Page 26 of Salvation (Clover-Hills #1)

Blake

T he pond. The pond. The pond.

How the hell didn’t I recognize it? The very one that lays in my yard is our pond.

Was our pond. Is that why he built his house on this road?

Because of the nights we spent wandering those exact woods?

When I saw it, it dawned on me. What other reason would he have for permanently putting something like that on his body?

I could look at that pond in any format and know exactly what it is.

Yet I didn’t realize that it was the one now on the property I own.

Granted, it looks different than it did six years ago.

But still. God, I feel so stupid. I want so badly to know what it means to him.

Why he’d get something like that. The questions will follow me around until they get answers.

And I so desperately wish I hadn’t listened to the girls.

Going over there was stupid, and telling him about Marshall was even more stupid.

Embarrassment trails me like an old friend, and I want nothing more than to go back home and hide myself so deeply beneath my covers that no one can find me.

I park my car a few shops down from Bell’s, confused as to why the street is so packed this morning.

It’s usually so easy to find parking. This is now my fourth week at the coffee shop, and I truly enjoy it more than I could have ever hoped.

As I step out into the crisp morning air, I blink as I take in the huge orange banner hanging overhead.

Now that makes sense.

Clover-Hills Harvest Festival

September 12-14

Est. 1877

Next week. The infamous Harvest Festival, of course.

How could I forget? Everyday, it feels like I'm remembering more. Uncovering aspects of this life that I buried so deeply in hopes of just healing. I hadn't even realized it was already approaching September. It’s always a huge event for the people of Clover-Hills. Every storefront, streetlamp, and shrubbery possible will be decorated by the end of the week. That’s exactly why people are milling around now, some shouting orders about what decorations go where and some just walking around to watch it all take place.

The town holds a scarecrow contest that each business owner participates in.

The shops do a trick-or-treat for any littles who dress up.

Games, food, raffles, a costume contest, a chili contest, pony rides, the list goes on.

It’s a big deal, and people come from all over to participate.

Surprisingly, it’s not nearly as extravagant as the Christmas Festival, though.

I find myself excited for the changing seasons.

Christmas in New York City is nothing compared to Christmas in a small town.

Thankfully, the coffee house doesn’t open for about another half hour, so there will be a small reprieve from the crowd.

I have a feeling that once the open sign flicks on, we’ll have a full house.

I go to push my key into the lock of the front door of the shop, only to see that it’s unlocked.

Whitney beat me here. She beams at me as I step in.

I beam right back, shooting a teasing grin her way.

"Looks like it’ll be a busy morning, huh? "

She sighs and gives me a look that says tell me about it. “I swear it feels like these damn festivals happen every week."

“That’s because they do,” I respond in a sing-song voice.

“I bet you’re excited, though?”

“Actually, I am.” A knowing smile lights up her face.

We busy ourselves with getting the shop ready and making small talk.

Menu ideas for the festival, what she plans on doing with her scarecrow, how she and the baby are, along with all sorts of random day-to-day things.

I’ve always loved how easy the conversations flow with Whitney.

That’s exactly what made us such fast friends.

After our morning rush, Whitney’s rearranging some books that were left out and I’m wiping down tables on the coffee side when the bell dings, signaling we have a customer.

I slap a charming smile on my face and turn to greet them, “Good morning!”

“Ma’am.” He tips his head in greeting, and the towel I’ve got slips through my fingers at the small distraction before me.

Well, small wouldn’t be how I describe him.

I can’t imagine there’s anything small about him.

A tall man, at least six-feet or so, with cropped black hair, a devastatingly gorgeous grin, and deep, rich brown eyes consumes my vision.

Tattoos cover both of his massive arms, and there’s a tiny scar on his bottom lip.

Black shirt, jeans, combat boots. A look that shouldn’t work, but that’s so fitting to this man’s hard features.

It just screams tall, dark, and handsome.

I don’t even try to stop my roaming eyes when he’s distracted by my small hiccup.

He squats down to pick it up before withdrawing back to full height and holding out his hand to offer the rag.

I softly take it back and quirk an eyebrow at him, “Ma’am? Can’t say I’ve ever been called that.”

He smirks at me in a panty-melting kind of way. One that tells me he has zero trouble with getting laid whenever he wishes. He shrugs one of his shoulders, “I can call you whatever you’d like.”

I feel no romantic spark, of course. I don’t know this guy, but I am just a girl. I’m not immune to good looks and getting flustered at a handsome man’s attention. And the horndog in me who reads all-smut, no-plot books would be crazy for not wanting to climb this man like a tree.

I huff a laugh. “You are a shameless flirt. What can I get you?” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and steer the conversation in a different direction before meeting his gaze again.

He leans against the counter and rubs his strong jawline like he’s thinking really hard about what he wants, “Your number?”

I can’t stop the teasing grin from slipping onto my lips, “Straightforward. I’ll give you that.”

“Maybe. I’ll take a black coffee, please.” I turn around to grab one of the to-go cups, and he rattles on behind me. “You new to town? Can’t imagine I’d forget you.”

I roll my eyes. This guy. “Something like that,” I respond.

“You know how to keep a man curious. I like it.”

His eyes roam over my frame as I turn back around with his cup.

It doesn’t make me feel self-conscious at all.

Living in the city forced me to get used to crappy lines and all sorts of roaming eyes.

Yes, the guy is hot, but he’s not really my type.

Everything, and I mean everything about this man is the opposite of someone like Marshall, or any of the guys I met in the city.

He screams trouble. He screams something a woman wants but sure as hell does not need.

Not what I need or look for in a man.

Not like the one I want, but that is completely off-limits for more than one reason.

But…I could use a little fun. So, what’s the harm in dishing it right back?

"So, your number?” He asks again, and I let out a dramatic sigh. “Maybe try again tomorrow, and we’ll see if you happen to get lucky.”

He nods his head and tilts it to the side, staring directly into my soul, like he can read every thought and see every gear turning.

It’s a bit odd, but this entire town has a way of making me feel that way.

He takes the warm paper cup from my hands, raises it, and says, “See you tomorrow, then." As he walks out, I notice while he has a nice ass, it doesn’t nearly fill out his jeans the way Wesley’s does.

It also dawns on me that even at six-foot, Wesley no doubt towers over him.

I nearly smack myself in the face for that thought.

Thinking about fun things should not include thinking about my neighbor.

Whitney’s high-pitched squeal flows to my ears, thankfully pulling me away from my internal sabotage. “Did you just flirt with that man?”

“Yes…yes, I think I did,” I laugh. “You know him?”

“I know of him. And trust me, from what I’ve heard, you do not want to go down that road.

Dude has got a great personality, but he needs some serious therapy.

” That has the woman in me wanting to fix all his problems. Or at least find him someone who will.

At my silence, she goes on. “He’s great eye candy, but not great boyfriend material. ”

It’s a good thing that’s exactly not what I’m looking for, but I don’t say that.

“Now, back to work and stop ogling all the hot customers,” She laughs loudly and ducks as I throw the wet rag at her head.