Eat Your Heart Out: A Romance Charity Anthology

by Skye MacKinnon

  The car rattles over a bump, and I jerk my attention back to the road. The trees have opened up slightly to one side, and I glance over to see a lake. And...a woman?

  A naked woman.

  Getting out of the lake.

  Water streams off her, the afternoon sun gilding her body, making her gleam as though cast in gold. Her breasts are full, her figure generously curved, and her nipples tight in the cool air...

  The car jolts, and then a pair of near simultaneous bangs are followed by a CRASH as I drive headfirst into a tree.

  The airbag explodes in my face, and my head slams back against the headrest. I blink, trying and failing to clear my vision, then shake my head and try to push the rapidly deflating airbag away. I take a moment to breathe, then manage to get out of the car, wondering what the hell happened. Fuck, this is Montana. Who the hell puts a tree in the middle of the road?

  It turns out they didn’t. The car’s front end is crunched up against a tree several feet off the road. Both front tires are also sliced up and flat as my ego.

  Evidently, I paid a little too much attention to the Lady of the Lake and ran my car off the road, over some rocks, and into a tree.

  A cherry tree, in fact, which is responsible for what I thought were stars in my eyes from the collision. No. The air is full of pale pink blossom, drifting around me in clouds, probably shaken loose when I struck the tree.

  I pull out my cell phone, already determined that as far as anyone else knows, I swerved to avoid a cow. I look around, but the woman I saw has disappeared. Not that I blame her. I wouldn’t want to hang around where people could see me naked from the road, either.

  I look at my phone. No bars. Of course not. I’m going to have to walk and hope I find a house out here.

  Then I perk up. This means I’ll be late getting to the Hughes’ place. Any time not spent with Bunny is good time, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, there’s clearly a farm right next to me. There must be a house on it somewhere.

  I walk up the road. It’s warm but cooling as the sun inches closer to the horizon. Just as I’m starting to regret wearing dress shoes, a driveway comes into sight, and I heave a sigh of relief. ‘Cherry Picker Farm’ says the sign.

  Excellent. They’ll have a phone.

  The house comes into view, a large building with gables and flower baskets and a wraparound porch on the first floor, with steps up to it from the ground. I haven’t even set foot on the first step when the front door opens, and an older woman stands in the doorway. She looks faintly familiar, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never met a Montana cherry farmer in my life.

  Hell, I’ve never even been to Montana before now.

  “Good afternoon,” I greet her, mentally crossing my fingers that she’s not about to wave a shotgun at me for invasion of privacy. I’m pretty sure she’s not the woman I saw getting out of the lake, though. Her dress and apron aren’t skintight, but they give me a fairly clear idea of her body, and it’s not nearly what I saw standing at the edge of the water, gilded with sunlight, like a goddess brought to life.

  “Good afternoon,” she says, with a bright smile. “I’m Marianne Brooks. Welcome to Cherry Picker Farm. Won’t you come in?”

  I blink at her, surprised she’s so hospitable to a complete stranger turning up on her doorstep, but I’m not going to question it. Just maybe keep an eye out for chainsaw-wielding relatives.

  “Thank you very much. I had a small accident up the road, and I need to call for a tow truck, but I have no reception. Is there any chance I can use your phone?”

  “Oh dear!” She looks genuinely concerned, and for a moment, I think she’s going to tell me they don’t have a phone. I’m half-expecting it when she continues. “You can absolutely call, but it won’t do you much good, I’m afraid. Donny, that’s the tow truck driver, is at the hospital. His wife’s having a baby.”

  Well, shit. I didn’t see that coming, but what can I say? It’s not this woman’s fault Donny’s wife is having a baby right now. It’s not exactly Donny’s wife’s fault, either. Well, not entirely. I reckon she and Donny are probably jointly culpable.

  “Congratulations to Donny and his wife!” I tell her, summoning up a smile. “In that case—”

  Logically, I should call Christian and ask him to come and pick me up. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the call, but there’s no way around it.

  “You’re more than welcome to stay here until Donny can come and get your car, and while he’s fixing it. We’re a bed & breakfast.”

