriend to be with her, yet Harlow had dumped him the day after their first date.
Yes, she’d been that girl.
Someone must have called and told him she’d been spotted in the wild. “Gotta say, Glass. You’re not looking so good.”
Truer words had never been spoken. She was sunburned, sweaty and wearing as much dirt as clothing. “Well, I can’t say the same to you.” Under the brim of his hat, his golden hair looked perfectly coiffed. His white shirt was crisp, without wrinkles, and his skin tanned to a glimmering bronze. “You look great.”
His eyes narrowed, making her think he’d heard sarcasm in her voice even though there’d been none.
She sighed. “And yes, I’ve been better.”
“You headed to town?”
She nodded as she kept trudging forward. “I am.”
“That’s about four miles away.”
“Yes.”
“About an hour’s walk in the intense summer heat.”
“Yes,” she said again. The reminders were unnecessary.
“Bet you’d like a ride.”
As a matter of fact—
“Good luck finding one.” Laughing with glee, he put the pedal to the metal and blazed forward, flinging dirt and gravel at her.
Coughing, she waved a hand in front of her face. Can’t complain. Just another dose of medicine.
She hit Fragaria Street by late afternoon, fatigue threatening to turn her limbs into jelly. This time of year, the scent of strawberries always coated the air, wafting from hundreds of acres of wild patches.
A handful of cars motored by, and multiple people meandered along the sidewalks. The buildings around her were different colors, from blue to yellow to red, and different sizes. Some were tall, some short. Some were wide, some thin. Some were made of brick and others of wood. A true hodgepodge of design, and she loved every inch of it.
Virgil Porter and Anthony Rodriguez each sat in a rocker, playing checkers in front of Style Me Tender, Mr. Rodriguez’s salon. Harlow stuck to the shadows and most people never noticed her, which she preferred, but as usual, those two managed to spot her right away.
“How you doing, Miss Glass?” Mr. Porter called. He owned Swat Team 8—“We assassinate fleas, ticks, silverfish, cockroaches, bees, ants, mice and rats”—and he was one of the few people who actually seemed to care about her well-being, but she had to be mistaken. Back in her heyday, she’d called his son terrible names.
“I’m well, thank you,” she muttered, discouraging further questions. Lying always made her feel guilty, but the truth was never palatable. Well, you see, Mr. Porter, I’m homeless, I’ve been found out as a thief on my own property, and I’m currently unemployed. How about you? Still having trouble with your liver spots?
“I’m willing to listen if you’d like to rephrase your answer, Miss Glass. We can talk over a nice glass of sweet tea.” He shook the one in his hand, ice rattling. “Maybe we can even eat the strawberry scones Brook Lynn brought me.”
Her mouth watered, her stomach twisting with painful hunger, but she forced herself to say, “No, thank you.” The sooner she got out of the town square, the sooner her spirits would rally.
“Harlow?”
The familiar male voice came from across the street. As she turned, her nervous system nearly blew a gasket—there he was, Beck Ockley. And, oh, it so wasn’t fair. He looked good enough to eat. The gold streaks in his hair gleamed brighter in the sunlight, and his flawless sunkissed skin somehow appeared painted on by a master artist. Did he even have pores? He’d rolled up the sleeves of his white button-up, revealing muscled forearms with a slight dusting of hair.
“Uh, hi,” she said, offering the lamest wave.
He grinned at her, both wicked and virtuous, stealing her breath.
Lincoln West stood beside him, slightly taller but just as well muscled—just as gorgeous—with the smoldering intensity of a man on death row, whose last meal would be the females he trapped in his sights. Not that he’d ever made good on the silent promise. Unlike Beck, he practiced restraint, not going on a single date since coming to town.
The two were with an unfamliar man and woman dressed in business-formal clothes. Both were attractive, and though the male looked to be in his late thirties, the woman, an elegant redhead, looked to be in her late twenties. Roughly the same age as Harlow and yet a thousand times more successful.
