Page 50 of Brewbies
Her brow dipped as if his answer troubled her, then she looked down, concealing her expression. “And you’re hanging it here to…to what? Make a point?”
That was what he told himself.
So why did it feel more like a gift? But to whom? Her? The tree? His dead grandfather?
A beam of light appeared in the distance as a car approached from a half-mile away. Ethan followed its progress through the snaking, mostly deserted highway. “When people used to ask my grandpa how to get to Townsend Harbor, he never gave them street names or maps. He would just say,Start at the top of 101 and turn when you find the oak grove where the oldest tree has a big swing over Irish moss.”Even after the years without him, Ethan’s throat could still thicken at the mention of the old man. “It’s keeping me up nights, thinking people have been looking for this swing for over twenty years as a landmark to turn, and they won’t find it anymore.”
He fell quiet, awaiting her response.
She was going to tell him he was trespassing and kick him off her property. That he was a fucking psycho for climbing a tree that no longer belonged to his family in the middle of the night to hang a swing. She was going to douse the swing in fuel and set it, and the tree, on fire.
With him still sitting in it.
Probably what he deserved.
“And here I thought you’d crafted an amazing apology for leaving me hanging earlier,” she said, nudging the swing as if to test its mobility. “Get it? Leaving me hanging?”
He blinked down at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Okay. Bad joke,” she admitted. “Still shaking off sleep brain.”
Not knowing how to answer, he said, “I’ll be out of your hair in a sec. Sorry if the noise woke you.”
“You didn’t make any noise.” She shrugged and encircled the thick rope with her hand, testing the rasp of the frayed fibers with a porny stroke.
Yup. Time to go.
Ethan lowered himself from the branch with the strength of his arms, until his feet were close enough to the ground to let go. Dropping into a crouch, he immediately retrieved his wrench, level, and a couple of other tools to return to the toolbox in the back of his truck.
“Your grandpa, Ethan Townsend?” she teased. “Son of Ethan Townsend and father of Ethan Townsend?”
“The very same,” he droned mirthlessly, plodding to where he’d parked his truck a few yards away and unlatching his toolbox. If he looked at her, he’d have to think about why she sounded so breathless.
A shiver of awareness lifting the hairs on the back of his neck told him she’d shadowed him to his vehicle.
Nope. Didn’t want that. She needed to stay overthere.
Where he couldn’t savor her perfume or appreciate the texture of her cheek in the silvery moonlight without its usual dusting of makeup.
He very carefullydidn’tlook while he returned his tools to their designated spots with careful precision.
“Oh my God, do you alphabetize them, too?” she asked, peeking over his shoulder. “All I have is a wicker basket that I chuck hammers and stuff into.”
His fingers paused as he examined the pristine case that looked as if he hadn’t used it almost every day for a decade. “This is an expensive toolbox.”
“You’rean expensive toolbox.”
Sighing, he shoved the truck bed shut and circled around to the driver’s side.
“Wait!” She ran around him with the tiny, quick steps her ridiculous—if sexy—slippers would allow. “Wait. I was trying to lighten things up between us a little. Sheesh, whatever crawled up your ass and died must be decaying your sense of humor.”
Her levity seemed out of place when the scent of hydrangeas and honeysuckle threaded through the stony loam of fresh spring water and the musk of her sleep-warmed skin.
“Noted.” He reached for the latch and tugged at his truck door, but she threw her entire weight against it, forcing it closed.
Raised not to use his strength against a woman, he stood motionless, waiting for her to move before attempting to leave again.
Instead, she stood watching him, her eyes narrowing as if she were refining the view on her microscope. “This tree means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
