“I’m not sure we got off on the right foot, Ms. Mayburn,” he says, walking up to the steps. I know immediately that this is the kind of guy who likes to stand a little too close, talk a little too loudly, the classic kinds of intimidation techniques guys like him in suits and expensive cars like to use. Except it just makes me angry.
“What’s the right foot, exactly, Mr. Benson?” I ask, my tone sharp. “I told your boss last night that I have no intention of selling this place – and I certainly don't intend to stop speaking my mind about whatever it is the mining company is doing here in West Bend."
He steps closer to me, crossing the space I’d put between us. “Maybe no one’s given you the right incentive yet.”
I put my hand up, blocking him from coming any closer, and my palm hits his chest. “I don’t think there’s enough incentive in the world that’s going to get me to give you what you want here,” I say, forcing a calm in my voice that I definitely don’t feel right now. “I’d like you to get off my property now.”
He smiles, the expression cold. I don’t guess that someone like him gets told no very often.
“There’s a shotgun just inside the front door of my house,” I lie, my voice firm. I have a shotgun, but it's in a locked cabinet in the cidery, not the main house. I've never had a reason to need it here in West Bend. “The nanny inside knows how to use it. So I’d thank you kindly to get the fuck off my front porch and get into that expensive car of yours and get the hell out of here before my nanny has to put a bullet through your head."
He smirks, looking at me with a mixture of disgust and hatred, as he smooths his oxford shirt with the palm of his hand and then slowly backs up. “You should be careful with your weapons, Ms. Mayburn,” he says, his tone flat. “They can be real dangerous, you know, especially in a house with a child. Accidents happen every day.”
“Is that a warning?” I ask.
“Just a little friendly advice,” he says. “One businessperson to another. Wouldn’t want anything untoward to happen.”
When he leaves, I collapse into one of the rocking chairs on the front porch, my hands trembling. I’m only there for a moment before the front door opens and Greta pokes her head out. “I got Olivia down for a nap,” she says, “and I came out for the last part of that conversation. Heard the bit about the shotgun.”
“It was the only thing I could think of to say.”
Greta shrugs. “I’m a good shot, for the record,” she says.
We’re standing there silently for a few minutes before I hear the sound of a vehicle on the road. I see it turning into the driveway.
Luke’s truck.
Son of a bitch. I silently curse my damn luck.
“That’s Luke's truck, isn’t it?” Greta asks. “You know, I forgot I… um… left some water boiling on the stove. I was just making a cup of tea and… yeah.”
I hear the screen door slam closed, but I’m already down the front porch steps and walking out to Luke’s truck, reaching him before he’s even out of the vehicle. “I hope you’re not about to get out of that truck,” I say. “Because I can save you some time and tell you to just get right back in there, put it in reverse, and back the hell out of here. I’ve had it up to here with bullshit today, Luke. I don’t need yours on top of the fucking mining company rep that was just here."
“Someone from the mining company was here?” Luke asks. “When?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not any of your business, Luke Saint,” I say. “And I’ll tell you the same thing I told him – get the hell off my orchard. I have things to do, and they don’t involve you.”
I whirl around, heading for the cidery, anything to get away from Luke. Because if I stand there looking at him, if I stand there just a little too close to him – close enough to smell him, close enough to trigger the memory of his lips on mine, his hands running over my naked skin – I’m going to definitely do something I won't be able to take back.
So I walk, my pace quick, my feet flying along the ground, over the brown grass that’s dying off already even though we haven’t had a snowfall yet this year, and I only stop when I feel his hand on my wrist. He yanks me hard, turning me toward him, his hand sliding around me to the small of my back, holding me firm. “Stop running, Autumn.”
“You’re going to talk to me about running?” I ask, pushing him back, my hands against his chest. I look at him and I hate him. And I hate the way that heat floods me the instant I put my hands on him. “Says the guy who has made a whole life out of doing exactly that?”
“Goddamn it, Autumn.” He wraps his hands around my wrists, shoves me against the side of the cidery, my back pressed up against the wall. He pins my hands above my head, looking down at me, and I don’t see anger in his eyes. I see lust and sadness and pain. “I fucked up, all right?”