Chapter Seventeen
A House of Dirty Dreams
The gravel path behind me gave way to a muddy road with no driveway or yard—just wide-open space and raw potential. A single-story A-frame sits proudly in the middle of it all, big, charming, and utterly perfect.
From what I can see, the farmhouse itself looks finished. It’s not landscaped or polished, but it’s stunning. Clean white siding, tall windows wrapped in black frames, and a full-wraparoundporch that practically begs for coffee, a warm blanket, and bare feet in the morning.
It’s my dream home, on my dream farm—except it’s not mine, and never will be. Closest I’ll ever get to touching it is chaotic weekends helping Bea in a shed I still haven’t located.
Out of the rear window, I catch sight of Kade climbing from his truck and stomping toward me, expression shadowed behind gold-rimmed sunglasses and his hat, now flipped right.
He towed me out of the ditch pretty easily, but apparently, the rocks gave me a flat. He wanted to replace it right there in front of God and seventy-five bushes, but then I reminded him of my desperation for a bathroom and lack of a whip-outable appendage.
After two minutes of tense contemplation—his jaw ticking, head swiveling from the direction of a giant white house off in the distance to a smaller one a bit closer and to the left—he climbed back in his truck and barked at me to follow him.
The drive was slow, bumpy, and beautiful. It was also a fuck of a lot easier with a tour guide. And thankfully, there was no sign of any casualties from the ditch disaster.
When he reaches my door, he doesn’t open it or say anything.
Justlooms.
Beefy arms braced over his equally beefy chest, annoying smirk plastered across his annoying face, he stares down at me from under that damned ball cap and cocks a bushy brown.
Okay, it’s not bushy—it’s kind of perfect.
Ihatethat eyebrow.
Swallowing thickly, hands shaking, I gather my stuff and jostle the two coffees between my hands while attempting to open the door.
And fail.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a gentleman?” I hiss, struggling not to spill the drinks I suddenly regret buying.
Well, I don’t regret mine.
My vanilla cinnamon almond milk macchiato is not only gluten-free—tried and tested—but also tastes like angels snowballed their golden seed directly into my cup.
Abby would call it a biblical experience.
I do, however, regret the drink he’s claimed for himself, and the first chance I find a solid reason, I’m dumping it directly over his head this time.
“You’re an independent woman,” he drawls, stepping back to make room for the door. The second I swing it open, the music cuts off along with the car, and I nudge it shut with my hip. “Isn’t that what you were screaming about a bit ago?” He winces, palms the back of his neck, and mutters, “Talk about hyena.”
And his coffee falls to the ground.
“Oops.” I gasp, pressing my now free hand to my chest as we collectively stare down at the mess all over his boots. “Aw, crap. That one was yours.” Stepping away, I give him a sympathetic smile. “Better hose that down. You don’t wanna get ants.”
I don’t bother mentioning it was plain black coffee.
Without looking back, I make my way to the house, eyes scanning every inch. I pause at the front door to toe off my boots. They’re basic—from a feed and hardware store I found in town, but they’re already filthy and this house looks new.
Footsteps pound up the stairs behind me, and I hide my grin behind my hair.
“What the fuck was that for?” he barks, gesturing to his boots. They’re the worn ones Abby suggested smell like poo, but all I smell is coffee. “Gonna take hours to get the stains out.”
“Well, you’re just a ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “And they’re already stained. There’s like five years of mud caked on them.” Shooting him a fake grin, I bat my lashes. “If anything, I think I improved them.”
He glares down at me, jaw ticking, shoulders heaving, and a shiver races across my spine at the sight.
