Page 7 of Wrecked for Love (Buffaloberry Hill #1)

“So, what do you call your farm?” I asked, hoping for a clue about which town I’d stumbled into.

“The Lazy Moose,” he replied.

“Cute. But I bet no farmers around here are lazy, right?”

“I’m as lazy as a bear in spring,” he said, stretching his arms like a grizzly waking from hibernation.

Lazy? Not a chance. He might be like a bear, but the kind that could take down a mountain, not nap through it.

I glanced his way, my eyes tracing how his snug sweatshirt framed those broad, muscular arms. I’d caught a glimpse of those pythons earlier when he’d peeled off his jacket at my command, headlights shining on him.

Now, it felt like I was seeing the sequel to that moment.

The sweatshirt was white, and I couldn’t tell if the fabric was actually thin enough to reveal his tanned skin and soft chest hair or if my imagination was just getting ahead of me.

“So, which town is this part of?” I asked, keeping my tone light despite the distraction.

He scoffed. “I thought you had a direction.”

“Come on, I practically crash-landed onto your property without even noticing. By now, you should know today’s been a mess for me.”

He leaned back, grinning. “Welcome to Buffaloberry Hill.”

Well, what do you know, my host was capable of real smiles after all. In fact, it was a killer smile!

“Buffaloberry Hill, eh?” I said, more to myself. “South Montana?”

His grin turned into something closer to pity. “Southwest. You’re smack in the heart of Bitterroot Valley.”

The town could be my next stop, depending on how tonight went and how the people here were. If they were as decent as my host, maybe I could stick around a little longer.

My plate was cleared. Not even a remnant of the mustard was left. Both our teacups sat empty on the table. He looked at me, his expression serious but not intense. “Look, I’m not some creep who kidnaps random passersby like in The Hills Have Eyes or something.”

“Well, in my experience, the people who say they’re not creeps usually end up being the creeps.” I shot him a teasing smirk.

“There she is—Miss Chili Pepper’s back,” he said. “But really, what I’m trying to say is,” he gulped, “you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to. Get back on your feet before you move on.”

“I just need tonight,” I said, the words hanging between us.

He didn’t push, didn’t ask for more. Just nodded slowly. “Fair enough. Everyone’s got their reasons. I’m not one to pry.”

I exhaled, letting the tension slip away as the storm raged on outside, hurling thunder and lightning across the sky. Koda stuck close to Elia, the collie’s calm demeanor surprising amid the noise.

“He’s not afraid of storms?” I asked.

“Not when I’m around,” Elia replied. “But if he’s alone, he gets a little spooked. Sometimes, I find him hiding behind the couch when I come home.”

“Good boy.” I raised my eyebrows in a praising gesture.

As I carried our cups and plates to the kitchen, Elia headed for the living room, setting up the couch.

I joined him. “Thanks,” I said, appreciating the gesture.

“Think that’s enough blankets?”

“Yeah.”

“If you want the fire going all night, there’s plenty of wood right here.” He patted the stack beside the hearth. “You know how to handle a fireplace without torching the place, right?”

“How hard can it be?” I said with a tilt of my head.

“Well, if you need anything, just holler.” With that, he vanished into the back of the house.

I tucked myself into the couch, and Koda jumped up at my feet, casting me a guilty glance as if knowing he wasn’t supposed to.

“It’s all right. You can stay.” I motioned my approval, and he curled up contentedly.

The wind rattled the windows as a fierce gust blew through. I was thankful Elia had come back for me. The storm wouldn’t have killed me, but it would’ve surely left me freezing, wide awake, and miserable.

Just as I pulled the blankets snug around me, Elia returned. Koda lifted his head lazily, and so did I.

“Let me take the couch,” he said matter-of-factly.

“No, no, I’m good here.”

“Take the bed,” he insisted. “I don’t want you leaving and thinking I’m an asshole.”

I giggled. “Do you really care what I think?”

He sighed, mildly exasperated. “Do you really have to argue about everything? Just take the bed.”

