by Carly Keene
“That’s my goal. At least two.” I stroke her hair. “Damn. Does it feel to you like we just wasted a whole lot of our lives, not being together?”
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “A little bit.” We’re quiet for a while, and I hold her and play with her hair and think about the future, and then she says, “But maybe we had to do the growing up before we could be together.”
I kiss her. “Maybe so.”
“It’s so weird that I hated you two weeks ago,” she says, and settles her head on my chest. “Or I thought I hated you.”
“I know.” We’re quiet again for another while. “I didn’t hate you,” I say. “I felt guilty about you.”
“Did you think when you came back that you would try to, I don’t know, date me?”
“Never thought it, no.” I laugh a little. “I did think, when I first saw you in the candy shop, before I recognized you, that you were gorgeous.”
“That’s nice.”
“I had naughty thoughts.”
“You should keep those,” she says, considering. “There’s always time for those later.”
I don’t think. I just say it. “I think I love you, Andie.”
CHAPTER NINE
Andie
“I think I love you,” he says, and my spine goes rigid. It’s not possible. Is he playing me again? I don’t know what to say, although the tenderness in my heart might mean that I’ve finally forgiven him for breaking it all those years ago.
“You don’t?” he says a few minutes later, when it’s clear I’m not answering. “Feel the same?”
My hand is on his chest, and I can tell that his heart rate has sped up and his breathing gone a little funny.
“You’re too pretty for me,” I say lightly. “I can’t be with a guy who’s prettier than me.”
“There is no guy on the planet who’s prettier than you.”
I snort.
“Andie,” he says, “I mean it. I really feel like that. You don’t have to say it back, not yet, but . . . Ah hell. Am I crazy? Was this really just scratching an itch for you?” His voice sounds so sad.
I relent. “No. It means something to me. I care about you.”
“Well, that’s—” He breaks off, and his breathing is even weirder. Like he’s trying not to cry. Drew Seaforth, upset by something I said.
“It’s just,” I say, “it’s a little soon, don’t you think? You show up after ten years and you kiss me. And then you don’t talk to me for two weeks, and then you take me to dinner and kiss me again, and now it’s love?”
“It’s love,” he says, soft but firm. “I know, I was surprised too.”
I put my head back on his chest, next to my hand.
“Do you think it’s possible something will grow out of this?” he asks. “Just tell me the truth, okay? You never lied to me, Andie. Tell me if we’ve got a shot.”
This time I reach up to kiss him, holding his head in my hands, and I feel the wetness at his eyes. I melt again, all the way down to my heart. “We’ve got a good shot. I need time. I need to be able to trust you—that you’re sticking around, that you do what you say you’re going to do. That takes time.”
“I got time,” he says.
“And maybe some more sex.”
“I got that, too,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice.
We get quiet again, and I doze next to him. It’s not quite a dream when I look into the future and see us together here in Dogwood Falls. I run the candy shop, he runs the auto repair shop. We come home at night and make quick dinners and fall into bed and have sex and sleep, and then we get up again the next day and do it again. I see a couple of dark-haired kids running around. I see us watching the high school basketball games together.
I see us old—in this house, maybe arguing about how somebody cooked the breakfast eggs or who should do the dishes, but then kissing and making up.
I want that.
I let go of all my old pain, all that old bitterness. I go to sleep with hope in my heart and Drew in my arms.
EPILOGUE
Andie, three years later
“Can’t Alyssa come wrangle the Monster this evening?” my husband asks me, plaintively. “I could take you out for dinner.”
“Alyssa has monsters of her own to wrangle,” I remind him. “No babysitters available tonight.” I shrug. “Guess you’re just going to have to treat me to dinner in.”
He sighs. “Meatloaf from Millie’s? If you call the order in, I’ll pick it up.”
“Homemade pizza in the oven, salad already on the table,” I say smugly, watching him smile.
Andrew, our not-quite two-year-old, comes and dumps two toy trucks in his dad’s lap. He has a limited vocabulary, but one of his favorite words is “truck.” He says it a lot. Unfortunately, he can’t manage the “tr.” It comes out “f.” Which makes for interesting times at the bank, or the IGA. Old ladies gasp in horror. I don’t laugh where they can hear me.
“Fuck, Dada?” Andrew says, offering him a truck.
“Hell, yeah, I want a fuck,” Drew says, giving me the eye from the couch. My ladyparts wake up and say hello.
“Not fuck, Dada, fuck.”
“Okay, yes, buddy. Want to play trucks?”
“Uh-huh.” Drew winks and blows me a kiss that says later for you, and settles in to race toy trucks with our son. My ovaries melt, and I’m as impatient for Andrew’s bedtime as Drew apparently is.
All during dinner, Drew is making excuses to grab my hands and lick pepperoni grease off my fingers, or leaning over to kiss me. After dinner, he hoists Andrew out of the booster seat and carries him down the hall for his bath, leaving me free to clean up the few dishes. After bath, Andrew is yawning. I kiss his pink cheek, fragrant with the smell of freshly-bathed kid, and Drew carts him off to read two board books, sing a lullaby, and turn out the light—while I take a quick shower and put on perfume and my favorite lacy babydoll nightgown.
No panties.
Ten minutes after I get the candles lit in the bedroom and myself arranged attractively on the bed, Drew’s locking the door behind him and eyeing me like I’m dessert. “I want a bite,” he says, his eyes hot on me.
For answer, I let the straps fall, exposing my breasts. Then I hike the skirt up, exposing my lack of underwear.
Drew licks his lips. “Yummy.”
And then we feed each other on our love, for as long as we can stay awake.
WANT MORE DOGWOOD FALLS?
Try the INN LOVE series, set at the historic Dogwood Inn, which is operated by the Barrett cousins:
ADA
GIA
IVY: Christmas Inn Love, coming Dec. 2020
More Dogwood Falls books are coming in early 2021!
About The Author
Carly Keene
Carly Keene writes short romance packed full of hot instalove between sexy, assertive men and the fantastic women they fall in love with—stories as sweet and steamy as a vanilla latte, served extra hot! If you’ve ever wished that Hallmark™ movies showed what happens in the bedroom, Carly’s books are for you. No cheating or cliffhangers, just guaranteed happily-ever-afters.
She’s a small-town girl who lives in Virginia with her husband and a bat-crap crazy dog.