The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel Book 3)

by Alison Kent

  She was back in the living room now, casing the perimeter and measuring it with boot-heel-to-boot-toe steps. One wall, another, a third, the fourth, and she was at the door. “I like it here. I like the community. The location. The people.”

  Except she still hadn’t answered his question about being near her brother. “All the people?”

  “All that I’ve met, yes.” She pushed aside the yellowed lace curtain and peered through the door’s driveway-facing window. “I’m sure there are others I won’t like as much, but that’s not a reflection on Hope Springs.”

  “You know I don’t plan to stay here,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning a shoulder against the wall.

  “Did I say anything about moving here for you?”

  “I’m people.”

  “I suppose you are.”

  “You’re being all cryptic again.”

  Brow arched, she glanced over. “I’m pretty sure it was Luna who told me you said you’d been raised by wolves.”

  He gave a snort, amused. To this day he had no idea where that had come from, but yeah. He’d popped off with the explanation to keep from talking to Luna about who he was, where he’d been.

  He didn’t want to talk to anyone about where he’d been.

  And that included Indy Keller. “Raised by. I’m not actually an animal.”

  “I guess that depends on how you define animal,” she said and straightened, letting the curtain fall.

  The words hung between them, tense and still, the air humming as if she’d loosed a hive of bees inside the tiny enclosure. He hadn’t intended his use of the word animal as a come-on. He hadn’t been trying to flirt.

  But the implication was there, in her comment as well as in his, so he seized the moment and said, “Would you like to go to Austin? Get dinner? Go to a club? See a show?”

  Her frown was playful, as was the curious cock of her head. But the way she crossed her arms told the truth of things. She wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at—or what she was getting into. “Will Bowman. Are you asking me out on a date?”

  He didn’t know if he could give her an answer. He hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. “I’ve got tickets to see the Decemberists. I’m asking if you’d like to grab a bite to eat and go with.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight, actually.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Don’t know if it’s a good idea? Because it’s probably not. It’s short notice. It’s late in the day. Your brother wouldn’t approve,” he said, unsure which of them he was trying to talk out of it. He should’ve kept his mouth shut.

  She sputtered as if she found his objections to his invitation ridiculous. “I hardly need Tennessee’s permission for what I do. I have a mind of my own.”

  All right, then. “Show’s at ten,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets again, his shoulders hunched again, this time against what he feared was a very bad idea. “We’ll need to leave at seven to eat. I have reservations at Qui.”

  Her expression was a curious mix of excitement and apprehension. “You have reservations, but you’re just now asking me to go?”

  It wasn’t that complicated. “I was going to eat alone if you didn’t. Or . . . whoever didn’t.”

  “Okay . . .” She drew out the word as if using the time to weigh the possibility of his having ulterior motives. “But I need to know if we’re two friends getting away from the everyday grind, or if it’s a date.”

  “What does it matter?” It was all the same to him.

  But apparently not to her. She rocked from the toes of her boots to the heels as she considered him. “A date means different hair and makeup. Different clothes. Different . . . expectations.”

  His gut tightened. “You don’t want to date me, Indiana.”

  She stopped rocking. “And you don’t want to forget that mind-of-my-own thing, Will.”

  “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, and watched her bristle.

  “What exactly are you warning me about?” she asked, her chin coming up. “That you’re not a nice man? That I’m going to regret saying yes?”

  “That’s what you got out of what I said?” Though he couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t so good with words—choosing them, using them, even if he’d get some argument about that from people he’d known in the past.

  She reached up to clear her flyaway hair from her face, exasperated, or confused, or maybe just tired of dealing with his brand of crap. “If you want me to get something else, you’ll need to spell it out.”

  He went for straightforward. “You know where I spent the last three years. I’m not up on social niceties.”

  The look she gave him seemed nothing but a stand-in for rolling her eyes. “I’m pretty sure social niceties are the same now as they were before you went to prison.”

  “I’m out of practice, then,” he said, and shrugged.

  “Practice on me. Tonight.”

  Oh, he wished she hadn’t said that. He wasn’t ready to hear any woman say that. “Meet me at my place. We can take your car.”

  “We can?”

  “Unless you want to take my Keller Construction truck.”

  “That’s the only vehicle you have?”

  He had another. In storage. One day he’d get it out. Start it up. Hit the road and vanish. “I like your Camaro.”

  “Fine,” she said, and he swore she barely stopped herself from grumbling the words. “I’ll see you then.”

  She’d said yes to Will because of how much she’d enjoyed Oliver’s company, yet Oliver hadn’t asked her out and Will had. It was logic that made no sense in any world but hers, where this absolutely ridiculous need she had to be wanted continued to rear its ugly head.

  Then again, she couldn’t help but wonder if, away from Hope Spring and their shared social circle and their client/contractor relationship, she and Will might find there was more to their friendship than either had realized. That, and not the illogical rest, was what she’d told herself to keep in mind; for most of the evening, she had.

  Except going out with Will had her feeling disloyal to Oliver, even though Oliver hadn’t indicated any interest in seeing her again. He’d fallen silent while driving away from Malina’s, and when she’d exited his car on Three Wishes Road, their good-bye had been awkward, both lost in thought.

