Page 17
Rhys
“ S hopping?”
“I need some—underthings.”
“Ah.” Of course, I instantly picture the pale blue thong, the soft slip of its lace between my fingers, even though I tried not to savor—or even notice—the feel of it.
It probably wouldn’t go over too well if I suggested that she rinse and re-wear it every day because I like picturing it on her.
And off her. “Right. Me, too. And another shirt. Guessing I’m not going to find my usual brands here. ”
“I believe you’re what we call shit out of luck ,” she says, biting her lip to hold back a smile.
I force myself to look away from the way that soft flesh gives under her teeth.
She messes around on her phone. “Yup,” she says, grinning. “Nearest Nordstrom is in downtown Seattle.”
“Whoops.”
But I’m not upset. I gave Eden a reason to smile, and that’s its own win.
She tilts her head. “So generic box store it is.”
“Generic box store it is,” I agree.
The woman at the car rental desk, whose name turns out to be Gertie, confirms—with a shared eye roll in Eden’s direction—that no, there aren’t any boutique men’s clothing stores in town, and that yes, there’s a box store in walking distance—about three-quarters of a mile—on the other side of Galilee’s small downtown.
“You game?” I look down at Eden’s feet. She’s still wearing that pair of chunky-looking sandals she slipped on when she shed her wedding dress. “Those comfy for walking?”
“They’re not bad. I’ve done a few miles in them and not regretted my decisions. Are those ?” She inclines her chin toward my Paul Evans Oxfords.
“Good enough.” I’m more concerned with the fact that the shirt I’m wearing will become a life-form of its own shortly, but that’s the problem we’re about to solve.
I wince at the thought of the cheap shirt that will shortly take the place of this one—which cost $285 and was custom fit—and once again curse my grandfather for being the switch that set this chain of events in motion.
If you wanted to humble us, you’ve succeeded, I tell him. You fucker.
“Hang on.” I go back to the car and pluck the cowboy hat out of the back seat.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping the sun off your face,” I say and plop it onto her head. Which turns out to be a huge mistake. She’s so fucking cute.
She bites her lip.
I look away.
We set out and about ten minutes later hit what is obviously Galilee’s downtown area. Shops line both sides of a charming small-town street that widens at one end into a green park area, which is bustling with, of all things, a?—
“Quilt festival!” Eden crows, delighted, eyes bright. “I had no idea there was one in Galilee!”
It’s not huge, but tens of quilts hang from wooden racks and tall scaffolds, waving gently in the breeze, blazes of bright color and wild designs. Even from this distance, I can see a vivid giraffe, a patchwork in every shade of red, a cat with a Cheshire grin and slightly deranged eyes.
“Oh, wow, look at that log cabin with all the blues. Gorgeous.” She edges closer to the quilt, and I bite back a smile. She’s cute like this, all fired up. Not thinking about worthless Paul and his bad decisions.
“Do you want to check it out?”
“I mean, we’ve got flights now, so we basically just have to kill time till then, right?”
“Right.”
Meanwhile, Eden has drifted another three feet toward the quilts, like she’s being drawn with a magnet.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind?” she calls over her shoulder.
“I don’t mind.”
What I mean is: I want to see you smile again .
I follow her toward the quilts and stand near as she examines them one by one.
“Look,” she says, pointing to some faint stitching on the surface of the quilt. When I step closer, I can see that it’s not random—the stitches follow the shapes of leaves. And the quilt itself is all autumn color—rich, saturated earth tones with splashes of deep red and yellow.
“What am I looking at?” I ask.
“Okay, so, I don’t know how much you know about quilts…” She’s practically quivering with excitement—that’s how much she loves talking about this.
“Absolutely nothing,” I admit .
She explains that a quilt is a sandwich, and that the woman who quilted this one used her own small home sewing machine.
“It takes a ton of skill and patience. She literally made all these leaf shapes by moving the quilt around under the machine’s needle.
It would be like if I held a pen still and you had to move the paper to draw leaves.
Except the quilt is shockingly heavy and bunches up while you work. Mad props to her.”
Damn, she’s right; that’s amazing.
All of a sudden, I can see that this quilt isn’t just a big fabric blanket. It’s layers, and each one took loads of thought and planning and effort. It’s not some old-fashioned hobby; it’s an art form.
She’s still talking, explaining something to me about burying knots and one continuous thread and edge-to-edge design . She’s bouncing on her toes, and her voice sounds like a smile.
