Hasty (Do-Over Book 4)

by Julia Kent

  “Can you make rabbit's milk cheese?” Mallory wonders aloud, looking to Eric for the answer.

  “I mean... I guess? Rabbits have teats. Their babies drink their milk.”

  As Eric responds, Mallory whips out her phone, typing rapidly. “AHA!” she exclaims. “Rabbit’s milk cheese. It's a thing!”

  Eric and I make sounds that resemble a dying zombie.

  Or... can zombies die? They're already dead, right?

  “And how, exactly, do you milk a rabbit?” I ask.

  Eric holds his hands up and pinches his index fingers and thumbs rhythmically. “Like this?”

  “Ewww, gross.”

  “How is it gross? It's mammal milk.”

  Mallory looks down at her breasts. “Right. We'll make milk one day when we have kids.”

  “Don't compare that to rabbit’s milk cheese. No one makes cheese out of human breast milk,” I say, regretting it instantly.

  Mal Googles. I groan.

  She holds up the screen. “Actually, Hastings, that's a thing, too.”

  “It's not my thing!”

  The beep-beep-beep of a delivery truck backing up catches Mal's attention, and she mercifully scurries off. I walk outside to look at the bunnies, adjusting the strap of my overalls, then pulling the hair tie out of my messy bun, combing my fingers through my hair and re-doing it. Over time, I've softened the dark chestnut to a light ash brown, moving from Mom's Madison Reed color suggestions to a good local stylist.

  I like being brunette. It's like I'm reinvented.

  Outside first.

  Inside second.

  “How much milk does a mother bunny make, anyhow?” I call out to Eric, whose shoulder and leg come into my peripheral vision as I bend down to peer into the rabbit hole.

  “I leave for three months and this is what I come back to. Hastings Monahan, bunny milker.”

  Ian's voice is absolutely the last thing I expect to hear, the shock of it pitching me forward, flat on my face in the grass, a dandelion head brushing against my lips. Scrambling up, I throw myself into his arms, his embrace picking me up off the ground, the scent of him so good, so exciting.

  So real.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Learning new details about you. Your fine motor skills must be exceptional if you can milk rabbits. What else can you milk with those fingers?”

  “Ian!”

  Before I can ask another question, his mouth is on mine for a kiss I've dreamt about for months, full and rich, extraordinary and filled with questions.

  “I missed you,” he says. “And wanted to see you, so I came back early. FaceTime and texting is no replacement for the real thing.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  He looks around, then down at the hole in the ground, face softening as a tiny bunny head pokes out, then retreats. “And you have been keeping a secret.”

  “I didn't want to tell you until the store was ready.”

  “When does it open?”

  “Another month or two. Okay, probably three, because of the six-month aged cheese. Depends on... a lot of factors.” I was about to say money, but stop myself.

  Because I do not want Ian McCrory swooping in and rescuing me.

  Again.

  “Show me around. I'm intrigued. This is what you do when you're not in the office?”

  “It is.”

  “Turning a hobby into a business? How–”

  I kiss him before he can say hipster.

  Then I give him the full tour. Which takes exactly ninety seconds. It's not a big space. We basically stand in the middle of the former sugar house and spin in a circle while I point.

  “And you've done the analysis? You can turn a profit here?”

  “This is more of a community-based retail site. Most of my profit will come from institutional contracts and online sales.”

  “You've done your research, of course. Can you make a living doing this full time?”

  “Not until year three, according to my business plan. I'm assuming I can continue to consult for you, just on a more limited basis.”

  “Of course. I know Irene had you sign a six-month contract after your initial three-month contract was up, but I was planning to offer you a higher position. Full time. Better salary, benefits, the whole deal.”

  “Corner office?” I joke. “My own barista?”

  “If you want that.”

  He's serious.

  “You know, part of me does want what you're offering. But it's like an echo. I love consulting, but this...” I gesture to the giant pots, the cut oak logs, the cheesecloth, the five-gallon buckets lined up neatly, the bottles of rennet, the bags of lavender. “This is mine.”

  He takes a deep breath, clearly inhaling a scent, searching for something in the air. “It is yours. And it reminds me of home, my grandfather's farm in Wisconsin.”

  A small frown develops between his eyes, then fades quickly. If I weren't intently studying him, I wouldn't have noticed.

  “How much capital do you need?” he asks abruptly.

  “What?”

  “I'd like to do a private equity deal with you. I'll invest in your business.”

  My laugh isn't nervous. Not tentative. No giggle emerges. Instead, a full-throated, mature sound of deep amusement rises up.

  When I stop, the answer is easy:

  “No.”

  “No? Who is funding you?”

  “Me. A break on rent from Eric's dad. Susan's helping with milk. And my father.”

  “You'll take money from your dad but won't let me invest?”

  “Dad filed a theft claim on the insurance policy he had for the family engagement ring Burke stole. It came through. So he’s helping fund some of this.”

  “That's great. I want to as well.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I don't handle rejection well.”

  “I'm not rejecting you.”

  “No is the very definition of rejection.”

  “Think of it as the opposite of yes.”

  “And your point is...?”

  “I'm saying yes to me when I say no to you.”