  I blink at her. “You are?”

  She grins at me. “It’s a sideline, but we’re all set up for guests. You’re perfectly welcome to stay. There’ll be more people arriving in the next few days for the Cherry Festival, but we do have a room free right the way through. Donny will probably take a little longer than usual to fix your car, because of the festival and all.”

  “Oh well, uh…” I’m genuinely torn. In many ways, I’m an accommodation snob. Officially, seven star hotels don’t exist. Unofficially, I’ve stayed in them, and they deserve every one of those stars. I doubt the Cherry Picker Bed & Breakfast, Valentine Lake, Montana is going to reach quite the same standard. However, given the circumstances of my youth, I can handle anything as long as it’s not a literal bed of rocks.

  Staying here means not staying at the Hughes’ place. It would keep me safe from Bunny.

  It would also potentially offend Christian, and justifiably so. I sigh. “I’m very grateful for the offer, but I’m due at my friend’s place this afternoon. I should probably call him—”

  “Who is it, Mom?”

  A voice cuts me off. A low, husky voice that shoots straight to my cock, so that I have to join my hands over my crotch like a minister in church to hide my sudden hard-on. I know that voice, but it’s not possible.

  I turn around, and freeze, as does the vision in plaid standing six feet away.

  Her heart-shaped face holds clear eyes and full lips, her wet hair just beginning to curl around her breasts. Her body is curved in a way that begs me to touch, to shape, to mold…

  She’s the Lady in the Lake.

  She’s also McKenna Never Gave Me Her Last Name.

  I force myself not to react. Given how she ran from me the last time we met, I doubt she wants to rekindle our, admittedly brief, relationship right here and now. I can see in her eyes that she remembers me, and that’s good. That’s exactly what I want. But I can’t take any risks. Showing that I recognize her might make her run again, and I won’t lose her twice.

  I looked for her for years before giving up. The name ‘McKenna’, while not as common as some, is still too widespread to be of much help when it came to tracking down one woman in a country of millions. She ran from me, and eventually, I had to accept that whatever she wanted, it wasn’t me. After all, I’d have been easy to find, even five years ago. I gave her my full name. Even if it clearly meant nothing to her at the time, she could have found me within five seconds with a simple internet search.

  This, however, is different. This is my chance. I’m not one to turn my back on a clear message from the universe. She’s here, right in front of me, and I’m not letting her get away so easily this time. I’ll have to take things slowly, this time, though.

  Guess it’s a good thing I’m on vacation...

  I just have to check something first, though.

  I turn back to the woman who can only be McKenna’s mother. Now that I’ve seen them together, I know why she seemed familiar. The family resemblance is undeniable.

  “I’m so sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Gibson Hall.”

  She beams at me. “Marianne Brooks. And this is my daughter, McKenna Brooks. She runs Cherry Picker Enterprises.” She leans in, and adds, in a conspiratorial whisper: “I just keep house.”

  I smile at her. I’m going to have to dig into exactly how Cherry Picker Enterprises differs from the farm, but I’ve heard enough to change my plans. “If I could use your
phone now, I just need to call my friend and let him know I’ll be staying here.”

  Chapter 4

  McKenna, who really didn’t need today to end like this

  I can’t remember the last time I was so angry. I mumble something about checking cherries and storm away from the house. My fury takes me all the way to the other side of the Morellos, almost ready for harvest, and by then, I’m all out of anger and sliding fast into humiliation.

  I don’t really know why I feel like this, except I do. I know who Gibson Hall is. I didn’t when I met him, of course. His name was just a couple of sexy words rolling off his sexy tongue, but after I got home, and recovered from the orgasm-pocalypse, I looked him up.

  Ten seconds on the internet told me I’d never see him again, and that that was a good thing. He was a multimillionaire, having since leveled up to billionaire-dom. I ran a cherry farm, for Pete’s sake. He’s since leveled up to billionaire-dom and I…still run a cherry farm. Our worlds couldn’t be further apart.