He motioned for me to follow, leading me down the hallway to a room at the end.

It was neat in a straightforward, no-nonsense way, much like the rest of the house.

Heavy wooden furniture, boots tucked under the bed, and a flannel shirt draped over a chair—it had all the marks of a rancher’s room. Practical. Lived-in. Functional.

“My room’s the only one that’s furnished. And I just changed the sheets for you,” he said, gesturing toward the bed. “But here’s a tip. Take the left side.”

I curled my lips. “Preserving your half? Or your other half?”

For some reason, a flicker of jealousy stirred inside me.

“Sure. If you count my other half being a pillow with commitment issues,” he replied. “The right side’s about as comfortable as a clown’s lumpy shoes.”

“So you’re single then?” I just couldn’t help it.

He didn’t answer directly; he just turned to leave. “Oh, and don’t close the door. The latch is jammed,” he called over his shoulder.

Naturally, I closed it anyway.

I dropped my bag next to the door and set the Ruger on the nightstand.

An unexpected surge of wakefulness had me glancing around the room again.

Crashing in a guy’s space wasn’t exactly my thing, and I wasn’t the snooping type.

But that didn’t stop my curiosity from stirring.

Maybe it was the boredom from too many miles on the road, but suddenly, being surrounded by someone else’s things had me wondering what he kept hidden around here.

I opened the closet, almost laughing as a pile of worn clothes tumbled out. Aha! So, that’s where he’d stashed his mess. But honestly, it wasn’t that bad. I briefly considered folding them, imagining his reaction tomorrow when he found his clothes neatly stacked after I was long gone.

I poked around some more, admiring his small collection of cowboy shirts and T-shirts. He didn’t seem to own much. Definitely a minimalist, which didn’t surprise me. Then, there were the drawers.

Was he more of a boxers or briefs kinda guy?

A wicked thrill tickled the base of my neck, tempting me to find out, but I let it slide.

On the shelf above the drawers, I spotted a photo album.

I opened it and flipped through old pictures that seemed to be taken around this very farm.

There were a few landscape shots—rolling hills, open skies, animals dotting the fields.

Some included a woman and a man, often with sheepdogs by their sides, probably Elia’s parents when they were younger.

Others featured a family: mom, dad, and their three kids.

The youngest was a baby, then there was a toddler—a boy—and a girl around six or seven.

If this was Elia’s family, I wasn’t sure if he was the baby or the toddler.

I kept flipping the pages until I found a clue—a photo with “Happy Birthday Elia” written across the wall, surrounded by balloons and streamers.

Five candles topped the cake, and his father was holding a little boy, likely the baby from the earlier photos, now grown.

His mother was cheering while his older sister helped him blow out the candles.

Mother and daughter, both with the same blue eyes and blonde hair, looked like they could’ve been homecoming queens of Buffaloberry Hill.

I gave the photo one more glance. So Elia was the middle child.

“Of course you were,” I muttered, feeling a little giddy.

He was unbelievably adorable in his overalls and a cone hat.

Those beady brown eyes—his signature, even back then—stood out, and his thick dark hair already hinted at the man he’d become.

No sign of those chiseled jaws yet, but still.

How had that cheeks-too-squishable-for-his-own-good kid turned into such a stunning man? Good genes and hard work, I guessed.

As I flipped through more photos, cooing over each one, it became clear that Elia had been a happy boy—a striking contrast to the lone man who now lived here.

I parked the thought as a yawn crept in, maybe a sign that sleep was finally coming. And with the image of a cute little Elia in my head, it wasn’t a bad way to end the night.

After putting everything back in its place, I crawled into the left side of the bed—his side. His scent lingered there, comforting in a strange way. And, sure enough, the right side was lumpy, just as he’d said.

Fatigue settled over me like a heavy blanket, but this time, it wasn’t from fear or running. It was the kind of tiredness that let my body loosen, and my mind finally quieten.

It had been too long since sleep came without a fight.