Page 29 of Buried Roots

“She’s breathtaking.”

“She is.” Owen gives Oreo a pet as he starts to nurse. Once we leave the stall, he says, “So, what are you going to do? I mean, about this farm?”

I wander over and pluck the broom off the wall and sweep away the hoof tracks, needing something to keep my hands busy. “I’ve maxed out my credit limit with the latest job I took in New York, but taking out a loan for a historic landmark is not under the same umbrella.”

“And this place is a historic landmark.”

“Exactly.”

He raises a brow. “So, you can get a loan. But what about Natanya? And the Klein account?”

“Impressive memory.” I put the broom back. “That still needs to be figured out. But Bo’s Château would provide income on top of the Klein account.”

Together, we walk outside and toward the outdoor shower. Turning on the hand hose, Owen says, “Fair enough. How long will it take to restore this place?”

“It depends on the contractors I find. Good ones could turn this around in six weeks.” I squirt soap on my hands and suds them. And now that I’m here longer, I’ll have more time to try and figure out if this place holds any clues to my past. I can investigate who wrote that note—the one about me not being wanted here. I wonder if Mary Louise left it to scare me away so she could have this property?

Well, I won’t let her do that.

“Six weeks.” Owen’s lips split into a grin as he washes up too. “So, that’s how much time I have with you?”

My heart trips over its next beat as I rinse my hands. “If I find good contractors. And if you want.”

“Oh, I want.”

My stomach is tossing like a pizzaiolo with a pizza crust, and I’m reminded that I shouldn’t miss the chance to get Owen’s lips on mine. And elsewhere. Especially since, apparently, he feels the same.

But before I can respond, he blurts, “You know, I’ve been dying to watch the stars from that lookout point. Above your lake.”

“How odd. Me too.” I dry my hands on the towel and hand it to him.

He takes it. “I was hoping you’d join me. If you want.”

“Oh, I want.”

“Good.” His mouth quirks as he replaces the towel on the peg. “But knowing our luck, we’ll end up in an intense situation. Hanging off the mountainside by the hair of our chin.”

“True. But I don’t have chin hair, or I certainly hope not. And we can make a promise that neither of us will go near the edge. That should cover it. Unless we’re struck by a meteorite.”

A teasing spark flickers in his eyes. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Wow, when you’re not in tense situations, you’re kinda flirty.”

“With you, yes.” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “How about I get us drinks?”

“How about that. Whiskey. Neat.”

His mouth curves. “Bailey’s got cinnamon whiskey. Which, truth be told, I don’t mind.”

“So, you like it sweet.”

“To start.”

Damn.

“I’ll be back,” he says before walking away.

Once he fetches the cinnamon whiskey, shot glasses, and a blanket, we meet back at the stables before making our way to the lookout point and sitting down.

---