  “You want to do it on your own.”

  “I do.”

  “That I understand.” His arm goes around my shoulders, sliding down my arm to land on my hip. “When you do it yourself, you calibrate. You decide. You control. And the victories are all on you.”

  “Exactly. But that doesn't mean I won't need team members.”

  “You'll let me help?”

  “Of course. We need someone to clean the bathroom.”

  His face opens up with a smile of surprise and delight. “Do I have to do it in a French maid's costume?”

  “Ew!”

  “You seem to enjoy telling me what to do, Hastings.” His grip tightens and he kisses me, tongue caressing my teeth, pulling in my lower lip, the taste of him sweet and simple and groaningly perfect.

  “If anyone's wearing a French maid's costume in this relationship, it's me.”

  “I'll take that as a promise.”

  Eric walks in, head down, reading a manifest. When he looks up, he says, “Ian! Good to see you with a shirt on.”

  Mallory gives Eric a raised eyebrow, then looks at me. “Is something going on between the three of you I should know about?”

  “Ian tried to get his arm in the vagina, but it was too big,” Eric elaborates.

  Mal gives me moon eyes. “That really doesn't clarify,” she says in a whisper-thin voice.

  “Good to see you too, Eric,” Ian says. “You clearly got to work with Hastings while I was gone.”

  Eric shrugs. “I just hooked her up with some old friends, and we had this sugar house sitting empty. Hastings took the opportunities and made this all come together.”

  “We're calling the company Anderhill Cheese,” I tell him. “I grabbed the domain name and we're getting online commerce established. Susan, my old farm-camp teacher, is fronting me the milk in bulk.” I
walk over to one cooler and slap the door. “Sixty pounds in here, aging, and everyone I know is storing a wheel or three in their fridge until we can get the big cooler in place. The bunnies are causing a snag.”

  “Bunnies?”

  “Long story.” My stomach growls. He notices.

  “Let me take you somewhere for a hot shower, a good meal, and fabulous company,” Ian says as Eric and Mal suddenly find something to do.

  “You know a place where I can get all that?”

  “I do. About a mile from here, in a rented house.”

  “What?”

  “I'm here in town. Got a small house. Irene had it stocked with food. Do you like steak? Or salmon? I'm pretty good at a grill, especially after all this time in Australia.”

  “You want to take me back to your house and cook me dinner?”

  “And take you to bed.”

  “That's very direct of you.”

  “I'm a direct kind of guy.”

  “I like direct.”

  “Good. Because I like you.” He kisses me again.

  Mallory clears her throat. We look up.

  “You want Eric and me to handle the rest, Hastings? There isn't much left, except giving the HVAC guy the info on the bunnies.”

  “Save the bunnies, Mallory. Make a little bunny garden. A shrine. Whatever you want. Add some gnomes and geopathically sensitive crystals for all I care. Let Fiona go wild.”

  Her eyes light up. “Really? Because she has ideas. Says this place is perfect for a gnome village.”

  As Ian guides me to his car, I shout over my shoulder, “Go for it.”

  “Same to you!” she calls back.

  Yet another delivery truck has arrived, the ubiquitous brown box blocking Ian’s car. A guy in uniform trots over to us, looks at an address label, and says, “Hastings Monahan?”

  “That's me.”

  He asks for a signature, then hands me a thick envelope. I tear it open.

  My passport falls out.

  “What the heck?”

  Ian nods. “Look at the letter.”

  “‘Charges dropped in full… no further review… ask for future cooperation should Mr. Oonaj contact you…’” I frown. “The lawyers you hired for me never said a word.”

  “They may not have been notified yet,” he offers. “Congratulations.”

  “Dropped? The charges are really dropped? I'm free?”

  “You are.” He kisses my temple. We watch the dust as the truck pulls away.

  “I can go anywhere now!”

  “I can think of one place I want to go with you.”

  The kiss he gives me tells me where, without words.

  It's a place where clothing is optional.

  And I'm exploring all my options now.

  18

  “This is Marvelle Johnston's old house!” I exclaim as Ian pulls up to the English Tudor, the ivy crawling up the walls like it's Spiderman.

  “Who is Marvelle Johnston?”

  “Car dealer in the area. He had the craziest jingles on the radio and television.” I pause, letting the memory hit me. Then I sing, “When you gotta go, you gotta go, so get one of ours and hit the road.”

  “That is the worst jingle I've ever heard.”

  I gesture at the house. “It worked on someone. He sold a lot of cars.”

  “Let me guess. Nineteen seventies and eighties?”

  “And into the early nineties. I was really little when his commercials were everywhere. His tagline was 'At my lot, you won't pay a lot.'”

  “You're killing me. Those are terrible advertising choices.”

  “He knew how to appeal to a certain market niche. Is it worse than some of the social media marketing videos you see?”

  “Good point.” We climb out of the Lamborghini and head to the front door, where Ian punches in a code.

  “After you,” he says, hand on the small of my back as I enter first. It’s tastefully appointed–whoever owns the place now is going for an upscale rental look. Nothing really personal in sight, but it hits all the “English Tudor” notes, with plaids and velvet and some muted flowered chintz for good measure. Wide oak floors gleam under the glow of iron and glass lanterns.