  My one foray into his world had been...educational, for sure. I didn’t know orgasms could feel like that. I’d never had one from a man before, and the ones I’d given myself were discreet by necessity—there’s a limit to what you can do when you live in the same house as your mother.

  And that was the problem, right there. Well, half of it. I still lived at home, with my mom, on a cherry farm in Montana, and the ‘cherry farm in Montana’ was the other half of the problem. He lived in a penthouse on the East Coast in one of the most expensive cities on Earth. I wasn’t even able to walk around Black Cherry without blushing so hard, I swear I smelled my hair smoking. He lives that life, among all those sexy, open, experienced people.

  And that’s what’s got me heading into humiliation now. I was only angry to see him because it’s like the Universe telling me what I can’t have, rubbing it in my face, and now he’s going to be staying in my house! Probably just down the hall, because Mom wants me to ‘meet a nice guy’ and given how keen she was to offer him a room, even though we’re technically not even taking guests right now, she probably thinks he meets that criteria.

  He does meet the criteria. Which is another reason I’m so pissed. How dare he be so ridiculously hot, and wealthy, and nice as well?! What’s a girl supposed to do with that? It’s just not fair.

  I catch myself stomping a foot on the rich soil and roll my eyes. This is pathetic. I’m pathetic.

  Enter humiliation.

  The worst thing is, I recognized him the instant I saw him. His voice brushed my skin like a physical touch, and my clit tingled before I even saw his face. But then he turned around, and I knew it was him.

  And he didn’t recognize me at all.

  The bit which really upsets me is that I know I’m not God’s gift, and we only met one time, five years ago, but goddammit, every second of that encounter is burned into my memory. I’ve thought about him every day since we met. Most nights I lie in bed, and I remember how it felt to be touched by someone who made me feel...beautiful. I’ve had offers from local guys, but it’s clear they just want companionship. Someone around to keep them from getting lonely.

  Gibson made me feel like I was special. Even in that room full of experienced people, clearly up for anything, he never took his eyes off me, except to explain how a particular piece of equipment was being used. He never stopped touching me, and God, when he nudged me into that alcove and…

  My pussy clenches, and I lean against one of the Morello trees until the trembling in my legs subsides. I need to get myself together. Yes, it’s embarrassing and frustrating and awkward that the source of my single most satisfying (only satisfying, really) sexual experience is now going to be staying in my house for a few days. I’m an adult. I can handle this. I can handle him.

  Oh man, I’d love to handle him.

  Focus, McKenna, I tell myself. I can’t afford to drift away into pointless daydreams. I’ve got a job to do.

  As if to illustrate that point, my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket, check the caller ID, and take a moment to uncurl my lip before answering.

  “Mrs. Hughes, what can I do for you?”

  “You can deliver my order!”

  I wince as her voice shoots up into ‘useful to bats’ territory. “I’m delivering your order tomorrow morning, as arranged.”

  “That’s not good enough,” she snaps. “We have a very important guest this evening, and I need to make my prize-winning pie for him.”

  The last thing I want is to make nice with Bunny Hughes, but a paying customer is a paying customer. Even if they’re also a total bitch.

  “You won a prize? Congratulations.” I haven’t heard anything about it, but these things really matter to Bunny.

  “Not yet,” she says, her tone turning smug. “But I’m sure the Cherry Festival contest will be a shoo-in. I’m at the top of my game.”

  I roll my eyes, glad we’re not on video. “Of course.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still entering. I know your family is well liked in the area, but nobody expects a lumberjack to build a cathedral.”

  Fury has my hand clenching around the phone. “Mom’s pies are justifiably famous around here, Mrs. Hughes. She wins that contest fair and square, every year.”

  “Well, maybe her goods are only famous in this area because nobody here has ever left this area. I, on the hand, studied at Le Cordon Bleu. That’s in Paris,” she adds, like I don’t know where Le fucking Cordon Bleu is. “Anyway, just bring me the cherries tonight, otherwise, I’ll be forced to cancel my order.”

  She hangs up, and it takes a few minutes of deep breathing before I can see straight. How dare she call Mom a lumberjack? Mom is the Christopher Wren of baked goods. Bunny Hughes only wishes her cherry pie was as good as Mom’s.

