Page 12 of My Mistake To Make

She chuckles and shakes her head. ‘I’m not judging. It’s just early.’

‘Yeah, well. I don’t have a lot going on right now.’

She wipes the bar and presses her lips together; I know her well enough to know there’s more she wants to say, but for oncein her life, she decides shutting up is best. She’s right. I’m not in the mood for her bullshit today.

I’m pissed.

Today I unclogged not one, not two, but four fucking toilets. Have the people of this town not heard of fiber? That and rebuilding Mr. Henderson’s thirty-year-old bookcase that falls down once a month but that he refuses to replace is the extent of my workday. I’m bored, and I’m broke. On top of all that, I have to deal with the same old shit from my ex, and everyone in this town feels like they get to have a say in my life.

I keep my shit together for the greater good. I have too much to lose to risk blowing up and letting all my shit fly on this town, but I’m surprised my teeth haven’t turned to stumps for how hard and how much I grind them together to keep from saying something I’ll be made to regret. I’ve had it. I’ve just had it with this fucking town.

I finished college at twenty-one and moved to the city, thinking I was getting a fresh start, setting up a business, and starting to gain some momentum, just to be pulled back here three years later.

I tried to keep going, but there’s not enough work here for me to make a good living building and renovating houses, so I’m basically a fuckin’ handyman. I earn enough putting up shelves and painting railings to buy a beer at the end of the day and put some food on Mama’s table… yeah, I’m a thirty-one-year-old man living with his mom in the house he grew up in.

Five years. Five years of this shit, and it’s getting real fuckin’ old.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t have a brand new housing development going up on the outskirts of town, but I have to drive past those box houses with no character climbing up from the ground and listen to the people of this old town going crazy over them;Oh, they’re so fancy. They’re so nice.The fuck theyare. They’re shitty construction that will leave the buyers with problems that I’ll have to go in and fix in a couple of years for practically nothing when I could have been helping them build or renovate the house of their dreams right here in town.

If only I could get my hands on the old Reynolds’ farmhouse. That place is screaming out for someone to give it new life. It’s sitting up there on its hill, overlooking the whole town, where we’ve all gradually watched it fall apart, rotting like the corpse it is. But I could do it. I could bring it back to life and show this town what I’m really capable of.

I managed to get her address. Roberta Reynolds. My grandma knew her back when she lived in town, and they had made sure to stay on each other’s Christmas card lists over the years. I drove out to see her and asked if I could buy the place, some fuckin’ how, as I didn’t have any money, but I’d have made it happen, but she said no. She was sorry, and she was kind about it, but she wasn’t interested in selling.

I bit my lip, having too much respect for my elders to yell at her that the place was falling down, and I left. Now she’s dead and buried, and the house is still sitting there. I thought about driving out there and talking to her husband, seeing if he is looking to offload it now she’s gone. He’s not from Forest Falls, and he has no connection to the place like she did, but there’s no point. As I said, I earn just enough for a beer and groceries. I couldn’t buy that house even if he said yes.

I hear the familiar groan of the door separating the bar from the street, followed by the low whistle of Jerry, the town drunk, which means one of two things, either a beautiful woman just walked in, or the chief stormed in looking like she means business. My heckles rise up at the idea of either of those two things.

The tempting vanilla-sweet scent of perfume invades my nostrils, and I grip my bottle a little tighter. I don’t have thetime, the patience, or the inclination to be getting interested in a woman right now. Unfortunately, having been nowhere near a woman in years, my dick likes that feminine scent a little too much.

‘Fuck off.’ I breathe to the traitor in my pants.

‘Sorry?’Fuck.

‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ I grunt, trying not to look at her but intrigued by the hint of an accent. I notice the suitcase and shake my head. Tourist.

I sense her leaning forward on the bar and chance a sideways glance while her face is turned in the opposite direction, and yep, my dick likes that ass in those jeans too.Fucker.

It’s not like I don’t like women. I fucking love women. The most important people in my life are women, and I have definitely enjoyed the company of women, and their bodies over the years, but not anymore. Romantic, even purely physical connections with women, are out for me. It’s just not worth the headaches, no matter how much my right arm protests. I’m just fine on my own.

She huffs loudly and taps her fingers on the bar. I can’t help taking a look at those long fingers. For some reason, I notice she isn’t wearing nail polish, and there are no rings on those fingers either, not that that matters.

‘Zoe.’

I call out, wanting this walking headfuck to get out of my space.

‘Quit your yellin’. Oh, hi, sorry.’ Zoe quits scolding me when she seesjeansstanding at the bar. ‘Welcome to the imaginatively named Forest Falls Inn. I’m Zoe. How can I help?’

‘Oh, um, I was hoping you might have a room. I need a place to stay.’

What is that accent? British, Scottish, maybe.

‘Oh, of course.’ Zoe pulls up the book she keeps under the bar and opens it up. I know she has a bunch of contractors from the development staying here right now, and for just a fleeting moment, I hate the idea ofno polishstaying here alone with those animals. They drink too much, make a nuisance of themselves, then sleep and repeat. The chief has her hands full enough dealing with their bullshit as it is. Putting up with them upsetting tourists, too, might just tip her over the edge. The corner of my mouth turns up a little at that thought. Twisted as it is, I do love messing with our town police chief— well, what are little brothers for?

‘I have rooms two, three, eight, and ten free. Here are the prices for each—take your pick.’ Zoe says brightly, and I pull on the peak of my cap, covering my eyes a little more to help me resist the temptation to take a real look at the tourist.

‘Oh, okay, um.’ She pauses as she looks over the book. ‘Do you have any that aren’t booked at all for the next few weeks? I don’t know how long I’ll need to stay.’

The next few weeks? Honey, this ain’t New York City. There’s not enough here to keep you interested for the next few days.

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