I give her a look. “I’m usually better at hiding it.”
“So you’re not actually going out with him tonight?”
I quickly count the dollar bills. “I am. I think. Maybe. I shouldn’t.” I bite my lip and look up. Lisa is hopeful, and I remember her words all too well about how hard it is to be my friend. “How was the concert?”
“Fucking amazing, but don’t change the subject. Go out with him. Try to have fun. You’re not doing anything wrong.”
I blink away tears. “I feel like I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to go out with Chase. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to him.”
“That makes me so happy to hear. I want you to be happy, Si. And I know you’re a relationship person. You like being with someone.”
“I do.”
“Now to discuss the important stuff: what are you wearing and where are you going?”
“I don’t know. He’s going to pick me up around seven-thirty or whenever he’s done helping his brother get through the dinner rush at The Mill House. We’ll figure something out. There is the tractor-pull tonight.”
“The tractor-pull is a step above the school bus derby at least.” Lisa rolls her eyes. “Nothing says romance like the smell of exhaust.”
“I’m joking, Lisa. But I could give him a tour of Summer Hill: Civil War Edition.”
“I honestly don’t know if you’re joking about that. I know you like the walking tour of the town enough to go every year.”
“I think it’s cool that a lot of the buildings built in the late 1800s are still here. And it’s important to know the history around you.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
I hold my hand up. “Mutant and proud.”
Lisa pushes off the counter and untucks her blouse. Dressing office-casual like that every day would drive me nuts. “Have fun tonight,” she starts. “And text me with updates. Rob’s working tonight so I’ll be home being bored and need some excitement.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Water drips from my hair, splashing onto the hardwood floor. Panicked, I grab my robe, throw it on, and pad to the front door. It’s only half-past five, and someone is knocking on the door. Chase isn’t two hours early, is he?
“Oh, Mom, it’s just you,” I say when I open the door.
“Just me? Do I need to remind you of the seventeen hours of labor I went through for you?”
“You do all the time.” I step aside and let Mom in, shutting the door behind her. “And hi, Mom.”
She gives me a hug, surreptitiously eyeing the house behind me. “You cleaned. Everything looks great, honey. And that smell…is that lemongrass?”
I nod. “My favorite scent. I got a new diffuser too.” I motion to the oil diffuser on the end table next to my couch. “The colors change and make shadows that look like a creepy forest at night.”
Mom pulls me in for another hug and plants a kiss on my forehead. “It’s so you, Sierra.”
“Not that I’m not happy to see you, Mom, but what are you doing here?”
“You didn’t come home last night.” She holds up her hand so I don’t interrupt. “Which is fine because you’re an adult and I said I wouldn’t keep tabs on you anymore, but I wanted to check in before your father and I head out.”
Between my siblings and I, I was always granted the most freedom. Which was directly related to the fact that I wasn’t interested in the normal teenage rebellion type of things like my brother and sister. Sam went out drinking with friends because that’s the normal thing to do and Scott was rebellious just to cause trouble.
My house is about a mile behind my parent’s mansion. They can’t see into the house or anything but can tell when the lights are on or off. Neither paid much attention to my whereabouts before, but since Jake passed, Mom’s been more attentive.
“Head out?” I echo.
“We’re going to Indiana to discuss purchasing the windmill farm.”
“Oh, right.” I shake my head. “I remember now. Is Gran going with?”
“Of course. There is no slowing that woman down. I hope you inherited her longevity.”
“Me too. And I’ll keep an eye on the house. Do you need me to feed Marley?”
“I was just going to ask. I left instructions out in case you need them.”
I consider hassling Mom over it, since they’ve had that parrot since I was a kid, but I’m the same way with my cats. “Okay. I’ll hang out with him too.”
“Oh, good. Thank you. He does get lonely. Are you and Lisa going out? It looks like you were in the middle of getting ready.”
“I was, but I’m not going out with Lisa. I’m going on a date.”
Mom doesn’t say anything. Her blue eyes widen so much I can almost see myself reflected back in them. Her lips—which are full thanks to lip injections—begin to slowly part yet she still doesn’t speak.
“Mom?” I ask. Is she horrified I’m going out? Thinks it’s too soon?
“Oh, Sierra.” She throws her arms around me. “You have no idea how happy this makes me.” She squeezes me tight and leans back. “Your father and I have been so worried. We didn’t want you to give up on having a love life.”
“There’s no love…” I start, feeling awkward. “It’s just a date.”
“It’s a starting point, and one I’ve been waiting for.”
“You don’t think it’s too soon?”
Mom takes my hands in hers. “Only if you feel like it is. There is no right or wrong time when it comes to things like this. Who are you going out with?” She shakes her head, knowing it’s impossible for her to not judge whoever I name. “It doesn’t matter. Have fun tonight.”
“I will,” I say with a smile, but feel empty inside. “Safe travels, Mom. When are you leaving?”
“As soon as your father gets in, we’re heading to the airport. We’ll be back Monday evening. I switched you to be the emergency contact for the house this weekend with the security company, too.” She hugs me again. “It’s good to have you back, baby.”
