Page 244 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Well executed, ladies,” I call after them, rushing off, smug as foxes leaving a henhouse.
I like to leave those comparisons to the Fox family, but when the shoe fits.
“You know they’re tracking us, right?” I scoop a handful of bags.
“Oh, definitely.”
We load the truck and drive to the Airbnb tucked away on a quiet tree-lined street. The house has a storybook charm with a cottage-style exterior painted a soft pastel hue, complemented by white trim and a cheerful mint-green front door that pops with color.
“They went all out, didn’t they?” I cut the engine.
“Doesn’t surprise me. Mayor Thomas would’ve had this booked last year.”
I chuckle. “He has no faith in us.”
Not that I can blame him. We did start our booth on fire a few days ago.
We unpack the parcels and carry them up the stone path lined with bursting flower beds. Potted plants crowd every inch of the porch, and the wooden planks creak with age beneath us.
I open the door, and Jade slips in front of me. A soft chime from a vintage bell greets us while the strong scent of eucalyptus reminds me of sick days at home with my ma rubbing the oil on my chest.
“Hello?” I call out, setting the bags beside an antique bookcase stacked with worn books. “Anyone home?”
“They’re likely all at the rodeo.” Jade walks into the cozy living room.
It features warm colors, such as the buttery sofa and botanical prints framed on the wall.
“Do you smell that?” she asks.
I sniff the air. “No. Should I?”
She doesn’t answer, just spins on her heel and bolts toward the back of the house.
40: OOPS, MY HAND SLIPPED
JADE
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THE SCENT SUCKER-PUNCHES me straight in the gut—no warning, just thick, sweet, and sugary, packed full of memories.
I hadn’t planned on going on a scavenger hunt through an unfamiliar house, but I can’t stop myself.
“Jade? Where are you going?” Hart’s boots hit the floor behind me, not rushed, just keeping pace.
“Following the scent.” It leads me down the short hallway and into the kitchen at the back of the house.
I stop in the doorway, and the warm, golden cornbread sits on the counter in my Meemaw’s old container with the chipped handle.
“Cornbread?” The way his voice does things to my insides is pleasurably terrorizing.
Then his body presses against my back, solid, warm, uninvited but wanted more than I’d admit.
“It’s not just any cornbread.” I step away from him, and every part of my body craves to reconnect. “It’s my Meemaw’s cornbread with honey butter glaze.”
I pick up the dish and inhale the sweet aroma.
Hart stands in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning on the doorframe, just watching me. The baby blue T-shirt is not a color I’m used to him wearing, but it’s cute.
