Rock Redemption (Rock Revenge Trilogy 3)

The man was going to be the death of me. He was freaking everywhere.

From morning to night, he always seemed to be involved with something in my family. My Aunt Laverne had welcomed him with open arms. I was fairly sure he was becoming her little pet.

And Ian would do anything for her.

I even caught him with a mop. I didn’t know he even knew how to hold one, let alone clean with it. And each day he’d do more chores and make more friends. His natural charm was like an aphrodisiac to whomever was around him.

Everyone loved him.

Even Hayes was laughing with him more than torturing him like Beck and Justin.

Ian never pressed me for anything. Just made sure to let me know he was around. Whether it was to bring me lunch from my aunt, or to wave at me when I came to visit the store.

He was always freaking there.

I tried to ignore him, but it was like ignoring a puppy. Everything seemed new and exciting to him. From learning how to drive a tractor with Justin—who tried to toss him off said tractor more than a few times. But Ian would just get back up on there and show him he was willing to learn about every aspect of the orchard.

Beckett used him and abused him for manual labor.

I swear they were testing him to see if he’d stick.

They didn’t know him very well.

Ian alw

ays stuck.

Like a fucking barnacle.

And each night I’d find him in the corner of the barn, curled in an old sleeping bag with one of my pillows he’d stolen.

The more I tried to ignore him, the more I couldn’t stop looking for him.

I’d go on my afternoon walks to clear my head and try to cool off and I’d find myself searching for him in the grove.

As the weeks flew by I painted my damn fingers off just to put him out of my head. It so wasn’t working. But I’d amassed so many canvases I had to do something with them. I could only ignore the germ of the gallery idea for so long. I went to the main house to use the computer, hoping I’d miss him since it was eleven in the morning. Surely he’d be in the grove with Beckett.

I sat down to research the galleries in Woodstock and heard his voice. He was in the next room, his British accent sweet and soft. I couldn’t stop myself from going to see what had him so enthralled. He was laying on his back on the big braided rag rug in the reading room, he was texting someone while a white kitten was curled on his belly and another one was curled by his side. Another black one was climbing up his arm to get to the phone.

Damn him.

How was I supposed to resist a grown man on the floor with kittens crawling all over him?

But I had.

I backed away like the coward I was and practically ran back to my barn.

I’d painted well into the wee hours of the morning after seeing that. And okay maybe a little white kitten with a black tipped tail had made it into my nine foot canvas. And maybe his long, elegant fingers had been curled lovingly around that damn cat.

I stared at the ceiling of the barn and listened to the night sounds of the orchard. The cicadas and the low hum of the Japanese beetles in the distance. I closed my eyes when I heard the door slide open and the soft mewl of the kitten.

“Shh, Lois. You’re not supposed to be in here.”

My lips twitched and I firmly ignored him softly crooning to the cat. I slept better that night than I had in weeks. All because his voice sung me and a freaking kitten to sleep.

Twenty-Five

Not that one.