Page 76 of The Aster Valley Collection, Vol. 1

SAM

I wanted to laugh at myself, and I knew for sure Mikey would laugh at me if he heard me chucking my emotional stew all over this poor guy.

What the hell was I thinking? This wasn’t me.

Not only did I not share my personal shitshow with others, I definitely didn’t share it with people who’d also had it bad.

Sure, maybe… hopefully … Truman hadn’t had the periodic physical abuse I’d had, but he’d experienced a different kind of trauma by being blamed for something that wasn’t his fault.

I wanted to drive down to Durango and confront his parents, insist they apologize to Truman and confess just how wrong it had been to lay the harsh consequences of a childhood mistake at his feet.

But I wasn’t a superhero. And, as usual, I had enough family drama on my own plate as evidenced by the nonstop buzzing of my phone.

“If you need to take a call,” Truman said politely, “you’re welcome to use the guest bedroom for privacy.”

I shook my head as I followed him into the farmhouse kitchen. “No need. It’s my family. They’ve been trying to reach me all week even after I told them I needed a break.”

Hopefully, Truman didn’t think I was rude for ignoring my own family on the phone. I had to assume he understood about having to set boundaries for the sake of your own mental health.

If only I did, too. Ignoring them was eating me up inside. I’d never been good at setting boundaries.

As he began showing me around, Truman loosened up a little. His slender arms waved around at the various cabinets and drawers as he indicated where certain items could be found, and I quickly realized I was spending more time watching his body than following along with where things were.

That was fine. I would make do once I got started. I wasn’t afraid to poke my head around if I needed something, and watching his attractive form and his lively movements had a calming effect on me.

Truman kept up his endearing chatter as I began preparing the chicken.

He told me about each variety of cumin he’d selected and why I might want one over the other.

Obviously, I didn’t have a preference since my only goal here was to spend time with him, so I followed his body language cues to select the one he seemed most excited about.

I asked a few leading questions in an attempt to learn more about him. Things like, “Did you always want to take over your aunt’s farm?”

And I loved every minute of hearing his responses.

He told me about being shocked by her death.

“It was a car accident in Canada. She’d gone up to Calgary for a workshop and…

the van she was in was run off the road by a tractor-trailer, I guess.

They say she died instantly. There were four people in the car.

Another one died at the hospital, and another had serious injuries but survived. The truck driver hit a patch of ice.”

“How old were you?”

He turned to face me, and I saw traces of anguish hidden underneath a forced smile. “Can we not talk about Berry right now, please?”

I hesitated for only a second before following my gut and reaching out to him.

I pulled him into a tight hug like I’d done out in the driveway earlier.

It was completely out of character for me.

Not only was I not one to show emotions, but I was also very careful not to lead anyone on romantically.

After the number of relationships I’d squandered because of family commitments, I’d made a habit of keeping that shit buttoned up tight.

But, god. I couldn’t help myself with Truman Sweet. I wanted to wrap him up in a fuzzy blanket and keep him safe. I also wanted to bend him over the kitchen island and pound his ass.

The whiplash of feelings for this practical stranger was unlike anything I’d experienced before.

Suddenly I realized the small body in my arms was struggling to get away. I lifted my hands up and stepped back, horrified to have advanced on him against his will. “Truman, shit,” I began.

He must have seen the look on my face because he immediately began apologizing. “No, sorry. That’s not… no. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t be nice, dammit! Don’t. I’ll start crying like a baby and never stop.”

I was surprised by his response but relieved at the same time. “Okay, asshole,” I said in a rough voice. “Then stop all this talking bullshit and get to work setting the table.”

His face lit up with a smile, and he saluted me. “Aye-aye, captain.” When he walked past me to get to the silverware drawer, he leaned over and brushed a kiss along the edge of my jaw. I was moving my head at the time, so it also brushed my ear and made me shiver.

Truman made a low humming sound in his throat as if acknowledging the sensitive spot. I closed my eyes and took a breath to regain my focus.

Cooking. I was cooking food.

After the chicken was finally marinating and the rice was measured and ready to cook, I retrieved the wine I’d brought from the fridge and asked if he’d like some.

