Discovering Harmony (Wishing Well, Texas #3)

by Melanie Shawn

  “Apparently I am.” Her words came out in a breathless pant as her slim fingers turned the cap. “I didn’t think I was, but that does seem to be the case.”

  After a small sip from the third bottle she turned her attention to the food in front of her. I watched, unable to tear my gaze from her succulent mouth, wishing that I could shove aside the small cooler that sat between us and devour her. I was hungry, ravenous actually, and it wasn’t for the sandwich I’d made for myself.

  She took a bite of the PB&J and then opened the bread and placed several chips in the center before eating the rest of it in four bites. Then, she alternated eating handfuls of chips and red grapes like she was in a speed-eating contest.

  I ate at a normal pace, hoping that the hunger my lunch-mate inspired in me wasn’t written all over my face, because I sure as hell knew it was evident below the belt. Even as distracted as my hulked out hormones were, I couldn’t help but appreciate the amount of food Harmony was putting down and the unapologetic enthusiasm she was doing it with. She’d never been one of those girls that was embarrassed to eat in front of guys. I’d seen her eat more than men twice her size on more than one occasion.

  I’d barely put the last bite of my sandwich in my mouth when she reached across the cooler and pointed at the second sandwich in front of me. “Are you going to eat that?”

  Yeah. I was.

  “It’s all yours.” I started to hand it to her, but she snatched it up before I had the chance.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, only after she’d taken a healthy sized bite.

  People speaking with their mouth full had always been a pet peeve of my mom’s and I’d never thought it was a particularly attractive trait. But, seeing Harmony’s cheeks puffed out like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter as she thanked me might just go down in my books as the most adorable thing in the world.

  My plan to keep my distance had been the right one. Now that I was spending time with her, I was discovering Harmony was more than what I’d already known, and, believe me, I’d been paying attention. In addition to being beautiful, smart, sexy, and funny, she was also nurturing, insightful and a hard worker. She was my ultimate fantasy come to life. I just had to remember that fantasies didn’t have a habit of becoming reality, and this one sure as hell wouldn’t.

  There was no way anything real could happen between us, not with the things we wanted out of life being at such odds. No compromise in the world would be able to close the Grand Canyon that separated our desires…at least when it came to things like family, marriage and kids. I was pretty sure that our physical desires were perfectly in sync.

  We sat in silence as she finished off over seventy percent of the food I’d packed for lunch. Well, not complete silence. She was making moaning sounds of appreciation that had me thinking all kinds of thoughts about other times she’d make those sounds. If I stayed and listened to her much longer, my body’s reaction was going to be very difficult to hide…and that was before she started sucking her fingers to get every last morsel of food off of them.

  By the time she finished her left hand, I knew that I was going to need either a tent or a miracle because there was no way I could stand up and not burst through the zipper of my now all-too-tight jeans.

  “Oh my gosh!” She leaned back against the newly secured porch. “That was the best lunch I’ve ever had. Thank you so much.”

  “PB&J, grapes, and Pringles is the best lunch you’ve ever had? I’ve had Dolly Briggs’ famous fried chicken, so I seriously doubt that’s true.”

  Dolly Briggs’ fried chicken was world famous. Well, at least Clover County famous. She only made it on special occasions, like her husband’s birthday, and if you were lucky enough to score an invitation to the Briggs’ house for those occasions, it was the equivalent of winning the lottery.

  “Okay, you make a good point. Maybe my mama’s chicken beats it…but it’s a close race. You, sir, make a mean peanut butter and jelly. And just so there’s no confusion,” she leaned closer, her green eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint in her eye that made my heart pound like a hammer, “that was a compliment.”

  I knew she was teasing me, but for some ridiculous reason, I felt totally undeserved pride swell in my chest. Over a fucking sarcastic compliment about a sandwich. I seriously needed to get a grip.

  “You were hungry, that’s all, Princess.”

  “I was hungry,” she confirmed, sitting back and leaning against the new wooden post I’d put up this morning. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve worked that hard.”