Chapter 12
Chase
“I got it from here,” Josh tells me. “You can go.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. A lot of the regulars are at the tractor pull tonight, so it’ll be slow, even for a Friday.”
“You say that like it’s not one of the most redneck things you go to,” I say with a laugh.
“Don’t judge it ‘till you go. They’re fun.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” I change out a few bottles of booze that are running low and clear off one more table before heading out.
“Chase,” someone calls right as I get to the door. “Wait up.”
Lisa, Sierra’s cousin, is hurrying over. She’s here alone and put in an order for takeout minutes ago.
“Hey, Lisa. Do you need something else?”
“Just to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
“Sierra told me what you did. She never would have gotten out of that party tonight if you hadn’t helped, but don’t tell her I said that. So, thanks for looking out for her. Again.”
“I like looking out for her.” And looking at her, but I don’t say that out loud.
“And she said you guys are hanging out tonight. Did she tell you about her previous boyfriend?”
I nod. “She did.”
“That’s a relief. And she’ll kill me for telling you, but she’s looking forward to tonight, even though she’s feeling a lot of guilt for moving on.”
I find myself nodding again, trying to separate in my mind what Sierra’s told me versus what I’ve learned about her from the voicemails. Fuck. It’s blurring together. My lack of response causes Lisa to look at me funny.
“I hope you guys have a good night,” she says. “And just remember our family owns a lot of farmland and equipment that can rip you to shreds and scatter the pieces across multiple fields, never to be found again.”<
br />
“I will keep that in mind. Sierra’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
“She is.” She smiles and goes back to the counter to get her food. I leave the bar, go upstairs to shower, and head to Sierra’s. Before I start my car, I find myself staring at my phone, voicemail pulled up. It’s like I’m possessed, doing something I know will cause harm.
I have no control.
I press play on the next message.
“I told my therapist that I still call you,” Sierra says. “And she said I need to stop. Calling and acting like you’re still alive won’t allow me to move on, she said. I’m not ready to move on yet and I don’t know why everyone acts like that’s a bad thing.”
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the date of the next voicemail. A month and a half goes by before she leaves another, and everything inside me tells me not to listen.
So I don’t. I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and start the car, and roll out of the parking lot. The engine revs and I pass a slow truck, crossing over a double yellow line. Oh well. Really, I should be more careful. I have a record, one with a recent arrest. If I get an unforgiving cop having a bad day, a simple speeding ticket could set me back more than a few hundred bucks.
Sierra’s house isn’t far from the bar and I’m there in less than fifteen minutes. If I’d gone the speed limit, it might have taken longer than that though, to be fair. Her house is off a private drive, and I pass by the large antebellum-style plantation house on the way. The driveway to Sierra’s little brick house is gravel, unlike the stone-paved path that leads to the Belmont family mansion.
Being born into a family with money is unfathomable. Being born into one with money and history blows my mind. Since internet stalking Sierra’s ex wasn’t creepy enough, I went and looked up her family history as well.
If it weren’t for the Belmonts—the first Belmonts, that is—Summer Hill wouldn’t be here. They were the first to settle in this area, and though their establishment in the south was thanks to the slave trade, later Belmonts turned into abolitionists. The original farmhouse that Sierra resides in is rumored to have been part of the Underground Railroad, or so Wikipedia says.
I park next to Sierra’s BMW and get out, taking a minute to soak in what I can before going to her door. I know she has cats, likes to be outside and wants to start a garden—or at least she did at the time when she left that message. I have to push all that aside and pretend I don’t know anything else about her.
This old house is over a hundred years old and has gone through a series of renovations. The yard is neat but not professionally landscaped like the large white house. Light from the sinking sun reflects off crystals and gems hanging from the trees around the front, and what looks like sea glass is scattered amongst the rocks on either side of the sidewalk leading to the covered front porch.
Planters full of dried and dead plants hang in planter-boxes from the wooden rails of that very porch, long forgotten, but at one time loved. The boxes are hand-painted in bright colors, matching the pillows on the wicker lounge chairs on the porch. Wind chimes and old, metal and glass lanterns hang above them, swaying slightly in the thick, summer air.
I count three birdhouses and even more bird feeders hanging from the trees on my way to her front door. A miniature fairy garden is set up in the weed-filled stone circle around a large Angel Oak. I pause, lifting my head to see the full length of its twisted branches. More crystals and a wind chime made from antique spoons hang, looking out of place yet perfectly at home at the same time.
Is this part of why people around here think Sierra is weird? The eclectic style of the front yard is welcoming to me, though it’s hard to narrow down exactly why. Conforming to social norms and doing what you think you should do has never been my strong suit. I have a love/hate relationship with my inability to give a shit about what others think. Finding someone else who marches to the beat of their own drum is incredibly satisfying.
An old carriage lantern hangs by her front door in place of a porch light. My heart skips a beat when I knock on Sierra’s door. I’m never nervous around women. No one has ever mattered before. Not like Sierra.
It only takes a few seconds for her to answer the door. The sight of her takes my breath away. She’s wearing a pink dress with her hair down around her pretty face. A gray and black tabby cat is nestled in her arms, sleepily blinking at me.