“Yes, please,” he said before rooting around in a drawer for the corkscrew. Once we each had a glass, he led me out the back door to a stone patio.

I hadn’t seen this area before since it was hidden by the house from the front and by an overgrown cluster of shrubbery from the side of the sun porch Truman used as an office.

It was clean and tidy like the rest of Truman’s house, but I could see he’d spent extra care setting it up for his enjoyment.

Pots of colorful spring flowers lined the flagstones on both sides of the patio, and a solid wood chaise lounge overflowed with comfortable throw pillows in various shapes and sizes.

On the right side, near the sun porch shrubbery, was a round table with four chairs.

A cluster of candle lanterns and small potted flowers sat primly in the middle of the table, and I spotted a modern copper birdbath in a nearby flower bed.

I loved seeing this part of him, but at the same time, it made me realize how little of his personality was inside the farmhouse. It looked like a memorial to the woman who’d lived there before him, and I wondered what it would take for him to start making it his own.

I knew better than to ask. It wasn’t any of my business. At least he would begin to make forward progress by cleaning out her things.

“This is really nice, Truman,” I said instead. “Do you spend a lot of time out here?”

He reached over idly to pinch off some dead blooms from a nearby plant. “When the weather is nice. I’ve always loved this view.”

We were on the low part of the valley slope which meant mountain peaks surrounded us on two sides. Most likely, every property owner in the area relished the view of the peaks.

Not Truman.

The view he loved seemed to be of town. From here, you could see the white church spire, the patch of green grass where the large statue of a mountain rescue dog took pride of place in front of the visitors’ center, the oval shape of the high school track-and-field facility, and the red roof of the little historic covered bridge over the stream that ran behind Main Street.

It reminded me of the one in Vail, and I’d meant to ask Mikey if Aster Valley had copied it for tourism reasons.

“Can you see the shop from here?” I asked, squinting at the brick buildings in the general area of the Honeyed Lemon.

“Right now you can. It’s next to the building with the black roof in that strip of shops on the right.” He pointed to a cluster of buildings I instantly recognized. From here, I could see green plants on the roof of his building. Why wasn’t I surprised?

Truman continued. “But once this meadow starts flowering for real, there’s usually a cluster of elephantella and purple coneflowers that obscures the view.” He looked at me with pinkening cheeks. “Or maybe they just distract me from it.”

I realized it wasn’t necessarily the town that provided his favorite view, but the open meadow leading down to it, no doubt the blank canvas on which he could plant any number of things. His backyard was a wide swath of land he clearly set aside just for wildflowers.

Just to make him happy.

“I’ll bet it’s gorgeous in full bloom,” I said softly, imagining it in the late-afternoon sun.

He looked back out at the land where only a scattering of pale purple and tiny yellow flowers covered most of the area. Most of the expanse of clear-cut space was still winter-ragged and barren, but I could tell Truman didn’t see it that way. He saw it covered in a riot of summer color.

“It’s amazing,” he said with a sweet smile. “I can’t wait to show it to you. I mean, if… if you come back for a visit. With Mikey and Tiller.”

“I’ll bet it’s stunning.” I wanted to reach out and pull him close, nuzzle into his neck, and plant kisses along his smooth skin. But I knew that if I started something now, there’d be no dinner. “Tell me more about the shop. What got you interested in spices?”

I made my way over to the table and took a seat before sipping more of the wine. Truman followed me and took a seat as well.

“I took over the cooking after we moved to Durango,” he began.

“It was one of the, um, extra chores that my parents decided I needed to do for the family.” He quickly waved that conversational direction away with a flick of his wrist. “Anyway, I really didn’t have access to much in the way of flavors.

Money was tight, so we couldn’t get premade marinades or spice blends.

I ended up growing some herbs the way I’d learned from Aunt Berry.

My mom was really impressed when I made rosemary chicken one night using herbs I’d planted and grown myself. ”

His smile was nostalgic as he remembered. “You couldn’t have been old enough for all that?” I asked.

“I was probably seven.”

“Jesus,” I muttered, thinking about the boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese and frozen pizzas I made at that age.