  “Not my style, but it's private. We have a hot tub and pool outside, too.”

  At the words “hot tub,” my aching muscles cheer.

  “Let's have a drink. You hungry?” he asks, moving into the kitchen, the entire first floor an unexpected open-concept space. Someone must have remodeled, but the wide-open rooms don't detract from the style. Exposed antique brick in the kitchen and leaded glass windows that flank the double doors keep the continuity. An English garden is off to the left of a small pool, a hot tub flowing over into it.

  Back in the Bay Area, a house like this would be snickered at, made fun of, considered kitschy and quaint in a condescending way.

  Here, it's just nice.

  The company, though, makes it exceptional.

  “I'd love a drink.”

  Ian pulls a small cheese board covered in plastic wrap from the fridge, the wooden surface spread with an assortment of cheeses, cured meats, and olives, with fig cake and Marcona almonds.

  My stomach roars.

  He grins. “Eat. I'll find some wine. You like a good Sancerre, right?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I've been to enough networking events with you over the years, Hastings. I paid attention.”

  “I feel like a jerk, then, because I have no idea what your favorite drink is.”

  “Lemonade.”

  “With what?”

  “Lemon juice. Sugar. Sometimes with honey. My grandmother used to make lemonade with fresh honey from their hives, and she’d ask me to clip some mint from the overgrown plants around the foundation at their farm.”

  “So just straight-up lemonade? That's your favorite? What about alcoholic drinks?”

  “Vodka and soda with a pickle.”

  “A pickle?”

  “Your face is judging me.”

  “My face is trying to imagine what that tastes like.”

  He searches the cabinets, returning empty-handed. “No vodka. Just wine and some pale ale in the fridge. I'll have to take you out tomorrow and order you one.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  I pop a piece of fig cake in my mouth after asking the question, afraid to chew in case I don't hear his answer fully. Searching the drawers, he finds what he seeks–a bottle opener–and swiftly gets the cork moving.

  “Yes, tomorrow. You're spending the night, right?”

  “I... am?”

  Our eyes meet, his wide and hard to read, sharp and attuned.

  “Let me formally invite you. Hastings, will you stay the night?”

  “Is this a sleepover?”

  One corner of his mouth curls up as the cork pops and he pours a glass of liquid goodness.

  “If you want to call it that, yes.”

  “Can we watch horror movies and eat popcorn and braid each other's hair?”

  “That's not quite what I had in mind.” He slides the glass to me, then holds his own aloft.

  “A toast?” I ask.

  “To sleepovers,” he says, our glasses clinking.

  “To sleepovers.”

  The wine is cold and delicious, with crisp notes of oak and apple. “I can't believe you're here,” I finally say.

  “I can.”

  “Aren't you jetlagged?”

  “I arrived a few days ago. I've adjusted already.”

  “A few days?”

  “I wanted to see you first, but there were other pressing matters to deal with.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I needed to think.”

  “Think? About what?”

  A slight pause.

  “What am I to you, Hastings?”

  White wine hurts when it becomes a sinus rinse.

  But he waits until I can breathe again. Just... waits.

  “Are we having this kind
of conversation? I don't think I've ever had one before.”

  “What kind?”

  “Most guys dance around definitions of relationships and expressions of emotion. They’re not usually the ones asking that kind of question.”

  “I'm not most guys.”

  I gulp the rest of my wine, placing my empty glass on the granite counter.

  “I'm also very, very out of practice with this kind of talk. I spent eight years with Burke.”

  “I'm well aware of that.” His jaw clenches.

  “Why don't you go first? What am I to you, Ian?”

  “In negotiations, the person who speaks first, loses. I'm not falling for that.”

  “This is a negotiation?”

  “In a sense.”

  “You want terms?”

  “I want to know how far you're willing to go here.”

  “In bed?”

  That earns me a chuckle. He drinks half his wine, then watches me.

  “No. In here.” Fingertips brush his chest, over his heart.

  Warm eyes meet mine. This isn't a grilling. There is no hot seat here.

  Ian's opening his heart to me, and asking where mine is.

  “I don't know,” I answer honestly. “And this is definitely a two-glass conversation.”

  His hand goes to my wrist, stopping me. “Let me get the steaks on the grill first. Or salmon? I have both.”

  “How about half and half? A small piece of each.”

  His head tilts. “That's exactly what I wanted.”

  “Then we're a perfect match.”

  I get a quick kiss on the lips before he steps out on the terrace, turns on the grill, and comes back into the kitchen, searching the fridge, pulling out plates.

  “Come outside with me. There's a table and chairs and I want your company.” Reaching for his cuffs, he unbuttons one, curling the white cloth, making me pause as I stand. I stare at him.

  There is something so sexy about watching a man roll up his shirt sleeves.

  By the time he starts his second cuff, he realizes I'm gawking.

  “Like what you see?”

  “It's a cuff thing.”

  “Cuff?”

  “You look really good when you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Roll up your sleeves.”

  Hand in mid-roll, he pauses, giving me a confused look. “You... like that?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't know. It's not a conscious choice.”