Page 25 of Wrecked for Love (Buffaloberry Hill #1)

ELIA

“Are you going to come in this time?” Claire asked as we pulled up to The Willow.

If I said no, I’d have to explain. How could I tell her that I’d found my sister’s lifeless body in the second bedroom—the one Claire now used as her creative space, where her mind wandered free?

How could I tell her that Tessa’s killer was still out there, that no one had ever believed she’d been murdered?

Claire loved this place too much for me to ruin it. It was her refuge, her sanctuary after escaping her own nightmare. I pushed aside my trepidation. Putting her first—that came easy to me.

“Of course,” I said and followed her inside.

The place was almost unrecognizable—brighter, warmer, and alive in a way I never thought possible again. She’d breathed life into this house, into every corner, every nook. A hideout I once believed was lost to the past now felt like it could almost make me happy again. But not quite.

That door…the one leading to the second bedroom.

It stood there, seemingly innocent—just a regular door.

As far as I remember, it used to be dark brown, an ominous color that matched the grimness it carried in my mind.

Now, Claire had painted it a soft, pale sage, blending it with the cream-colored walls around it.

But no shade, no brushstroke could ever erase the darkness behind that door.

The memory of Tessa was still vivid—her body lying on the bed, her mouth slack, suffocated on her own vomit.

Her arm hung limply off the edge, needle marks dotting her elbow, with drug paraphernalia strewn across the floor.

That image was burned into my mind. I could never make peace with it.

Claire must’ve noticed me staring at the door longer than I should’ve. She grinned, breaking the tension. “Now, no peeking inside that room. You’ll just find all my silly pages.”

Her lightheartedness was a saving grace. Thank God I didn’t have to step inside the room. “What? Did you base your hero on me or something?”

A flush of red rushed to her cheeks, and she gave me a swat. “No! Don’t push it, mister.”

We moved to the couch by the fire, my shoulder still throbbing from earlier. Claire, ever attentive, disappeared for a moment before returning with a hot compress.

“Take off your shirt,” she instructed, sitting beside me.

I noticed a bruise just on the round of my shoulder. Diesel had got me good, but I was lucky he hadn’t had a chance to unleash everything in him, or I would’ve been a dead matador.

She then carefully applied the compress to my aching shoulder. I couldn’t help but let out a groan of relief as the warmth began to soothe the pain. Ah…perhaps Diesel had planned this all for me. I involuntarily chuckled.

“What?” Claire said.

“No, nothing.”

Her hands worked magic as she held the compress in place. Then she leaned in closer, her presence comforting, and despite the earlier chaos, I felt a sense of peace.

“Better?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Much,” I murmured.

After a few quiet moments, she stood up, holding out her hand. “Come on, let’s get to bed. It’s been a long day.”

I followed her into the bedroom, and Claire changed into sunflower pajamas, looking utterly adorable. The bright, cheerful print popped but never outshone her.

“You really like sunflowers, huh?” I remarked, eyeing the bold pattern.

“Yeah. I like bright flowers,” she said with a casual shrug.

“Noted,” I acknowledged.

She dropped herself onto the mattress, letting her body bounce with the impact. “I’ve been planting all sorts of flowers in the backyard. Roses, daisies, even some lavender. I figured, why not fill the place with things that make me happy?”

I paused, trying to swallow the unexpected lump in my throat. She wasn’t just planting flowers—she was weaving love into every corner of the cottage, inside and out. My sister hadn’t been much of a flower person, but still…she would’ve adored what Claire had done here.

“And guess what?” she added.

“What?”

“I’m setting myself a challenge—a winter project. How about my own indoor nursery right here?”

I could see it. I could imagine her becoming the best customer at the garden center down the road.

I slid out of my pants, making her purr. Her eyes landed on my underwear, vibes too cheeky compared to her sunflower PJs.

She commented, “So, you’re neither a boxers nor briefs guy.”

“Huh? Then what would you call these?” I glanced down, realizing I had always referred to them simply as underwear, unaware of any fancier names.

“They’re called trunks,” she informed me, rolling onto her belly and resting her chin on her hand as she continued her observation.

I joined her in bed, hiding myself under the covers. “So, I guess I’m a ‘trunks’ kind of guy. Does that bother you?” I tried to decipher her smile.

“Very much.” Her hand slipped beneath the blanket. “Trunks are sexy, and you look incredibly sexy in them. It means you have great taste and a great body.”

I squeezed her wandering hand, drawing it to my chest as I turned toward her.

My fingers brushed her fringe, and she nudged herself closer.

I wanted her—badly. For crying out loud, I did!

And I could see in her eyes that she wanted me just as much.

But making love next to the very room where Tessa had died…

I couldn’t do it. The words stuck in my throat, and I didn’t know how to tell her.

She sensed it, though, her eyes softening. “I had a great time,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“You mean that?” I asked, trying to push past the lump in my chest.

“Of course. You know Miss Chili Pepper doesn’t do bullshit,” she said with a wink. “Now, bull-wrangling? That might grow on me, but not bullshit.”

I laughed, grateful for how easily she could make the moment feel right.

“Good night,” she said, leaning in to peck my forehead.

“That’s it?” I blurted out, perhaps too innocently. I didn’t want sex tonight, but that quick peck left me feeling a bit shortchanged.

With a giggle, she leaned back in and kissed me, slow and sweet, her lips lingering just long enough to leave me wanting more.

Her long arm reached behind her, her fingers brushing the switch as she turned off the bedside light.

Then she wriggled closer, her back pressing against my pecs.

I spooned her, fitting myself around her.

“Don’t run away,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath. “At least not tonight.”

“I’ll be here when you wake up in the morning,” she promised, pulling my hand tighter around her waist.

The darkness settled around us, but all I felt was her.

The rise and fall of her breath soothed me, and I matched my own to her rhythm.

Her hair brushed my chin, and I nestled my face against the crook of her neck, the scent of her calming me in a way nothing else could.

I wasn’t sure when she drifted off, but eventually, her breathing slowed and deepened.

I parted my lips against her skin, comforted by the simple truth that she was here, safe in my arms.

I inched closer to her, and for a moment, she reflexively held on to me.

“I’m not going anywhere.” I pressed a soft kiss to her earlobe. With her, everything felt right again, and the happiness Logan claimed was “too hard”? It came effortlessly when I was with her.