Page 5 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

Five

T he driveway is long, lined with immaculate hedges and beautiful dogwood trees.

I cruise up slowly, the Harley’s engine rumbling low against the quiet of the coming night.

The house at the end of the drive is something out of a Southern Living spread.

Big, white, farmhouse style with a wide wraparound porch and a lake stretching out behind it like an oil painting.

I kill the engine and swing a leg off, the sudden silence pressing in.

For a second, I only stand there, helmet in one hand, watching the way the last of the sun drops over the lake.

It’s peaceful. Too peaceful. Like the kind of place where people settle down, raise kids, and drink wine on the porch.

Definitely not built for someone like me.

Still, I walk toward the porch, boots heavy on the steps.

Two white rocking chairs sit side by side, angled enough to catch the lake view.

I pick one and sink into it, the old wood creaking under my weight as I reach into my back pocket and pull out the business card again.

Kristin Lennox. Still sounds like a name that belongs on a yacht or a courtroom plaque.

The letters after her name don’t mean much to me, but the house says enough.

She’s not hurting for money. I flip the card over.

Blank. No cute message or flirty note. Only the address I followed.

I lean back and let the chair rock, slow and steady.

The lake glistens in the last light when suddenly the screen door creaks open behind me and I turn, already halfway to standing, not sure what to expect.

It’s an older woman, maybe late sixties, gray hair pulled into a bun that’s more business than beauty. She’s got warm eyes though, and a dish towel slung over one shoulder.

“Good evening,” she says, voice soft but confident. “I’m Mrs. Tomas. Ms. Lennox called ahead and said you might be stopping by. Said to offer you something to eat and drink if you were hungry.”

Of course, Ms. Lennox called ahead. She’s the kind of woman who always has a plan. I remember how polished she looks, but I can’t help but wonder what lies underneath. Does she ever get messy? Does she ever let go?

I blink at her, caught off guard by this stranger’s kindness. “Uh, yeah. I could eat.”

Mrs. Tomas smiles like she already knew the answer. “Sandwich and a cold beer sound all right?”

“Sounds like heaven,” I say, and she nods once before disappearing back inside.

I lean back again, taking it all in. This whole thing is surreal.

Kristin Lennox, mystery woman with a red Corvette and bourbon eyes, inviting me to her place like it’s no big deal.

Like I’m not just some ex-soldier with a saddlebag full of trauma and a strap-on in my backpack.

Mrs. Tomas returns with a plate and a bottle, setting them on the small table between the chairs. “Roast beef on rye. Pickles on the side. And a Shiner Bock. That all right?”

“More than all right,” I say, already reaching for the bottle.

I crack it open and take a long pull, the cold hitting my throat like a blessing.

The sandwich follows, and I eat like I haven’t had real food in days.

Which I realize I haven’t. Mrs. Tomas watches me for a second, then gives a small nod like I passed some kind of test and heads back inside.

I think about asking her something. About Kristin, about the house, about what the hell I’ve walked into, but I don’t.

Patience is one of the few things the Army drilled into me that stuck.

By the time I wipe the last crumbs from my fingers and drain the bottle dry, I hear it.

The low, sexy growl of that red Corvette pulling into the drive.

I don’t move. Only sit there, watching as Kristin steps out, dark curls a little more wild than before.

She’s got a leather tote slung over one shoulder and a smile that says she’s not surprised I came.

That smile disarms me more than it should.

It’s not seductive. It’s certain. Like she knew I’d show, like she knows me already and maybe that’s what gets under my skin more than anything else. Being seen before I’ve said a word.

“Hello, soldier,” she says, climbing the porch steps like she owns the world. Which, judging by this place, she might.

“Hello yourself,” I say, giving her a nod. “Thanks for the sandwich and the beer.”

She shrugs, setting her bag down and leaning against the porch railing. “Least I could do,” she says. “You saved me from melting on the side of the road.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as the damsel type.”

“I’m not,” she says, with a little laugh. “But I’m not stupid either. You looked like someone who could handle a flat tire and then some.”

Unable to help it, I smile. “So… why am I here?”

Kristin pushes off the railing and walks to the edge of the porch, looking out at the dark lake. “I’ve got a guesthouse,” she says. “Out back. It’s empty. And I figured, after the kind of day we had, maybe you’d want a place to crash that doesn’t smell like old cigarettes.”

