Mr. Wilson gave me a confused frown. “Dressy shoes? I got boots, son.”
What a dumb question. I wasn’t a fancy shoe guy anyway.
With a tap of his chin, he hummed thoughtfully. “Actually. We’ve got some dark brown leather boots in the back. Good quality. Probably not good for the woods.”
Without waiting for a response, he took off, and a few minutes later, he came back with a large Timberland box and proudly displayed a chocolate brown boot.
They were nicer than a regular boot but still looked sturdy. Chloe cared a lot about shoes. I needed to impress her. “Excellent. Dress Tims.”
“I’m not sure there’s such a thing,” he said, his tone dubious.
“Now there is.” I took the box and my stack of clothes to the register.
I walked out, having spent the equivalent of a mortgage payment on new duds, but confident I’d be putting my best foot forward with Chloe. She was beautiful and fashionable, so I had to step it up.
There was one more, critically important, step in the plan. I sat in my truck, staring at my phone. I knew what had to be done, so with a shaky hand, I dialed Dr. Savard. It was time to get some tests done.
As I drove home, I found myself drumming my fingers on the steering wheel to a Zach Bryan song. Last night had been full of the kind of magic that didn’t come along too often. The banter, her electric touch, and the way she curled into me and slept. I’d never known the kind of contentment I felt with her asleep in my arms even existed. And I’d do damn near anything to make it permanent.
This was fate. I’d been alive long enough to know that second chances were rare. And I’d be taking advantage of mine.
I’d been miserable for too long. But I could see now why I’d been stuck. I’d been waiting for Chloe. Desperate to find the missing piece of my life that she’d taken with her when she left.
I wasn’t twenty anymore. I wasn’t wasting any more time trying to impress my dad or hers.
I was a grown man. I had my priorities and my values.
And I knew what I wanted.
Chloe.
Chapter 13Chloe
“That’s not what we agreed to,” I shouted into the phone.
Jessica, my legal counsel, was relaying the latest from those FBI assholes and was seething too. They had no intention of stopping the constant surveillance. How was I supposed to get this business operational when I had to waste so much precious time babysitting the feds?
“We’re pushing back,” Jessica assured me. She cost a grand an hour, but she was the best in her field. “I can block and tackle like the Patriots’ defensive line. You focus on the trees; I’ll deal with law enforcement.”
I trusted her, but at barely nine a.m., I had already reached my limit for the day. Heavy rains had washed out part of a road, the sawmill wanted to renegotiate pricing, and I hadn’t slept in the last two days.
Sleep had been elusive since the night that will not be spoken of with Gus.
Who knew using a growly lumberjack as a duvet could lead to such a great night’s sleep?
At least my makeup was on point. I’d been up so early this morning, surveying the lake, that I’d gone all out and put as much armor on as I could.
According to the meticulous color-coded schedule Karl kept, Gus was due out in camp four today to assess the needed road repairs and to take measurements. Good, maybe he’d spend the week out in the forest and give me some time to myself. Or maybe a tree would fall on him and he’d get amnesia. Then I could just pretend the other night never happened.
There was so much to process. And JJ and Karl were constantly exchanging looks around me. They’d witnessed my drive of shame home after my night with Gus. Thankfully, they had a healthy fear of my moods and would not ask.
I put my head on my desk, willing my body to calm the fuck down. Just the thought of seeing Gus again had my clit perking right up. Traitorous bundle of nerves. No, thank you. My frontal lobe was calling the shots now. We were all logic, all the time up in here.
Because I couldn’t repeat that mistake. No matter how sweet, generous, and fucking ferocious he was in bed.
Nope. Not happening.
It was one thing to be attracted to the guy. But it was another to actually like him. I’d already given him his chance. He wasn’t the kind of man a woman could depend on. The scars on my heart were all the proof I needed.
At the knock on the door, I picked my head up, for a moment praying Karl really was here and he’d brought a triple espresso with him. Or perhaps a quick bump of cocaine. Kidding. But at this point, I’d take almost anything if it would help me conquer this exhaustion.
No such luck. Karl was not the man standing in my doorway.
Instead, looking all kinds of handsome, was none other than my ex-husband, my nemesis, and my tormentor. Gus.
“Morning, Dragonfly,” he said, sauntering in.
As he placed a large coffee cup from the Caffeinated Moose on my desk, I decided I wasn’t totally annoyed to see him or that white paper bag in his hand.
“Cranberry orange scone,” he said. “You never eat breakfast, and then you’re grouchy by ten a.m. These scones are incredible. I know you hate blueberry—don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone—but the cranberry orange is really great.”
I was starving. So despite my better judgment, I reached inside the bag and pulled out a scone the size of my head. It was covered with some kind of orange sugar drizzle and smelled incredible. Okay, maybe this man wasn’t the antichrist, after all.
Was he wearing new clothes? He still looked all rugged and lumberjacky, yet something had changed. Huh.
“You look different,” I said, shoving a chunk of scone into my mouth.
