Page 11 of Love You Too

And yet, here I am doing both.

I follow him down Silverado Trail and tell myself I’m taking a needed break from working my tail off. Maybe I’ll get some design inspiration from his house. Or maybe I’ll get laid.

Holy hell, what?

The thought pops into my head unannounced. I could blame Julie for planting it there a few days earlier, and sure, sex would be nice, but not with Ren. Even if the man is hot witha capital H and a gallon of pico de gallo sauce on top. He’s always had that boyish charm that made it clear he could commit high crimes and get away with them just by smiling. His eyes twinkled with mischief, and when they were pinned on me…watch out. Cue body bursting into flames.

I drive and daydream about one escapist fling with a guy who looks like that, and I start counting…three, four, five. Not months, but years. Yes, that’s how long it’s been since I’ve had any fun with a man. I’m a good multitasker, but my tasks have not included sex in a long, long time.

As I cruise along behind his little roadster and watch his turn signal flash with ample warning to make the appropriate turns, I picture the man inside the car. He looks better in person than in pictures, where he’s inescapable on social media. I always have a knee-jerk reaction when an image pops up. I swipe it away as quickly as possible and don’t linger on captions detailing who he’s dating or what he’s doing. It’s like a form of fight or flight—I scroll away as a form of self-defense.

Seeing him in the flesh is a different thing. I can tell with minimal staring that Ren is in peak physical form, honed by hours of speed skating and weight training. He was a physical specimen in college, so put ten years of professional hockey muscle on him, and the story is over before it begins. All reasons why I should turn my SUV around and head back to Buttercup Hill.

It’s bad enough he’s here—in my town—but he’s making a home here. It’s bad enough seeing him with other women on social media, but I don’t want to witness it in person. And the worst part is that as much as I really want to dislike him, I remember all the reasons I loved him.

I hate that I still find him attractive, and I wish I could scroll away from him in person. Instead, I follow Ren up the driveway to the main house, determined to protect my heart and give him sass instead of feelings.

The house is a classic craftsman, and I can see the paint peeling from the front porch and pillars from fifty yards away. The property sits at the other end of the valley from Buttercup Hill, and I don’t remember it going on the market.

“How did you get this place? Was it a pocket listing?” I can’t help peppering him with questions the second he opens the door to his convertible Porsche, which stuck out among the pickup trucks and Teslas as I followed Ren along the St. Helena Highway. “Is it a tear-down or a fixer-upper?”

His eyes crinkle, and he smiles as he unfolds his long legs from the car and leads Truman across the front seat by his leash. “I’ve never seen someone this fired up about renovations. You’re adorable.”

I hate that the compliment makes my heart flutter. I hate that I’m reacting to him at all, when what I want is to be indifferent. I want to be the type of woman who could use him for sex, the type who could effortlessly walk away and forget about him, if only to even the score. I want to show him I’m no longer the same naïve girl, pinning her hopes on a man.

And yet…my eyes rake over him, noting how he wears his hair a little bit longer now. It’s wavy and dark, offsetting the two days’ worth of beard on his face. He looks more mature now, face more angular, but with those same high cheekbones that could sever a pane of glass in two neat halves.

Moving down, I notice his lightly-tanned skin at the neck of his Henley, unbuttoned at the top. But it’s what’s underneath the shirt that holds my attention—hard planes of muscle as his pecs give way to abs that cling to the soft material. His shoulders and biceps stretch the cotton to its limit, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and wrap my hands around his muscles and squeeze.

Sex with Ren was good. More than good. I need a stern talking to, something like, “Beatrix, march straight to your car, get in, and drive away without looking back. Then, put your head down and get the inn finished. Dominick Renaldi can renovatehouses and fling paint samples right up to your door, but you will feel nothing.”

“What?” he asks after I’ve stared silently for over a minute.

“Nothing.” I push my bottom lip forward defiantly.

“Not nothing, honey.” He casually runs a finger down the length of my arm, and I wonder if he can tell my skin is ablaze at the barest touch.

“Don’t call me ‘honey,’ Hockey Star,” I spit out, taking a step farther away.

He smirks. “You think you’re insulting me by calling me that? I know that look in your eye.”

My cheeks heat, but I have trouble not staring at his warm, teasing eyes.

“There’s no look.”

“Trix, I may not have seen you in years, but I know the look.”

“I was glancing over your shoulder at the moldings around the windows. They’re nice. That’s it.”

He smirks. “You can admire my…moldings anytime you want, hon.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of admitting I’m undressing him with my eyes, even if he knows it. “Let’s get something clear, Ren. I’m here as a design professional, despite what I said earlier. You should just forget about that part.”

He crosses his arms, grinning. “Can’t just forget.”

“Well, try.” I wrench my eyes away from his pecs, and they start watering from staring for so long. “So we should…look at the renovations, yes?”

“Sure.”

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