I study her for a beat. She’s not flirting now. Not exactly. She’s offering something else. A space. A pause. A breath. And fuck if that doesn’t hit me harder than any come-on ever could. “You sure?” I ask, voice quieter than I meant it.

She turns to me then, eyes unreadable. “I don’t invite people here,” she answers. “Not unless I want them here.”

Pausing for a beat to take in her answer, I stand, stretching out the stiffness in my legs, and walk to the edge of the porch beside her. “Then yeah,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

She gives me a smile, small but real. “Good,” she says. “It’s through the garden, down the path. Key’s under the frog statue. You’ll know it when you see it.”

I nod, and we stand there for a minute in silence, staring at each other, when suddenly Mrs. Tomas pushes through the screen door, her eyes flicking between us like she’s been watching this scene build all along.

“Glad to see you home safe, Ms. Lennox,” she says, giving Kristin a warm smile.

“I’ll be heading out now. Left everything prepped for breakfast in the fridge. ”

Kristin nods. “Thanks, Mrs. Tomas. Appreciate you staying.”

“Always,” she says, then turns her attention to me. “It was nice meeting you. You enjoy your stay.”

“I plan to,” I say, and I mean it. She gives a small nod, then disappears down the steps.

A car door opens and shuts, and the gravel crunches as she pulls away, leaving the house and the porch quiet again.

It’s only me and Kristin now, and the space between us.

I take a step closer. She doesn’t move, but her body shifts, just slightly, like she’s bracing for something.

Her eyes stay locked on mine, and in them, I see it.

That same heat from earlier, the same spark, but it’s tempered now.

Controlled. Like she’s holding something back.

I don’t push. Not yet. Instead, I nod and back off. “Thanks again. For the beer. For the bed.”

She lifts her chin. “Wait,” she says. “I think, since you’re my guest, I should at least know your name.”

“Reggie. Reggie Holliday,” I tell her, and she smiles a little more.

“Goodnight, Reggie Holliday.”

Heading down the porch steps and back to the bike, I grab my pack and saddlebags.

The air’s cooler now, cicadas humming in the distance.

I follow the gravel path that winds through the side yard, then into something that doesn’t feel real.

Even with only the light from the back porch, I can see it’s a garden.

Like, a real one. Not a few tomato plants and a sad rosemary bush, but a full-blown, landscaped, curated thing.

Stone paths. Sculpted hedges. Flowerbeds everywhere.

There’s even a little fountain burbling near a bench, and the whole thing feels like it was stolen from a magazine.

The frog statue is tucked beside a row of lavender, exactly like she said and when I lift it, sure enough, the key’s underneath.

I follow the path a little farther until the guesthouse comes into view.

Jesus. If this is the guesthouse, I don’t even want to know what the master bedroom looks like.

It’s all white wood and black trim, with big windows and soft porch lights already glowing.

I unlock the front door and step inside.

And yeah. It’s a fancy fucking guesthouse.

Hardwood floors, sleek furniture, high ceilings with exposed beams. There’s a fireplace in the corner and a kitchen that looks like it’s never been used.

After a quick look, I see the bathroom’s bigger than some apartments I’ve lived in and the shower, glass, tiled, rain-style faucet, is practically begging me to get naked.

Everything smells faintly of lavender and cedar, the kind of scent that clings to expensive linens.

I run my fingers along the back of the leather couch, half-expecting it to vanish like some mirage.

It’s the kind of place that doesn’t just offer comfort. It demands you slow down and feel it.

Dropping my stuff by the bed, I strip down.

In a few steps, I am standing under the spray.

The water hits me hot and perfect, sliding down my body and washing off the dust of the ride, the sex, the road.

And I think about it. The last forty-eight hours.

About a hotel clerk with legs for days and a moan that still echoes in my head.

A tattooed sex shop goddess who let me tie her down and fuck the hell out of her.

And now, this. The house, this woman with bourbon-colored eyes that hold secrets behind them, offering me a place to stay like it’s no big deal.

It should feel like too much, but instead, it feels like something’s shifting.

Like the road isn’t only about running anymore.

It’s about the places I stop and the people I meet there.

I lean my forehead against the cool tile, the water pounding down my back. I don’t know what’s next. I never do. But for tonight? I’m clean. I’m fed. And I’m sleeping in the classiest fucking place I’ve ever laid my head. Tomorrow can wait.