"Yeah, well, I've got to go back out to the rig this week." Killian is a roughneck, working on oil rigs since he turned eighteen. Just like the rest of us, he got the hell out of West Bend as soon as he could.
I've passed through West Bend before, having come through the area to snowboard or on a smoke jumper contract, but this trip is different. This is the longest I've stayed in West Bend since I left.
I tell myself that fact is entirely about my mother's unexpected death and not at all to do with the smokin' hot redhead who owns the orchard.
10
Autumn
Yanking the cidery door open, I walk inside, grateful for the rush of warm air when I enter the building. I push a rogue strand of hair away from my face and tuck it back into my ponytail. "Damn, Mary," I call. "It's starting to get chilly out there in the mornings."
The sound of her laughter reverberates through the front room of the distillery, and the door to the back room swings open as she walks through the doorway, Luke trailing behind her.
"Autumn," Mary says. "Luke was just telling me the funniest story about –"
"Yes," I interrupt, my tone harsher than I intend it to be. I swallow hard, hoping I sound more businesslike than jealous, because I'm totally not jealous and have no reason to be, I remind myself. "I didn't realize you were in the cidery today, Mr. Saint."
Luke shouldn't be in the cidery. He should be outside in the orchard overseeing the workers, or repairing a fence, or… something. Like the last time – standing in the sun, sweat glistening off his shirtless chest…
On second thought, it's good that Luke Saint is in here, fully-clothed and not doing manual labor.
"I was looking for you, actually, Ms. Mayburn," Luke says, emphasizing my name. My face flushes warm at the way my name rolls off his tongue, slow and warm. Intimate.
I tell myself that the way it sounds is all in my imagination, not intentional on his part, merely an inappropriate fantasy of mine.
But when my eyes meet his, even standing here on the other side of the room, it doesn't dilute the sensation. In fact, arousal practically floods my body, the intensity of his gaze causing heat to flow through me.
Mary stands beside Luke, awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to another as she looks back and forth from me to him. Clearing her throat, she gestures toward the door. "You know, I actually had something to get outside," she says before scurrying past us and out the door.
I'm suddenly embarrassed by Mary's obvious discomfort, as if it somehow makes whatever attraction between Luke and I—that I swear is only in my head—suddenly real. Now I'm the one shifting my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"She ran out of here quickly," Luke says, the sides of his mouth curled up in a knowing smile.
"I don't know why," I say, my tone imperious. But my voice falters, and I tell myself to stop acting like a silly schoolgirl with a stupid little crush. The sight of a cute guy should not be enough to make me lose my mind. It's never been a problem with a guy before, and there's no reason for it to be now. "She should have stayed to listen to the story you were telling her."
Now I sound like a jealous girlfriend.
But Luke just saunters toward me with the kind of cocky confidence that guys like him always have, their egos propped up by women hanging on every word they say because they're that kind of gorgeous. I tell myself I'm not one of those girls. Yet, when he reaches me, I find myself closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, some kind of reflex I can't quite control.
God, he smells good.
"I was looking for you," he says.
"Well, I'm glad you found someone to amuse you in the meantime." Damn it. I don't even think before I open my mouth. I sound possessive and filled with pettiness.
"Jealous, Red?" Luke asks.
"Not in the least," I lie.
"It's kind of cute." He’s suddenly closer than he was a minute ago, his proximity so intimate that it takes my breath away.
"Cute," I repeat stupidly. It's like my brain can't process what he's saying because I'm too focused on watching his lips move as he speaks. Except him speaking isn't exactly what I'm thinking about when I look at those lips.
I picture those lips against my skin, moving down my abdomen, and farther…
"Adorable, actually," he says, looking down at me, his voice low.
"Adorable. Like a puppy." People don’t see me as cute. Men don't see me as cute. Or adorable, which seems exponentially cuter than cute. Competent. Capable. Bitchy, even. That's how men see me.
"That's not exactly what I was thinking," he says, his voice soft.
"Oh?" I ask, barely choking out the word. "What were you thinking?" My voice cracks mid-syllable, and I swallow hard. My body feels wired, goose bumps dotting my skin even though Luke hasn't even touched me, every inch of me tingling with the anticipation of his touch.