Page 25 of That One Night (The Heartbreak Brothers Next Generation #4)

Chapter

Twenty-One

“Oh. My. God.” Maisie’s voice lifted a whole octave. “I can’t believe you did it. Everything on the original and the best list, except stay up all night talking.”

Emery looked at the list. There were checkmarks against every one except number four. “I know. I’m expecting a gold star as soon as you’re back on US soil.”

“You should just ask him to not sleep,” Maisie told her. “Get them all ticked off.”

“I can’t. The man has to work with heavy machinery. I’m not going to beg him to stay up all night talking to me. I like his body intact, thank you very much.”

Emery was in the town square, heading over to the diner to grab a coffee before driving home.

She’d spent the morning in the library. With only a month left before she was due back at work, she needed to start working on her lesson plans.

They had a week of in-service at school without the students coming in, where she could get the classroom ready.

That way the fall semester would start with a bang.

She’d been sneaking over to Hendrix’s cottage every night. Waiting until her mom was asleep, then tiptoeing over like a teenager heading out for a booty call.

And during the days, she and her mom had finished getting the cottage ready to go on the market. They’d ended up paying the farmhands some extra money to take the trash away. And anything that could be burned was put on a big bonfire by Jed.

It was funny how attuned she was to the changing of the seasons.

Part of that came from being a farmer’s daughter.

But some of it came from being a teacher.

The summer had come to its peak. The long lazy days were slowly morphing into the feeling that something big was coming.

Back to school. Back to work. Before she knew it, fall would be in the air.

And yeah, there was a pang in her gut about that. About going back to Charleston. She’d be staying with Maisie until she found somewhere to live.

“Then we’ll just have to stay up all night when I get back,” Maisie said. “I guess I can help you complete the assignment.”

“Perfect.” Emery felt her throat tighten. Going back meant the end of the summer. The end of sneaking across the road to Hendrix’s cottage.

But it also meant the end of Trenton’s hold on her. The start of her mom’s new life. All these things felt so bittersweet.

“So have you and Hendrix talked about what happens next?” Maisie asked her.

“It’s only been a few days,” Emery pointed out.

“No, sweetie. It’s been at least a month. You and him… you’ve been dancing around each other all summer. The sex might be recent but the rest isn’t.”

“The rest?”

“Your feelings for him.” Maisie sounded so damn sure. The worst thing was, she was right. Emery did have feelings for Hendrix.

“There’s the small matter of everyone thinking I’m still engaged,” Emery pointed out. “I can’t have that conversation with him until that’s over.”

“When are Trenton’s parents back?”

“In a few weeks. He’s coming to town then.” And he’d be signing the lien away. That was the agreement. She felt so twisted at the thought of seeing him. Yes, it meant the end of everything. Once the loan was resolved there’d be nothing left between them.

But he’d still hurt her. And wounds ran deep.

“And then you’ll be coming back home. At least Charleston isn’t that far a drive from Hartson’s Creek.”

“I guess not,” Emery murmured. But the tightness in her chest was still there.

Come over once your mom has left for Chairs. I want to cook for you. – Hendrix

Emery stared at the message. Of all the things he could have proposed for tonight, she wasn’t expecting that.

She didn’t even know the man could cook.

And yet she was ridiculously excited at getting to spend the evening with him.

Yes, she would need to head home before her mom got back, but until then they had a few hours of freedom.

Sure, it was hot sneaking out of the house and into his bed for a few hours late at night when her mom was asleep, but she ached for more.

For after.

As soon as she pushed his door open, she could smell the warm aromas of onions and garlic. She walked inside, her lips curling when she saw him standing behind the stove, in a fresh t-shirt and jeans, his hair damp from a shower.

He turned to look at her, taking her in. “Hope you’re hungry,” he told her. “I’m making pasta.”

“It smells amazing.” She slid her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his back. He smelled of pine trees on a summer’s day. For a second she closed her eyes and breathed him in.

“Are you making amatriciana sauce?” she asked him, watching as he added a can of Italian pomodoro tomatoes to the pan.

He stirred them in, and she could feel his back muscles tighten against her chest. “Yeah. You had it before?”