  That left her curious to know if he’d come with her to breakfast because he’d been unable to find a way out, her invitation being so sudden, and him being too polite to lie his way out of accepting. Of course, all of that was her projecting. He might very well have wanted to come. And then regretted it.

  Look at their conversation. When she’d asked him if he wanted to hear about Dakota, he hadn’t exactly jumped for joy. “Only if you want to share it.” Even she knew that wasn’t a yes. And her assault? Really? What man would want to hear such a thing on a first date? Except breakfast had not been a date. And Dakota would have no story—no incarceration, no life spent as a convicted felon—if the assault had not happened.

  In fact, Indiana’s expansion into Hope Springs, Tennessee’s Keller Construction lacking the word brothers, and Dakota’s ongoing absence were all tied to that night in the kitchen with Robby Hunt. Except those events had been set in motion long before. And she’d been the one to do the setting.

  She and Oliver had been two friends sharing a meal. It was that simple. She’d needed to get the weight of the last few days off her chest. Her missing Dakota had been worse than usual since her decision to hire Kaylie’s PI and her acceptance that there were no guarantees of success. She’d wanted a willing, impartial ear. For some reason, Oliver had offered one, and all she’d been able to think about since was telling him more.

  And not even things about her brother, but her life, and his. Movies and books and TV and food. Travel. Her gr
eenhouse annex. Her Buda farm. She’d wanted to ask what he did for the Caffey-Gatlin Academy. What he did, period, because she had no idea how he spent his time, made his money. If he even needed to make money, being a Gatlin and all.

  And then it hit her. Before tonight’s date with Will, and as well as she’d thought she’d known him—they’d been friends for months, after all—she’d only scratched his surface, too. Which had her wondering what exactly she’d been feeling about him before now. She enjoyed his company, of course, and he wasn’t the least bit hard on the eyes, all lanky and gaunt and haunted. He was quick-witted and clever, too clever at times, fox-like clever, and a complete pro at deflecting her questions. But none of that had given her the insight she’d gained over the hours they’d spent at dinner.

  There was something about him, sitting beside her now as they drove through the wee hours into a very quiet Hope Springs, that had her thinking back to Dakota and his last girlfriend, Thea Clark. The clandestine nature of their relationship. The secrets. Forbidden was the word that came to mind, though why her spending a night out in Austin with Will should fall into that category . . .

  They’d talked nonstop, their food growing cold, their drinks, too. They’d talked so long, in fact, that they never made it to the Decemberists’ show. Indiana didn’t mind; Will fascinated her with the things he knew, obscure things, things she wouldn’t have thought worth knowing until hearing him go on in such depth. Literature. Science. The economy. Pop culture. He knew as much about Assassin’s Creed as he did Vladimir Bartol’s Alamut. As much about Sheldon Cooper as Niels Bohr.

  They’d talked about her cottage, her property, her bees, Will always asking questions, learning more about her than she had about him. Still, she’d learned enough to make her more curious than ever about who he was and where he’d come from, why he’d settled in Hope Springs after being released from prison.

  Why he’d gone to prison in the first place . . .

  And then, after chatting themselves silly, they’d made the drive home from Austin in silence, save for “Calamity Song,” “This Is Why We Fight,” and the rest of the Decemberists’ The King Is Dead album, making good use of her car’s sound system. Yet rather than being awkward, the calm of the trip lulled her into feeling comfortably numb. She was tired from talking, from listening, from absorbing, and imagined Will was, too.

  But a part of her was simply exhausted from his intensity. He’d been on all night, the air around him buzzing. Energy had poured off him, and been so bright, she’d felt as if she could reach out and grab it, could harness it and use it for fuel.

  It was the first time she’d ever seen him so animated, and she wondered if he’d been putting on a show, or reacting to being with her, or if he’d simply been having fun. But she also wondered if the spirited conversationalist was the man he’d been before prison, and the sulky emo mask he usually wore some kind of self-defense.

  She pulled to a stop at his curb, his building in the town’s historic warehouse district looming with dark disapproval as if the strict mores of the past still lingered and judged. They needn’t worry. She wasn’t going inside. That much she’d determined before they’d set off for home. As much as she liked him, there was something about him that was off, or wasn’t quite right, while still incredibly compelling. And as interested in him as she was, as curious to know him, as charmed, it was too soon to be alone with him and tempted.

  “I’m not coming up,” she finally told him, when he hadn’t moved to get out. When he hadn’t said a word in the two or three minutes since she’d parked. When he’d done nothing but look through the windshield where the street lamps caught every hint of moisture on the pavement and sparkled.

  “I didn’t ask you to,” he said at last, still facing forward, hunched a bit, his busy hands pressed between his knees. That left her a bit uneasy. His nervousness. How antsy he was. How out of sorts.

  “Then . . . good night, Will. Thank you for the evening—”

  “What do you want from me, Indiana?” he asked, his head turning slowly until the look in his eyes, so bottomless and dark as they stared into hers, had her heart rising to pound at the base of her throat.

