Forbidden Fling (Wildwood 1)

sp; She smirked. “Keep telling yourself that, Hayes. Tell your dad, too, while you’re at it. Maybe it will keep him off your back while I’m weighing all my options. Thanks for your time. Sorry we called you in on a Saturday.”

She slid her hands into her back pockets again, turned on her heel, and sauntered toward the door, avoiding the divots in the floor that Phoebe had marked with fluorescent sticky notes. But she didn’t feel vindicated or triumphant for standing up to Ethan. Nor did she feel hopeful or excited the way she always did when she was on the brink of a new project.

She felt mean and thoughtless and bitchy. When she’d left Ethan’s bed this morning, she’d hoped they could be friends while she was in town. Maybe even have an occasional hookup and keep it quiet.

Now they were enemies. On opposite sides. The very last place she wanted her building inspector or her lover.

She’d only gotten halfway to the door when Ethan’s hand closed on her bicep. He swung her around so hard she hit his body, and his arm closed at her waist, keeping her there. His eyes burned a deep, smoky green, his mouth firm with frustration.

Delaney saw a little of that wild side he’d shown her last night. Intensely passionate, demanding, edgy. Lust rolled through her body in waves. God, she wanted that again.

“This,” he said, breathing hard, his voice rough, “is going to be a fight every step of the way. You know that.”

It wasn’t a threat. Wasn’t even a warning. Not exactly. It was more like the voice of reality. Making sure she realized just how dicey it could get. But she’d lived here. Part of her had died here. She knew how wild Wildwood could get with the Hayeses and the Ryans at the helm.

She curled one hand into the tee at his shoulder. The other into the cotton at his side. “Are you talking about you and me? Or this project? Mr. Hayes.”

His gaze lowered to her mouth, and the sight kicked up an urgent need to taste him, to have him taste her . . . “Both.”

She let the tension slide from her body and softened against him. He was as hard and warm as she remembered. Lifting her hand from his shoulder, she ran her thumb along his lower lip. “Then I think you have a few problems on your hands.”

His gaze went distant, and a hint of pain glimmered deep inside there somewhere. Pain she recognized as a reflection of feeling trapped. The realization that struggle was futile. It hurt to see it. Hurt to watch him battle the intangible ties of unhealthy relationships, because she still remembered what it felt like.

Delaney pressed both hands against his chest and leaned away, breaking his hold. “As much as I would love to get another taste of what we had last night, it’s better for you if we step back”—she moved away, and he let her go—“to a professional distance.”

He looked both frustrated and lost. And while that same frustrated and lost part of her wanted to pull him back, she fished her business card from her back pocket instead. She’d brought it for the inspector, not realizing she’d be giving it—and her history—to Ethan. But there was no point in holding it back now. They were going to have to work with each other, whether she demolished or renovated. He needed to know where she came from and what she could do.

“After Phoebe,” she said, offering him the card, “you’ll be the first one to know what I decide to do with this place.”

He took the card, and Delaney walked toward the front door. Just as she stepped out, she heard his muffled, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” which meant he’d read her title on the business card for her old job: DIRECTOR, SITE ACQUISITION & DEVELOPMENT.

If she wasn’t terrified of losing everything she’d spent ten years building over this nightmare, she would have smiled.

Ethan let his truck coast through the gates of McClellan Farms toward what had been his light at the end of the tunnel—literally—until twenty-four hours ago. Until Delaney Hart had taken renovation of The Bad Seed seriously. Now the light in the barn signaled work for the day still wasn’t done. Which meant his grandfather was still working. In pain.

Almost eight o’clock now, the rich scent of earth wafted up from the soil beneath his tires on tendrils of cool early fall air, filling the cab. Ethan breathed deep, relishing the bone-deep contentment the scent still brought. So many of his best boyhood memories lived here. And the man who had nurtured those memories appeared in silhouette, ambling toward Ethan’s truck from the direction of the farmhouse, his Labrador-shepherd mutt running ahead, barking at Ethan’s arrival.

Ethan put the truck into Park, and Homie planted his front paws on the driver’s door, tail wagging, tongue lolling. “Hey, boy.” He reached through the window to scratch Homie’s head. “Taking care of the old man?”

His grandfather’s familiar limp seemed worse tonight, and as he passed through the headlights on his path to the driver’s side, the beams illuminated a grimace on Harlan’s face.

“Get down,” Harlan told the dog. “You know better, Homie.” Then to Ethan, “Where the hell you been?”

“Nodding off already?”

“I was on the tractor at four a.m., kid. Where were you?”

Ethan couldn’t bring himself to tell his grandfather he’d been in a nice, toasty bed. “It’s not all that hot in the afternoons now. Why don’t you sleep in?”

“No point. Neither one of us is gonna be sleepin’ in when the pub opens.”

Worrying over the state of that pub—one Pops had sunk every last penny of his retirement into—pushed the knife in Ethan’s gut a little deeper. “I can’t stay, Pops. I—”

“Got Sunday dinner. I know.”

And the knife twisted. That was a Sunday dinner Pops had attended every week as well—until Ian’s death. Until he’d voiced his opinion that Ian was responsible for his own death, not Ethan, dividing himself from the rest of the family. The bad blood over that event ran too deep to bridge.

“What wild card have you got for me tonight?” Ethan asked.