Page 310 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
“What about Dad?” Brody says as he moves toward his truck. “I bet he’d keep you company while you plant.”
I roll my eyes. “Dude. Just go home.” I pull on my sunglasses. “I’m a grown man. I can put plants in the ground by myself.”
“Fine. But we’ll all get together next week.”
“Brody. Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop acting like I need special treatment. I’m fine.”
“But you’re—” His words cut off, and he runs a hand through his already tousled hair.
I’m alone.
I don’t need to hear him say it to know that’s where he was headed.
When I talked to Mom about moving home, she brought it up as a reason for concern. In a town as small as Silver Creek, it’s unlikely I’ll ever meet any eligible dating prospects.
I see the logic in her argument. But I can’t be worse off than I was in LA. Six years in a city with millions of women, and all I have to show for it is a string of casual relationships and a fame-hungry actress ex who’s still giving me trouble.
My eyes drift across the parking lot to the woman I almost ran into earlier. She’s loading her tomato plant into the back of a beat-up Toyota, securing it into the bed with a length of rope she ties with enough ease, it’s clear she’s done this sort of thing before. She pulls a camouflage baseball cap out of her pocket and puts it on her head, pulling her ponytail through the back before she climbs into the truck.
She cranks the engine and pulls away without giving me a second glance.
Not that I care.
I don’t care.
Do I?
Three hours later, my flower bed looks freaking amazing. It’s a little wild—not as cultivated as the garden space outside my previous house in Malibu—but I like that it blends into the surrounding wilderness.
Seventy-five acres of wilderness, to be exact.
It used to be a research forest that belonged to Carolina Southern University. Now, it’s home.
I lift my shirt and use it to wipe the sweat from my forehead. The heavy Southern humidity is bad today, and I’m half-tempted to strip down and dive into the pool to cool off.
Except, why shouldn’t I dive in?
When I left California, I brought very few people with me—my private security agent, Nate, and my manager, Joni. That’s it.
Ididn’tbring my chef, my trainer, my stylist, the rest of my security detail, or my housekeeper.
My agent and publicist are back in California, and they call me frequently enough to make it seem like they live with me, but for the first time in I don’t know how long, I’m well and trulyalone.Even Joni and Nate (who happen to be married to each other, thanks to my excellent matchmaking skills) have their own house at the edge of my property. They’re around, but they don’t hover. I don’t have any neighbors, and this far into the mountains, I don’t need to worry about paparazzi.
A few traveled out and sniffed around Silver Creek when word first got out that I’d sold my Malibu house, but I haven’t seen any since I got back from Costa Rica. It’s inevitable that word will eventually get out, but even if some desperate photographer sets out to find me, they won’t get through the front gate, and that gate is the only way to access the house without hiking through miles of rugged terrain.
Point being, if I want to jump into my pool totally naked, I can jump into my pool totally naked.
I tug my shirt over my head and toss it onto a lounge chair, then unbutton my pants. I have them halfway to my knees when I see Nate walking across the deck, his frown so pronounced, I can see it all the way from here.
He’s holding his iPad, and he’s clearly looking for me. “Might want to keep your pants on, man.”
“I’m not swimming with my pants on. It’s hot. Whatever you need to talk to me about, you can talk to me about it while I’m in the pool.”
He shrugs. “Fine by me. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when pictures of your bare butt show up all over the internet.”