“I took a cooking course in Charleston a while back. My mom bought it for me for Christmas one year.” She wrinkled her nose. All part of her mom’s dreams to make her a better housewife, she guessed. “We learned about the four roman sauces. Amatriciana was my favorite.”

“I visited Italy for a few months,” he told her. “I paid my way by working at a vineyard up in the hills. The Wi-Fi was terrible, so I had to entertain myself. Ended up getting taught how to cook by the grandmother of the family.”

She tried to picture him being bossed around by a beautiful older Italian woman. There was so much more about him to learn. She couldn’t wait. “I figured you’d be more of a steak man.”

“I don’t like eating beef.”

Well, that surprised her. “You don’t?”

He turned to look at her, and she let go of his back. Hendrix leaned down to press his mouth against hers.

His kiss was hungry. And short, because the tomatoes were starting to bubble.

“I rarely eat meat,” he told her. “I don’t even put it in this sauce, though you’re supposed to. I use mushrooms instead, though I’m pretty sure Nonna Gabriella would beat me over the head with her least favorite pan if she knew.”

“Do you not like the texture?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “I just don’t like eating the animals I spend all day taking care of.”

It was weird how that made her chest feel tight. He had such a masculine, don’t care exterior. And yet there were all these little clues that led to one conclusion. Hendrix Hartson was a good man. Even if he pretended otherwise.

He grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer and scooped it into the pan before lifting it to his mouth so he could taste the sauce. “Needs a little more salt,” he murmured, grabbing the salt grinder and sprinkling some in.

“Where’s the recipe?” she asked, wondering if he had it on his phone. But it was nowhere to be seen.

“Here.” He touched his head. “I’m not good at reading recipes. You’ve already seen what I’m like with paperwork.” He looked suddenly shy, like he’d said something he wished he hadn’t. “Anyway, it’s simple. No recipe book needed. Want to try a bit?”

“Absolutely.” She watched as he grabbed a fresh spoon and dipped it in, then lifted it up, blowing on it before he offered it to her. The simple intimacy of the action made her breathless. Then she opened her mouth and tasted it.

“Oh God,” she murmured, once she swallowed it down. “That’s delicious.”

“Right?”

She shook her head. “I could go to culinary school for a year and never make it that good. I’m never going to be able to cook for you now.”

“In that case, you can set the table,” he told her. “Silverware is on the counter.”

“On it.” She grabbed the forks and spoons – because of course he ate the Italian way – and walked over to the tiny kitchen table in the corner of the room. The papers she’d sorted through for him were neatly piled on the surface.

“I sent the grant applications off,” he told her. “I still have to go through the bills.”

A jolt of warmth went through her. She liked knowing she was helping him. Her dad had taught her how important federal grants could be to the running of a farm. Especially a small one like Hendrix’s.

“Are you dyslexic?” she asked him. Because it felt like the right time to ask.

It was like watching the doors slam shut. His face literally closed down in front of her eyes. There was no expression there, no nothing. “Drop it,” he said.

She blinked at the harshness of his tone. It contrasted so badly with the way he’d treated her up to now. “I was just asking…”

“And I was just saying I don’t want to talk about it. Do you want a drink? Wine?”

Emery let out a breath. “Just water, please.” After the bar dancing debacle, she’d be happy not to drink alcohol for the rest of her life.

He nodded and poured them both a glass from the refrigerator, then carried over the glasses followed by the bowls of pasta.

They both pulled out a chair, and she felt herself squirm at how fast the atmosphere between them had changed. She wanted to take back her words. To stop him from scowling. Taking a deep breath, she looked at him.

“I’m sorry. I should have thought before I opened my mouth.”

For a second he closed his eyes. Like he was trying to find the right words. When he opened them again, she saw that vulnerability she’d seen earlier.

“No, I’m sorry. I just…” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

“I’ve had worse,” she joked, but that only made him wince.

“And you’ve deserved better. You deserve better from me.” He shook his head. “Yes, I’m mildly dyslexic. I was diagnosed as an adult. For most of my life I just thought I was stupid.”

She hated the way he said that. Like it was a fact, not a feeling.

“You’re anything but stupid,” she protested. “Look at the way you can take care of a farm. The way you can cook. The way you take care of me.”