"Can't say I blame you, looking at me like that, kid." I lean closer to her highchair and stick out my tongue at her. When she mimics me, sticking her tongue out and blowing raspberries before cackling hysterically, I find myself unreasonably thrilled.
Autumn reappears a moment later with a glass jug in her hand. "I see you're keeping each other entertained."
"You say that like we're on the same wavelength."
"Well, you're not that much older than her," she points out, pouring me a glass. When she looks at me, she's smiling.
"You're full of jokes," I say. "At your age, I'm surprised your mind is still fresh."
"Hilarious." She wipes Olivia's face and hands with a towel, then takes the kid out of her highchair and lets her toddle around the room. "This is a small batch of cider, a new recipe. I'm trying a different apple."
I take a sip, half-concerned this is going to be one of those situations like when my buddies brew beer and it tastes like shit but I have to tell them it's great so they don't get their panties in a wad, but it's not one of those cases at all. "It's good. Legitimately good," I say. "Where the hell did you learn to brew cider?"
She smiles slyly as she walks past me, chasing after Olivia, who's disappearing into the living room. "I might not be able to cook, but I can brew. It's in my blood."
When she returns with Olivia on her hip, I stand. "I should go."
"Yeah. I have to give the baby a bath."
I pause there awkwardly for a second, because the weird thing is, I find myself not wanting to go. Usually I'm trying to run like hell out of a situation like this – the kind where a chick is talking to me and not putting out. But I'm curious about this girl. "What did you mean ‘it's in your blood’?"
"Brewing is," she says, following me to the door.
"You brew beer too?"
She shakes her head. "My family owned a distillery in Kentucky," she explains. "Bourbon."
"Kentucky bourbon … That's southern."
She winks. "It's 'bout as southern as it gets. Thanks for the dinner."
I'm standing there on her doorstep, and it has to be those damn green eyes and that red hair and the way her lips fall open like they do that makes me say what I say next, as I turn to leave. "I'll be here tomorrow at seven."
Fuck. What the hell am I doing?
"What do you mean?" she calls after me.
"You need a foreman, right?"
What the hell am I getting myself into?
6
Autumn
After Olivia is asleep, I lie in bed with my eyes closed trying to sleep, but all I can see is him. Luke.
He's irritating as hell. Cocky, crude, arrogant, used to telling women what to do – like the way he barged into the house and decided to rummage around my kitchen and cook.
Okay, so the cooking part wasn't really bad. That part was really good, actually. It's been a long time since a man has cooked for me. Scratch that. Make that ever. Edward wasn't big into cooking for me. Or doing much of anything else for me, come to think of it.
Luke, on the other hand, looks like he knows how to do lots of things for women. The thought of what he could do for me makes heat rush through my body. It's been a long time – embarrassingly long – since I've gotten laid.
Being pregnant and having a baby doesn't exactly make me marketable in terms of dating. My vibrator has become my best friend.
That's only slightly depressing.
I turn over in bed, trying to put aside the thoughts of Luke Saint that keep running through my head. Like how he looked at me when he came walking up out of the orchard – angry, soot smudged on his chiseled face, his shirt clinging to his body…
Shit, I need to get laid. By someone my own age. Someone who's normal, stable. Not some young guy who lives down by the damn creek with his dog.
I know Luke's type. Guys like him come through West Bend doing seasonal work in the summer, skiing and snowboarding in the winter. They're adrenaline-seeking, responsibility-avoidant, womanizing jocks who just want to get stoned and get laid.
The way his phone was blowing up at dinner with texts from some girl tells me all I need to know about him. I've already had a womanizing bastard in my life. I definitely don't need to think about getting laid by another one.
I groan, reaching into the bedside table to pull out my vibrator. Two years of pent-up frustration is obviously making me crazy.
Sliding my hand underneath my soft cotton nightshirt, I cover my breast with my palm, trying to bring to mind the image of… someone else, anyone else except Luke Saint. I run through a litany of sexy male movie stars in my head, but all I can see when I close my eyes is that smug, self-assured grin of Luke's.
I imagine his lips moving across the tops of my breasts, then down lower as he takes my breast in his mouth. I run my fingers over my breast, playing with my nipple, mimicking the way his tongue moves around in circles in my fantasy. When I slide my fingers between my legs, I picture his fingers doing the work that mine are doing on my clit.