Page 32 of Tempt Me

I nearly drop my brush as Isla walks into the garage.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ISLA

“Hey Reggie,” I say as I enter the cool interior of the garage. “Is Dad’s truck ready?”

“All set,” Reggie says, handing me the keys. “You know, your dad should think about retiring this thing.”

“I know,” I agree with a sigh. “He’s got a lot on his plate.”

The kitchen sink started leaking again last night. The plumber we always use is out with the flu. Dad is trying to find someone else local who can get to it.

As I approach the truck, I notice two men sanding and varnishing large pieces of wood on the other side of the garage. One is Cody Briggs. But my gaze is caught by a broad chest and a fully tattooed arm.

My knees lock as my eyes meet Caden’s. My pulse starts to pound all over my body. His jeans are lightly dusted in wood shavings and there’s a varnish stain on the hem of his gray T-shirt. The light in the garage makes the planes of his face stand out in sharp relief as he stares at me—into me, like his are eyes boring holes through me. The fabric of his tee hugs tight across his chest and I hate that my mouth starts to water. Why does he make me feel like a doe trapped by the eyes of a predator?

It feels like there’s a thread connecting us, delicate as a spider’s web yet crackling with tension. My palms itch. Caden’s steely gaze seems to whisper over my skin.

“Hello, Caden,” I say, pleased with how normal I sound.

Caden’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch. “Hi,” he says.

Well, look at us. A couple of real grownups.

“Caden is helping me make the booths for Magnolia Day,” Cody says cheerfully.

“Really?” I say. Since when was Caden handy with tools?

Caden shrugs and dips the brush back into the tin of varnish. “It’s nothing,” he says. “I’m happy to help.”

“He was building chicken coops in Argentina,” Cody adds.

Now I’m really surprised. When Caden said he’d been working at a winery over there, I imagined he was doing something in management, sitting behind a desk or schmoozing with businesspeople.

Before Caden can reply, Mrs. Greerson storms into the garage.

“All right, Reggie, it’s been an hour, now what’s the matter with my car?” she demands. I bet Reggie disconnected one of the cylinders again. Mrs. Greerson really shouldn’t be driving until she gets new glasses. Dev and I have been trying to coax her into making an appointment but she’s so stubborn. She catches sight of me. “Why Isla. I didn’t see you there. Don’t you look nice.”

I glance down at my clothes—a PBS T-shirt and jeans. My hair is in a ponytail. I look extremely normal.

“How are things at the Thorn?” Mrs. Greerson asks.

“Good,” I say. “Mom is feeling better today.”

I see Caden’s hand twitch, a falter in his even strokes as he applies some varnish to a piece of wood. I wonder if he remembers the promise he made me before he left—he said he would get my mother an appointment with New York’s top rheumatologist. Another promise broken. Mom has been on the waitlist for years now.

“Excellent news,” Mrs. Greerson says. “Tell her I’ll bring by one of my poultices later. Caden, I see Cody has put you to work.”

Cody launches into an excited explanation of what they’re doing and how Caden made adjustments to the plans.

I should get in the truck and go. Dad probably needs me back at the Thorn. But then Cody waves us over and Mrs. Greerson grabs my elbow and I find myself suddenly being given a walk-through of all the different pieces in various stages of finish.

“Is this for Dev’s booth?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Caden says gruffly. I’m too close to him—the air between us seems to vibrate. I catch his scent again, clean soap and leather. Caden points stiffly as he explains it to me. His body is radiating tension and I feel it like tiny pinpricks on my arms. “The cheeses can go here…then these will be like little platforms for the table.”

I’m fascinated by the ink that covers his skin. Thick lines of muscle cord around his forearm, making the vines writhe and dance as he moves. There are flowers and insects and animals nestled among them. I wonder what it all means. The vines and grapes I understand but not the rest.

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