  “I don’t want anything. Well, except for what I’ve hired you to do. With the cottage,” she said, her pulse making itself known throughout her body. “I mean, at the very least I’d like your friendship, but if for some reason we can’t be friends—”

  It was all she got out before his hand was in her hair, bringing her face to his, her mouth to his, her lips and tongue to his in such an act of desperation, she couldn’t find the strength to back away, or to say no, or to do anything but share in the devastatingly draining emotion.

  What was this man’s damage? What was he looking to her to fix or to make whole, or just to soothe because he couldn’t do it alone?

  He kissed her as if he were on fire, as if she could douse whatever it was burning him up. His hand at the back of her head was hot. The fingertips of the other, where they brushed her jaw, were sure to leave blisters on her skin. An obvious exaggeration, but oh, everything about this moment felt that way.

  She didn’t know what to do with her hands. Should she touch him? Should she leave them where they were, wrapped tightly around the wheel? Should she tuck them between her knees to keep from reaching for him? What was she supposed to do? She didn’t know what she was supposed to do because she didn’t know if this, from Will, was what she wanted.

  But she wasn’t unmoved, so she kissed him back, finally reaching up to grip his wrist, a grounding, an anchor, a solid reminder of where she was, because everything around her seemed too ethereal to grasp, and all she knew was Will. He smelled like rain on a dark night, rich and electric, a dangerous storm set to strike.

  He tasted like the wine he’d had with dinner, the bourbon he’d had after, the coffee he’d had with dessert. The barest hint of the cigarette he’d smoked while waiting for the valet to bring her car. It was the first time she’d ever seen him indulge, and the lingering hint of tobacco wasn’t unpleasant.

  His tongue made hers tingle, and the pressure of his lips, soft yet slightly chapped, started a sweet, exquisite tension building in her body. Oh, this was so unexpected, so beautifully, frightfully out of the blue. She didn’t know whether to revel in the sensation, or run far, far away.

  Before she had a chance to decide, and almost as quickly as he’d started, he stopped, releasing her mouth, then pulling his wrist from her grip. His hand in her hair was the last to let go, and she fought against feeling bereft. Surely she wasn’t that hungry for human contact, that desperate to be wanted?

  His door opening had her searching out his darting gaze; he was leaving just like that? Yes, she’d told him, and herself, that she wasn’t coming up to his loft. But she needed to figure out this push-pull thing between them, and she couldn’t if he was going to walk away. “Will?”

  “Thanks for driving,” he said, adding, “friend,” as he stepped out of the car. Then he leaned back in, one hand on the roof, one hand on the door, his eyes, wicked and bright, reflecting the glow of the street lamps through the windshield. “Be safe. And don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry.”

  Then he slammed the door and turned for the sidewalk, leaving her staring after him without a clue as to what they’d just done. Or what he’d meant by his parting remark.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rather than driving back to Buda after leaving Will at his loft, Indiana spent the night in her empty cottage, roughing it with the two furniture pads she kept in her Camaro’s trunk. The water was on. The power was on. And the pads, which she used when she found herself needing to transport starter plants or bags of soil, smelled like the life she loved. The life she thought perfect. The life well suited for living alone.

  After breakfast with Oliver and dinner with Will, she had to remind herself of that. Oliver and his silver spoon were out of her l
eague, and Will . . . Will, too, was off-limits. He had to be. Both had to be. A relationship done right required nurturing, and she had too much on her plate to be anything but selfish with her time.

  Besides, she knew nothing about being part of a couple. Her parents had been partners in their crusades, and obviously lovers at some point to have produced three children. But their interaction reminded her of coworkers. There had been no public displays of affection, no terms of endearment, no gazes colliding across crowded rooms.

  Then there was Kaylie and Tennessee, as well as Luna and Angelo. The latter were newlyweds, Kaylie and Tennessee engaged. And boy, was the difference between those couples and Indiana’s parents obvious. Gazes collided constantly, heated and longing-filled. Affection was as automatic as breathing, endearments spoken in lieu of names as if the most natural thing in the world.

  But what struck her hardest wasn’t the chemistry, or the physicality of what the couples shared. It was the respect, the friendship, how Kaylie anticipated Tennessee’s moods, or Tennessee Kaylie’s needs. They were that tuned in to each other. As if they didn’t need words to communicate. As if love had given them superpowers.

  It was a nice reality to strive for. If one hadn’t already screwed up two of the most important relationships in one’s life. But Indiana had. And until she fixed those, she would never trust herself with such a bond. Or at least with being able to make it right should she make more bad choices and break it.

  Anyway, she had an established business to run, a new business to launch, a brother she couldn’t quite figure out, and another brother to find. She couldn’t afford the distraction of a relationship. And it seemed even simple meals with interesting men were destined to cause her grief. She would eat alone. She would live alone. She would probably die alone.

  But, she mused, stepping onto the porch, she did need coffee. And she’d have to shower and change clothes before heading to the farm. Seeing Kaylie’s Jeep turn into the arts center’s driveway and head toward Luna’s barn, and seeing no sign of Oliver’s BMW, Indiana ditched the idea of making the trip home decaffeinated, and instead hurried across the street.