Page 247 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
Down the stairs, we follow a narrow stone path with lanterns strung above, hanging from the trees. I can envision the way they’d light this path in the dark and how romantic it would be to stroll under.
The air is thick with the earthy scent of fresh rosemary and spring.
At the end of the path, we find a gazebo cloaked in a dense veil of ivy. The vines are tangled, crawling up the wooden beams like nature’s embrace.
“I take back the tree house,” I say, quoting one of the bucket list items. “I want this.”
The lush greenery frames the entrance, the ivy drapes loosely across the top and sides, forming a natural curtain.
“I’m staying here forever.”
My fingers brush the cool, textured leaves, and they rustle as I push them aside and step through the opening. It’s like stepping into a secret room in a secret garden.
“I didn’t know this was something I needed to add to my bucket list.” I glance at him, my heart skipping a beat as he steps inside after me.
His eyes catch mine with that look he used to have. The one that made me feel like I’m the only person in the world—the only one he ever wanted.
“There are still empty pages at the end of the notebook.” He sets the picnic basket on the wooden floor.
“Those were for our future house.” I spread the gingham blanket over the hardwood slats.
“A wraparound porch, right?” He sets his hat on the edge of the blanket before running his fingers through the damp locks.
The beams of light peeking through the greenery cast a soft glow around him, and he looks beautiful.
“Yes. With a porch swing.” I sit down, my damp jeans sending a slight chill through my body, and I’m acutely aware of my damp front.
“All made with reclaimed barn wood.” He positions the picnic basket in the center of the blanket and lowers himself beside me.
Not touching, but close enough, I feel his heat penetrating my skin.
“Of course, because reclaimed wood is full of history and character.” I unclasp the picnic basket.
Our hands brush.
My eyes crawl from our touch to his. The desire behind those eyes creates pools of heat in my belly.
“Natural wear,” I say, finding it hard to stay composed when his hand lingers against mine.
“Natural age.” His depth is entrancing. “And imperfections that give it a one-of-a-kind look.”
His thumb rubs the side of my finger, and this is where I want to stay forever.
“Every board has a story.” My voice is breathless, and I haven’t even done anything.
But he does that to me.
Every damn time.
“Whether salvaged from old barns, factories, or mills.” I don’t know how I get the words past my beating chest.
“No two pieces of reclaimed wood are alike,” he finishes.
We sit there, staring at one another—longing—for what feels like forever. Maybe the matchmaker’s ideas aren’t all bad. This one is a solid play.
“We should eat before the cornbread gets cold.”
What cornbread?