  “How is that possible?” I shook my head slowly. “You grew up on one of the busiest farms in Clover County.”

  Briggs Farms had employed half of Wishing Well at one point or another. They were one of the highest grossing agricultural farms in all of Texas. Their crops included grain, corn, and hay. They also raised Angora goats for their mohair.

  I’d grown up on a piece of land one fifth of the size of the Briggs’ property and all we’d raised was chickens, but even on our piece of land, there had always been work to do.

  “Yeah, I did. And like I said, I had eight older brothers. So I guess I really do live up to what you think of me.”

  “What?” My brow wrinkled. I had no idea how having eight brothers had anything to do with me thinking that she was the hottest girl not just in Clover County, but hell of the entire U.S. of A.

  Her tone and body language were both defensive red zone as she sat up straighter. “Princess. The oh-so-not-clever nickname you insist on calling me. I guess me not being a real farm-girl just reinforces all of the reasons for calling me that.”

  Lack of hard labor or work experience had jack shit to do with why I called her Princess. I’d never told anyone why I called her that. I hated that she thought that was what I thought of her…but again she was on a need-to-know basis and my reason for giving her that nickname was definitely something she did not need to know. It was probably better if that’s exactly what she thought.

  A wistful look fluttered across her beautiful features as she looked out over the overgrown pasture. “The most farm-related duties I ever had consisted of brushing Buttermilk and cleaning her stall.”

  “I remember Buttermilk.”

  Mainly, I remembered watching Harmony ride her mare. One time in particular hadn’t only stolen my breath away, it had pulled the rug out from under me, flipped my world upside down and turned me inside out.

  The summer before her senior year of high school I’d been down at the river with my brothers fishing, and she’d galloped across the bridge wearing cutoff jean shorts, a white V-neck shirt, and cowboy boots. Her long, dark hair was flowing behind her and she had a smile wider than the sky. She’d made my world stop spinning. If I hadn’t already had feelings for her, I would’ve fallen hard that day. Since I already did, I just fell further under her spell.

  “She was the best.” Her gaze was still focused out over the pasture. “I still miss her.”

  If memory served, Buttermilk had fallen ill when Harmony was away at college. I wasn’t clear on all the details, but I did remember that whatever her ailment, it had hit her fast and hard and she’d passed quickly.

  Shaking her head slightly, as if to clear it of the memories, she blinked several times before turning her attention to me and changing the subject. “So, what is this place?”

  “It’s eighteen acres that include a pond and three structures.” I knew that wasn’t what she was asking, but I gave her the same description that the realtor had given me and, since she was on need-to-know status, there was no reason to elaborate.

  “Yeah, no shit Sherlock.” She rolled her eyes. “But what is it?”

  My right brow lifted. “You kiss your mama with that mouth?”

  “She had four brothers and raised eight sons. Dolly Briggs does not shock easily.” Her green eyes danced with humor before growing more intent. “But stop trying to change the subject. What is this place? Why are we here? How is t
his considered community service?”

  I decided to invoke my right to remain silent.

  Unfazed by my lack of participation in this inquiry, she continued her barrage of questions. “Why am I here on clean up duty? Why are you on renovation duty? Why are we…” Her voice trailed off as her head swiveled around and she surveyed the porch. “Wait a minute, did you do all of this while I was cleaning out the barn?”

  I answered with a nod.

  “Holy shit! That was fast.” Her hand ran along the new planks of wood she sat on as her face transformed to a look of awe. “I think I had hunger induced blinders on the second I saw the food. The craftsmanship is so…it’s so beautiful.”

  Just like with her assessment of the sandwich, a totally unjustifiable swell of gratification rose up in me. “The frame was good, I just had to replace a few boards and reinforce the railing. I still have a lot to do. I need to get back to it.”

  To illustrate my point, I started collecting the trash so that I could cut this lunch short. Thinking that I could spend thirty minutes with this woman and not fall deeper under her spell was more than just wishful thinking on my part—it was insanity.