Talk about a knife through the heart.
Was Lady Successful a new conquest of Beck’s? Or a soon-to-be conquest? Did she know he’d move on in the morning?
Beck muttered something to the group, and Harlow took off. No reason to stick around, and every reason not to. But he shocked her by racing across the street and keeping pace beside her.
“I’m surprised to see you out and about,” he said.
Oh, his voice! She’d forgotten how deep and husky it could get, every word he uttered a promise.
Gaze drawn to him by a force she couldn’t control, she looked up. He was peering at her, too, and between one moment and the next, the air charged with electricity. Whispers of sensation brushed over her skin, leaving goose bumps behind.
“Expected me to still be slaving away in your garden?” she managed.
“Something like that.” Heavy-lidded eyes swept over her, powerful, sensual...almost possessive. “Are you headed into the city for your shift at the Boobie Bungalow?”
Her cheeks burned as she remembered the story she’d told him. It wasn’t a lie if she believed it, right? As a lover of romance novels, she’d often fantasized about being a woman down on her luck—could be a stripper, why not—rescued by the prince of some distant land.
“Maybe I’ve got the week off. Maybe the other girls lose money when I’m there, and I thought I’d give them a chance to make rent.”
“How kind of you.” The corners of his mouth curled up, his amusement as seductive as the rest of him. “Where are you headed, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart. Her heart skipped a treacherous beat, her blood heating dangerously, making her sweat, and dang it, she hated herself for reacting so strongly to something that meant absolutely nothing to him. He called every woman he met by an endearment. Which irritated her because... Just because.
He needed a spoonful of his own medicine, the way she was often forced to taste hers.
“I’m going to the library, sugar tush. Why?”
“That’s my question.” He flattened his palm between her shoulder blades, sliding it down the ridges of her spine, stopping just above the curve of her bottom. The touch was innocent, nothing overtly sexual to it, and yet it frazzled her nerves. “Why are you going to the library?”
As she opened her mouth to respond—what she would say, she didn’t know—Tim Whatson sidled up to Beck’s other side.
“Hey, man. Can we talk?”
Beck stiffened before fisting the hem of Harlow’s shirt, forcing her to stop with him. The backs of his knuckles brushed against her, skin to heated skin, and tendrils of something hot and dark shot through her.
Need more. Now.
“Hey,” he said to Tim, whom he obviously knew. Was he oblivious to the cravings he’d just stirred inside her? “How’s it going?”
“Not so good. I need your help. My girlfriend is tee-icked. I forgot our three-month anniversary, and she’s threatening to leave me. What should I do?”
Beck, the new Dear Abby? “You should give her a thoughtful, personal gift. There’s nothing more thoughtful or personal than a portrait, and I happen to have an opening in my schedule. I could—”
“What do you think, Beck?” Tim said, interrupting her.
“Give her a thoughtful, personal gift,” Beck replied. “There’s nothing more thoughtful or personal than a portrait.”
Tim nodded as if he’d just received the answer to every prayer, and Beck released her to gently push her forward.
“Now,” he said. “Where were we?”
Your skin against mine... “Uh, I was telling you how I ruined your rosebushes this morning—by accident!—and how I’m headed to the library to learn how to fix them. You were in the process of forgiving me.”
“Hold up a sec.” He darted in front of her.
Unprepared, she slammed into his powerful chest and ricocheted backward. His arms wrapped around her to cage her and hold her steady.
“Whoa. I’ve got you.”
Her every pulse point suddenly leaped, and as she peered up at him, the rest of the world vanished, every second revolving around Beck alone. Her chest pressed against his, her breath coming faster and shallower, as if the air between them had somehow thickened.
“You okay?” he asked, the gleam in his eyes anything but concerned. Instead, the hot and dark thing she’d felt earlier was now reflected back to her.
“No. I mean yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
His hand swept up, up, his fingers soon toying with the hairs at her nape, tickling. “I think you mean yes, Beck, you make everything better.”
