Page 10 of Extreme Romancing in Idaho

I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to thread myself into the Johnsons’ everyday life. The direct approach had failed both my brother and father. I needed to find a backdoor to close this deal, an edge I’d only discover if they didn’t suspect my motives for being here.

Blake moved to the door. “See you later, Myles. Nice to meet you, Remi.”

I waved, and Myles leaned against the counter.

“Without her dad I don’t think Angie will be able to manage things on her own,” Wendy continued. “I’d start there.”

“Perfect. You mind helping me with a wardrobe? I pack light.”

With my comment her eyes lit up, likely seeing all the dollar signs at her disposal. She walked out from behind the counter. “Agnes, Joe, Mitch!” she hollered at her employees. “You want to help this man get everything he needs?”

Though all three had been pretending to stock shelves, they responded quickly enough that I had no doubt they’d been listening the whole time. Agnes had glasses thicker than the bottom of beer bottles, Joe could be Paul Bunion reincarnated, and Mitch was the opposite, small enough to be a jockey.

“You sure you know what you’re doing,” Myles muttered under his breath.

If I failed, I’d be cut off. No more stipends, fancy vacations, or access to the money in the business accounts. My father’s greatest desire was for me to become a soulless, money-grubbing man … exactly like him.

Last I checked, my soul was still intact, and I wanted to keep it that way.

“Trust me. In two weeks, we’ll be shopping for storefronts.” I smiled.

One wardrobe and some boots later, I stood on the Johnson’s front porch. My feet creaked against the chipped, dark-blue-painted boards. I looked over my shoulder at the view behind me. Tall Sawtooth mountains jutted into the sky, their peaks covered in clouds. The view stretched on forever unhampered by skyscrapers. No wonder they wouldn’t sell.

Angie’s farm consisted of a little over 500 acres. Fitting five single-family homes per acre, our business stood to make upwards of half a billion dollars on her land.

The lots would sell as fast as Tesla stock in the early-2000s.

Wind chimes lined the front railing. Their jumble of harmonizing chimes rose and fell with the gusts. Light sprinkles of rain blasted against the back of my neck like shards of glass. The Carhart jacket I’d just purchased kept that part of my body warm, but my cowboy hat did little to warm my head and ears. Mentally, I added a beanie, thermals, and gloves to my list of things to buy. I already missed the warmth of my home state.

I lifted my hand to knock on the door, and my phone buzzed against my leg. Slipping it free, I looked at the notification.

It was Kathryn.Hey, don’t become a stranger …

Her text indicated she thought of herself as someone special in my life; like a girlfriend. Typically, I didn’t have this issue. I was always upfront and honest about everything when I engaged in any type of activity involving a woman. Kathryn and I had hooked up a couple of times, and we’d had a ton of fun, but I’d made it clear I didn’t want any commitment.

I’d met her at my brother’s office.

My first big mistake.

Tucking my phone back in my pocket, I knocked on the door. The porch light turned on—even though the sun had fully risen, dark clouds blocked its rays—and Nora opened the door.

Her eyes widened when she saw me, a soft smile breaking over her face. “Remi?” She tightened her knit sweater over her chest. “What brings you here? Oh, where are my manners? Come in. Get out of that weather.”

I stepped into the entryway, and she closed the door behind me. The old oak floors groaned underneath my weight. Warmth filled the small space, and I began to sweat. The smell of homemade bread combined with the scent of the old stuff in the rest of the house, like an antique store was hosting a baking competition. The acrid aroma of Tony’s medical supplies added tension to the otherwise cozy feel in the home.

The TV echoed down the hall; faint snoring accompanied the sound. An arched opening led into a formal living space to my right, where a large window framed the view of the mountains. Stairs angled upward on my left, the wall above them covered in family pictures and images of little Angie, and a boy I assumed was her brother. The only light in the room came from a lamp on a table that stood against the half-wall supporting the stairs.

“If I’d have known you were comin’ over, I would have tidied up a bit. Or at least I would have run a brush through my hair.” Ms. Nora fluffed a flattened section of her short, red hair, gathered a stack of mail on the entryway table, and tucked it under her arm. “Travel knocks us out these days.” Shifting in her slippers, which looked like loaves of French bread, she stopped talking and waited for me to speak.

“Don’t be frettin’ over me. You look lovely.” I smiled.

“Oh, hush.” She flicked her wrist at me, waving away my compliment.

“I overheard someone saying at the Country Store you’re looking for a farmhand.”

“Wendy.” Nora shook her head. “If you’re ever wondering what’s happening around town, spend ten minutes there.” She laughed.

Her laughter came so easily that I guessed she did it often despite her husband’s current health problems.

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