  “Wow. You are really bad at taking a compliment.” She let out a puff of air and began crumpling up a used napkin. “That is probably why you’re so bad at giving them.”

  The word smart-ass was on the tip of my tongue, but I kept it there. The less interaction we had, the better. I needed to keep our conversations to a minimum, which meant I needed to come up with some reason why we couldn’t have lunch together the days we were out here. That might take some creative thinking and chances were, she’d be pissed about it. But the alternative was worse.

  The more time Harmony and I spent together, the less I trusted myself. My hard-earned self-control about to break like a wishbone in the center of a tug-of-war between The Hulk and Thor. And the reasons why absolutely nothing—under any circumstances—could happen between us were disappearing faster than a watermelon under Gallagher’s sledgehammer.

  After clearing her throat, her tone was the epitome of professionalism as she spoke. “The correct response when someone says something nice to you is, ‘thank you.’ The incorrect response is to explain why they are wrong and then deflecting.”

  “Is that what four years of psych taught you?” I grinned.

  Her mouth dropped open slightly and shock registered in her gaze before her eyes narrowed. “No. Four years of psych and one year of researching my Master’s thesis taught me that you have intimacy issues and a Superman complex.”

  “Is that a clinical term?”

  “Actually, it is. And you are text book.” Lifting her hand she started counting on her fingers as she listed, “Unhealthy sense of responsibility. The belief that everyone else lacks the capacity to successfully perform tasks. The constant need to ‘save’ others—”

  As much as I didn’t appreciate being analyzed, it did solve one issue. I was no longer standing at attention, and my zipper was no longer being branded onto my rock-hard shaft.

  “Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Phil.”

  The corners of her lips turned up and she pitched the ball of used paper towel straight at my chest.

  I snagged it before it made contact. “I guess JJ’s not the only one with a good arm.”

  Harmony’s brother, and one of my closest childhood friends, JJ had been a major-league pitcher until last summer. After suffering an injury and going through Tommy John surgery he’d come home for a “visit” over the fourth of July. I still didn’t know all the details of what went down over that forty-eight hour period he was back in Wishing Well, but a month later he’d retired and come home with his sights set on Harmony’s best friend Destiny. They were married within weeks of his homecoming, and she was currently overdue with the baby that they joked would have the middle name “fireworks” because of when he or she was conceived.

  “I guess Holden’s not the only one with good reflexes.” Her left eyebrow crooked up. “Or hands.”

  My little brother Holden was a professional bull rider who’d won countless titles and a few world championship buckles. He was based out of Wishing Well, but traveled forty weeks a year, which meant we never saw him. Just hearing Harmony say that he had good hands sent an unfamiliar and unwelcome twist through my gut. I wasn’t a jealous person and I knew that Harmony and Holden had never been more than friends. My brother had been in love with the same girl since he was in pre-K. Things hadn’t worked out with them, but he still only ever had eyes for her.

  I stood and closed the top of the cooler, trying to ignore the jealousy that stirred just beneath the surface. Taking the not-so-subtle hint, Harmony followed my lead and was up and on her feet calling Romeo, who’d been napping under the old oak tree that sat at the edge of the property. She ran down the steps to meet him as he rambled sleepily over.

  When she bent over and scratched his head, declaring him the most handsome boy, it put her assets on display like a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I gritted my teeth trying not to stare at the tantalizing view her new position provided me. The last thing I needed was to spend the rest of the day with a painful hard-on, which I’d only just gotten control over from the last time. For the life of me, I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her heart-shaped, full, mouthwatering backside. Thankfully, just as I began rising to attention she straightened and shifted on her heels so she was once again facing me.

  “Oh and just in case you were confused, since you seem to have trouble in this department, that was a compliment. Those hands of yours have been the star of more fantasies than I can count.” A self-satisfied smile spread across Harmony’s face as she practically skipped back to the barn with Romeo running beside her, his tail wagging happily.