“Hey,” she says and steps aside, welcoming me in, and then closes the door.
“Hi,” I say back.
Sierra bites her lip and looks down at the cat. “This is Tinkerbell.”
Right. Tinkerbell and Dolly are her cats. I remember that from her messages. “Oh, uh, hi Tinkerbell. She’s a good-looking cat.”
“Thanks. I think so, of course. But I’m biased. My other cat is super pretty too, but she’s not very friendly. She’s already hiding, but don’t take it personally. She only likes to be around people when she decides it’s okay. I can’t even pet her half the time.”
I nod, looking into Sierra’s eyes. She blinks and looks away, shaking her head.
“Sorry. I’m nervous and rambling,” she says.
“Don’t be nervous.” Sierra gives me a half-smile. “No pressure tonight, remember?”
“I remember.” She walks away from the front door, going into the living room. Her house is neat, smells amazing, and is decorated in a similar fashion to the front yard. While her walls are painted a light grey, splashes of color pop almost everywhere I look.
“So, what do you want to do tonight?” she asks and sits on the couch. Tinkerbell lazily moves from her arms, stretching and then settling on the arm of the couch next to Sierra.
“Whatever you want to do.” Seeing she’s barefoot, I take my shoes off and join her on the couch. “Did you eat yet?”
“I ate half a bag of shredded cheese,” she says and then laughs. I’m laughing right along with her. “I eat when I’m nervous.”
I lick my lips and lean in. “Do I make you nervous?”
Sierra inhales, making her large breasts rise under her dress. God, she’s gorgeous. “Yes.”
I could push her, have fun with it, and make her squirm. But I don’t. Because Sierra is different. So much different. Instead, I take her hand in mine, running my thumb over the smooth skin on the inside of her wrist.
“Don’t be nervous.”
She nods quickly and pushes her hair behind her ear.
“Did you make those dessert-ish things yet?”
“I actually just finished a batch before you got here. I made the dough this morning with the intention of bringing you some at the bar if you were working. The dough has to chill for a while,” she explains and gets up, leading me into her kitchen. “I stuck them in the oven to keep them warm.”
“Is that what smells so good in here?”
“It might be part of it. I put lemongrass oil into the diffuser. It’s my favorite scent. It has a nice, subtle sweetness to it, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I agree, not really knowing what else to say, which is rather unlike me, but there’s something about Sierra’s place that’s welcoming…and so homey. I’ve never felt this before, and I’ve only been here for a few minutes. I don’t even want to think about how fucked up that is. “It is nice.”
“Do you want anything to drink?” She opens the oven and pulls out a tray of square pastries. “I have wine, but I think I’m going to forgo alcohol tonight, for obvious reasons.”
I chuckle. “I’ll skip it with you.”
She pours two glasses of lemonade and sits next to me at the kitchen table, serving the beignets.
“These are really good,” I say, after taking a bite. “I’m impressed with your baking skills.”
She waves her hand in the air. “These are easy. My grandma is an amazing cook. She actually grew up really poor and her own mother had to improvise a lot in order to feed her family. She taught us the best of her recipes.”
“So,
she wasn’t born a Belmont?” I ask and take another bite. “I might have looked up your family history on the internet,” I confess. “I find that kind of stuff fascinating.”
Sierra smiles. “I do too, which is why I live here instead of a new house like my sister. Houses like this don’t do well when left empty. And no, my grandma wasn’t. She married into the Belmonts but it was because of her my grandfather started doing business with one of those big food chains. It’s an interesting tale. I like hearing her talk about it as lame as that sounds.”
“It’s not lame at all. But what might be lame is that I’m really curious if this house was actually part of the Underground Railroad or not.”
Sierra beams. “There’s no actual proof, but we think so because of this weird space upstairs with a hidden door. Want to see it?”
“Hell yes.”
She brushes powdered sugar from her fingers, takes a drink, and gets up. Excitement gleams in her emerald eyes as she leads me up a narrow staircase.
“A historian came out and evaluated the weird little room not that long ago,” she explains. “And she couldn’t come up with a logical explanation for it, which is why we think it was used to hide slaves trying to escape to freedom. And one of my ancestors was hanged for helping slaves run away, so it fits the history.”
There are two rooms upstairs. One is set up as a guest room and the other has bookshelves along the entire perimeter. A yoga mat and exercise ball are the only furniture. We go into that room and I can’t help but admire all of Sierra’s books as we pass through. She takes me to what I presume to be a closet, turns on a light, and pushes clothes out of the way. She pushes on a piece of old paneling, moving it to the side to reveal a small door.
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Because you have to do a bit of crawling.” She drops to her knees and grabs a flashlight that’s stashed right inside the little trap door. She’s wearing a short dress and her ass is in my face as we move through a narrow crawlspace that follows the roofline of this old house. It’s weird to get turned on in a place like this, I know, but I can’t help it. Sierra is too fucking good-looking to begin with. Pair that with her interest in history, and I want to fuck her right here in this hidden room.
Love Me Like I Love You Page 66