  I look around the farm. Bunny was partially right, I guess. I, at least, am a lumberjack, or whatever the soft fruit equivalent of that is. I produce cherries and other people do stuff with them.

  I lift my chin. Yes, I’m a farmer, and I’m fine with that. No, it’s not the life I had planned, but I’ve done plenty with it, and this isn’t just a farm. Cherry Picker Enterprises is solvent, and thriving, albeit sailing a little close to the wind right now, and that’s the main thing. I’m good at my job and my life works for me, especially when I get to stand out here in the afternoon sunlight and feel my bad mood leaching away as the scent of cherry blossom and fruit fills my lungs, along with the cool, clear Montana air.

  Fuck Bunny Hughes. I’ll take her the fucking cherries, and Mom will wipe the floor with her at the Cherry Festival.

  I turn around and head for the loading bay. I’ve got a delivery to make, and no entitled trophy wife bitch, nor irritatingly gorgeous man, is going to stop me from running my business.

  I’m not expecting to see the aforementioned irritatingly gorgeous man standing over a box of early Morellos. I know it’s him, even from behind. No one in Valentine Lake wears a suit that well.

  I won’t deny the view is good. I won’t confirm it either, mind you. I also won’t confirm whether me drooling is to do with the view. You don’t need to know that.

  I make myself walk over and stand next to him. “Do you like cherries?”

  I’m not looking at him as I pick up the crate and load it into the truck bed.

  “My mom was a fan,” he says, and I’m surprised enough to turn and look at him. I’m even more surprised when I see the crate in his arms. “Where do you want this?”

  I point, too surprised to speak, and he slides the crate in next to the other, causing a little clench in my chest, and an answering tingle between my legs. I never thought the sight of a man in a fancy suit loading cherries into a truck would do it for me, but what do you know?

  Even worse, now I find myself in the shitty position of having to thank him, but he brushes it off.

  “Need a hand with your deliveries?” he asks.

  “H-How do you know I’m delivering them?”

  H
e raises an eyebrow and looks at the truck, then back at me. “Unless you’re planning a cherry fruity tailgate party, I can’t imagine what else you’d be doing with them?”

  I squint at him. “Did you just make a cherry pun?”

  “I’m cherry good at puns,” he says, his face almost completely straight, except for the twitch in his upper lip.

  His full, strong, eminently biteable upper lip.

  Christ, McKenna, get a grip.

  “That’s terrible,” I tell him. “As punishment, yes, you can help me with my delivery.”

  That fancy suit isn’t going to stay fancy for long, which is mostly why I’m bringing him along. It’s mean of me, but I want to make him pay, just a tiny bit for not recognizing me.

  Ripe cherries are pretty unforgiving on clothing, which is why I’m wearing some of the rattiest clothes I possess today. Also, the person I’m delivering these cherries to doesn’t deserve any kind of effort made on her behalf.

  That said, if I’d known I was going to be seeing Gibson Hall again, maybe I’d have made an exception.

  Sigh. Too late now. Maybe that’s why he didn’t recognize me.

  Sure, McKenna. Let’s blame it on your terrible clothes, and not on the likelihood that he’s fucked more women than you’ve had cherry pies in the last five years. No doubt, I was just one of many.

  The thought of that has me shifting gears a little harder than our ancient pickup likes and she groans. I mutter an apology and try again, and this time we pull away smoothly.

  “So, tell me about Cherry Picker Enterprises.”

  I shoot him a look. He seems genuinely interested. I shrug. “It started out as just the farm, but when my dad passed, we had to, uh, make some changes.”

  He doesn’t need to know I went from full-time student and part-time farm hand to full-time farm owner and part-time nothing overnight.

  “Mom’s always been an amazing cook, so she was baking pies and sweets for a few stores around the area, and I managed to expand on that with her. And then one day, I started doodling with a plain t-shirt and someone wanted to buy it, so Cherry Picker Farm merchandise became a thing. We now supply a chunk of the state with fruit, merchandise, and baked goods.”