Love matches by app don’t come easy in small-town Montana.
But part of me worries they’re staring for a darker reason.
Those crappy old rumors.
Even if I’ve never done anything to deserve them, my dad did plenty to taint our family.
And I guess some folks are inclined to think like father, like daughter.
Bad tree. Bad seed. You know the rest.
I mean, considering everyone used to think I was sleeping with a dude for cash before he, um, went and got himself killed...escaping unkind words behind your back takes time.
Some of those whispers hissing across the shop are probably ugly.
About how they think I’ll settle accounts with Alaska behind closed doors, sans the clothing.
It’s less his dark-brown eyes and more the sheer mortification of what people think that makes my face burn as I step into my small, cluttered office. He’s quiet, and I wonder if he can hear them muttering about what a skank they think I am.
Has he heard the rumors already, despite being a newcomer?
Is Alaska wondering about me, too, and trying to figure out how to fend off a rabid, horny mess of a woman?
I avoid looking at him as I round my paper-stacked desk and drag the bottom drawer open to rummage under piles of stuff. Seriously, it’s as bottomless as a granny’s purse, and I tip out three Sweeter Things candy sampler bags before I even get halfway through.
Presto. I finally stagger across the first aid kit buried at the bottom.
There’s only one chair, and as I straighten, I push it around the side of the desk.
“You can sit h—”
I lift my head as I speak—and freeze.
He’s already sitting on the edge of the desk, his good leg propped up and his injured leg extended.
He watches me steadily, like he can see right through me, and my heart gives one of those sharp little lurches again.
I’ve never known a man who can just look at a girl and make her feel completely naked, and I don’t mean the dirty way.
It’s this frankness, this warmth, this curiosity shining in his eyes.
He makes me feel transparent, like he sees all the odd bits of me floating to the surface with every look.
And apparently, he’s just as perceptive as those piercing eyes hint.
Because when I lower my eyes and drag the chair over for myself, he doesn’t even give me a chance to flip the kit open before he says, ever-so-gently, “You’re upset.”
I wince, pushing open the lid and fishing around inside until I come up with an antiseptic pad and rip the top off the packet.
“I’m fine, really.”
“I’m sorry about my son. I promise you, no matter the damage, I’ll cover it. I’m good for the money, Miss Felicity,” he tells me.
“No, that’s not—” I pause, biting my lip so I can focus on pulling the ripped shreds of denim aside so I can see his cut better.
Nothing like a little blood to clear a girl’s head. I take a deep breath as I carefully swab his rough skin.
“Look,” I say. “You’re pretty new to Heart’s Edge, right? But I guess you’ve been around long enough to hear the rumors.”
“Rumors? Not really,” he says. “I worked the valley job over the summer, then went back to Alaska for a while to tie up some loose ends before heading back here. So I guess I missed the rumor mill on my way in and out of town.”
I arch a brow, glancing up at him from under my lashes.
“Back up. You’re from Alaska, and your name’s Alaska?”
Interesting.
A broad grin splits his beard, showing off those pearly whites.
“My real name’s Paxton, but when you work construction, people give you names. Especially if you’re a big dude. They tried out Yukon for a while. Polar bear, too, but that doesn’t work when I’m not old enough to go grey yet.” His chuckle reverberates through me. “Alaska stuck. I got used to it.”
God help me, I’m smiling back like a fluttery fool.
“You look like an Alaska. Not sure you look like a Paxton,” I say. There’s something about him that just sets me at ease—but when I toss the bloody gauze in the wastebasket, rip another one off, and apply it directly to the cut, he tenses.
“Sorry,” I whisper, dabbing at his wound.
“It’s not so bad. I’m just being a baby.”
“...little big for a baby.”
Criminal understatement. In fact, it’s hard not to be aware of just how vast he is when his bulk fills most of the empty space in my office.
“Little big for just about everything, but a man gets used to that, too,” he says with a smile.
Slayed and buried.
You don’t want to know where my mind goes with that.
Here’s a hint.
I’m almost face-first in his lap, so I think a girl deserves a pass for mentally plunging into the gutter.
I clear my throat, blotting away a little more blood and then peering at the cut.