  My mind immediately filled with visions of what her fantasies might possibly consist of, how often she’d fantasized, and if any of them were similar to the hundreds, if not thousands, that I’d had starring her.

  Shit.

  It looked like my fate was sealed. I would be spending the rest of the day hoping my zipper held up against the steel rod trying its best to make a jail break. No way in hell was I going to be able to stop the X-rated slideshow that was playing in my mind now, the soundtrack of which was Harmony’s sweet voice saying, “Those hands of yours have been the star of more fantasies than I can count.”

  The good news was, I only had four hours left before I could call it a day and take matters into my own hands. The bad news was, I had one hundred and ninety-two more hours of torture ahead of me after today.

  What the hell had I been thinking?

  Chapter 9

  Harmony

  “Mind your own biscuits and life will be gravy.”

  ~ Loretta Reed

  “Ow, ow, ow!” I cringed as I pushed off the armrest of the couch so I could put my feet up on Destiny and JJ’s coffee table. I lifted my legs, but I was moving slower than an arthritic ninety-year-old.

  “So what exactly are you guys doing up there?” Cara asked.

  “Cleaning, painting, landscaping.” I moaned.

  “But why? What’s it for?”

  Destiny’s question was one that I’d been asking myself for the past week. “I have no idea.”

  “Well, what does Hud say?” Cara inquired.

  “Not much. He’s barely said five words to me,” I managed to explain between groans.

  Every muscle ached in protest. My entire body hurt. Even my skin. Especially my skin, which was on fire. Having a naturally olive complexion, I wasn’t used to the sun getting the best of me. From the time I was little, my mom had made sure I always used sunscreen. That habit had followed me through adulthood. With one slathering application of SPF thirty or more, I could spend the entire day out at the lake and the next day I’d wake up with a golden glow. This morning, instead of head-to-toe tan, I’d woken up burnt to a crisp and unable to move my head or my arms.

  Yesterday, I’d been on weed-pulling dut
y, which was a daunting task, but my sore muscles weren’t the catalyst for my limited range of motion. After lunch—which I’d eaten by myself, again—I’d removed my flannel, pulled my hair up into a messy bun, popped my earbuds in and got back to work. I’d rocked out and zoned out, not even noticing the blazing rays of heat beating down on my back, neck and arms.

  It wasn’t until last night in the shower that I realized: Houston, we might have a problem. My first clue was the shriek I let out the second the steaming stream of water bounced off my overly sensitive skin. After turning the temperature down and carefully washing around the affected areas, I’d taken some ibuprofen and gone to bed, only to wake up feeling worse than the night before. The only thing saving me from being held hostage, stretched out on the cool sheets of my bed, was a glorious green gel of the aloe vera variety. It was the only reason I had mobility of any kind. I just hoped it also sped the healing process, because on Monday I was due back up at Emerald Cove and the last thing I needed was one more thing to add to my misery.

  I’d spent the last four days up at—what I’d nicknamed the Haunted Ranch—working on the barn, the main house, the bunkhouse, and the landscape that surrounded all three structures. It’d been physically, mentally and emotionally draining. Each day had been harder than the last. Part of that was due to the fact that my body wasn’t responding well to the sudden influx of manual labor. It had decided to let me know that by being in a constant state of excruciating pain. Another part of that was that after Monday’s hand-fantasy-admission, I’d barely seen Hud. It was driving me all kinds of Gwen Stefani b-a-n-a-n-a-s.

  I couldn’t stand the fact that he was so close, yet so far. I had a feeling his scarceness was very much on purpose. He was keeping his distance. The only thing that I wasn’t sure about was why?

  Why was he avoiding me? Why was he treating me like I had the plague? Why was he barely speaking to me when we did see each other?

  I’d come up with a lot of theories, but just like undercooked spaghetti tossed at a wall, none of them stuck. None of them rang true to who I knew Hudson to be. I hadn’t been kidding when I’d said he had a Superman complex. He faced circumstances head on. He fixed things. If there was a problem, then he solved it.