And I realize I’m not looking at the quilt anymore, not following her finger as it traces the stitching along the surface of the fabric. I’m watching her instead.
Her cheeks are pink and her eyes dance, and she’s beaming, so fucking beautiful that it takes my breath away.
Eden’s fingers sweep across the surface of the quilt, and I feel the caress like a brush over tightening flesh. I want to drink her excitement straight from her lips, lean into her and devour her energy from the source.
My phone, buzzing, startles me out of the moment, and I reach for it.
“Hey,” I say into the phone, striding to the edge of the quilt display.
“We have a problem.” Hanna’s voice is tight.
Shit. “Okay. Lay it on me.”
“I just listened to a voicemail on the office line from Leah Piper.”
Leah’s one of my weddings; she’s supposed to marry Penelope Parsons next Saturday.
“Their photographer received an email canceling the gig.”
“What?!”
“Right?” Hanna says. “She called Leah because something about it felt off, and of course Leah hadn’t canceled. But then Leah had a bad feeling, so she called a few more vendors, and sure enough, they’d received cancellation calls, too.”
“What the fuck?”
“I know. Leah called me, in tears, asking if we’d figure out what was going on and take care of it.
I’d do it, but since it’s one of your weddings, I don’t want to mess around with it and risk having Weggers say that we didn’t follow the rules.
Or having Leah call Five Rivers Weddings up and ask them to take over. ”
Five Rivers is a relative newcomer, only a few years old, but they’ve been steadily gaining ground in the unspoken competition to be the premiere wedding site in Rush Creek.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say. “I’ll figure out what’s going on, and I’ll fix it.”
“Thank you.” I can hear the relief in Hanna’s voice but also lingering tightness. “I’m worried it might be?—”
“Sabotage,” I finish for her, quietly.
“Yeah.”
Ever since Weggers unveiled our grandfather’s will and its offbeat demands, weird shit has been happening.
And I don’t mean the fact that my brothers and I have been dropped into Opposite Land.
There have also been these…events. Plans that have gone wrong, situations that have threatened to keep me and my brothers from fulfilling the terms of our letters.
They range from plumbing failures to planting false evidence to shadowy figures in the night—but they all threaten to make it impossible to comply with Granddad’s will.
Just like what’s happening to Leah and Penelope.
“Tell Tucker about Leah and Penelope’s wedding,” I say. “It’s probably time for us to get up in Blue Iron’s face about this bullshit.”
Blue Iron is the company that will get the Hott land if my brothers and I fail at our tasks. That makes them the only ones with enough at stake to actively undermine us—which makes them the obvious suspect for everything that’s happened so far. That said, we’re far from having proof.
“Any progress? Have you talked to Eden about Paul?”
No, I think, but I almost kissed her a few minutes ago.
Not gonna tell Hanna that.
I reset my determination not to screw this up—any more than it already is.
“She doesn’t want to talk about it,” I say truthfully.
“We haven’t caught up with Paul. He’s somewhere in Montana, and we’re in Galilee, not too far past where 90 crosses the Columbia.
Eden figured out he’s on his way to Sioux Falls, so we’re going to fly into Sioux Falls and intercept him. ”
Saying that Eden “figured out” where Paul is going is a bit of a white lie, technically. Eden thinks he’s headed to Sioux Falls, and I think her hypothesis makes sense. But we don’t know for sure.
“So you’ll meet him in Sioux Falls and see if you can sort things out.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Yeah.”
Sort things out. Meaning watch Eden reconcile with Paul. The thought makes my stomach clench. “In the meantime, I’ll call Leah and fix whatever’s going on with the vendors. And hopefully Tucker will find some proof that Blue Iron is behind all this.”
There’s a pause. Then Hanna says, “Okay. Fly safe.”
“I will.” I end the call.
It’s not the flying that feels dangerous. It’s my traveling companion.
That shouldn’t be the case. I’ve had plenty of experience with burying my feelings for Eden. This is no different.
Except back then, there was no occasion to scoop her up and carry her to bed.
No chance to be so close to her that I could smell the strawberry of her hair.
I hadn’t felt the scrape of her lace panties on my fingertips, and, worst of all, I hadn’t known the look on her face when she stood face-to-face with something that lit her up from the inside.
I have the distinct, unwelcome feeling that I’ve reached the end of a tether.
Like I said.
Dangerous.
Table of Contents
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