A smile of amusement curled her lips. “Oh, you only think you won this round, Wade Mitchell. But the fun is just beginning.”
Three
By the time Wade returned to the farm that night, the lights in the big house were all out except for the front porch and the kitchen. His parents had always been early to bed, early to rise, as most farmers were. Thank goodness for the bunkhouse.
The renovated barn referred to as “the bunkhouse” had been where all the boys slept and played as kids. The historic Federal-style house that came with the farm was large, but old in style and design, never renovated to have enough bedrooms and bathrooms to accommodate an ever-changing herd of boys and Julianne all at once. But none of the boys minded the separation.
The bunkhouse had been the perfect boys’ retreat, and Julianne spent her fair share of time over there, as well. The entire downstairs was an open living area where they could do their homework, watch television, play video games and Ping-Pong, and roughhouse without breaking anything important. They even had their own mini-kitchen with a refrigerator, microwave and sink. As growing boys they were starving at all hours, and Molly didn’t want them running across the yard to the house in the cold and dark.
Upstairs were two huge bedrooms and adjoining baths. The rooms had twin beds and a set of bunk beds to accommodate up to six foster boys at one time. In addition to Wade and his brothers, there had been other children who came but didn’t stay long because they went back to their parents or were adopted by relatives. They rarely had an empty bed back then.
These days there were just the four of them, each having outgrown bunk beds. Molly had redecorated after they all moved out, and each room now had two queen-size beds. Typically the kids all arrived back at the farm at the same time: Christmas Eve. The big house hadn’t gotten any larger in the past decade, so the boys found themselves back in the bunkhouse.
Since he was the only one there, Wade could stay in the upstairs guest room of the big house. At least until Christmas when the others arrived. But somehow that felt wrong. Instead, he carried Molly’s requested groceries inside the big house, put them away and then locked the back door behind him. He grabbed the rest of his things from the hatch of his SUV and rolled his suitcase over to the bunkhouse.
Anticipating his move, Molly had left the porch light on, and on the mini-kitchen counter was a slice of lemon pound cake wrapped in cellophane and a note welcoming him home.
As he read the note he smiled and set the rest of his groceries beside it. He stashed a small case of water, cream cheese, Sumatran coffee beans and a six-pack of his favorite microbrewed dark ale in the fridge. He left the bagels and a bag of pretzels on the counter beside the cake.
God, it was nice to be home.
His loft apartment in Tribeca was nice—it should be, considering what he paid for it. But it didn’t feel like home. With its big glass windows and concrete floors, it was a little too modern in design to feel welcoming. It was chic and functional, which is what he thought he liked when he bought it. But it wasn’t until he set foot in this old barn with the battered table-tennis table and ancient two-hundred-pound television that he could truly relax.
Things hadn’t changed much in the bunkhouse. The futon where he first made out with Anna Chissom was still in the corner. She’d been his first girlfriend, a shy, quiet redhead who kicked off a long string of auburn-haired women in his life. The latest, of course, was giving him the most grief. But he still wished he could pull Victoria down onto the futon and finish what they’d started outside that bar.
He’d done it intending to get under her skin and punish her for dumping that drink on him. Then he found he liked touching her. Teasing her. He enjoyed the flush upon her creamy fair skin. The soft parting of her lips inviting him to kiss her. She responded to him, whether she wanted to or not, exposing her weakness. Now he just had to take advantage of it. There were worse negotiating tactics. Yet she wasn’t the only one suffering. He wanted to feel her mouth against his. And not just so she’d sell him her land.
Wade flopped back onto the couch and eyed his watch. It was only nine-thirty. He didn’t normally go to bed until well after eleven, especially on the weekends. He was tempted to pull out his laptop and get some work done but was interrupted by the faint melody of his phone.