CHAPTER ONE
JACK
IT WAS THE DUST THAT first caught Jack’s attention. The farm was big, sprawling, and deserted. Just him and the chickens, so to speak. Only there were no actual chickens.
The closest house was the Myers house a piece up the road. It had been deserted since the old man died in 2017. The dust must be a realtor or a long-lost family member. Not that Jack thought the old guy had any. If he did, it had taken them long enough to show up.
He walked to the front window, pulled his binoculars from the sideboard, and patted Casey on the head. The black lab whimpered once, licked his hand, and pounded his big tail against the floor while his master gazed outward.
It was a pickup. A big beat up white one with a bunch of stuff bungee corded in the back. It was on the same level of epically fucked up as his red Jeep out in the side yard. He smiled. He had company.
It had been ages.
The truck farted smoke as the engine cut. The sudden silence a reminder of how noisy that behemoth had been careening up the main road.
He felt a stab of surprise when she hopped out of the cab. He’d been expecting a large good old boy, a lanky farm hand, or even some ancient coot who’d come to check out the large property. Instead, she stood there, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight.
Her hair was short and choppy. Maybe black. She was just a tiny thing in the lens of his binoculars so he was unsure. Faded jeans hugged the trim flair of her hips and she wore a white wife beater with a black bra.
Slut-wear, his mother would have called it.
Jack just thought it was fashion. Nothing more. Nothing less. And looking at the newcomer and the way she carried herself—comfort.
She kicked up dust with her boots as she walked toward the wide, weathered front porch. It had been a while since they’d had rain.
She walked up the steps like she owned the place, and she very well may. A quick thrum of electric attraction hit him and he kept his binoculars trained on her.
She shoved both hands in her back pockets as she walked the length of the wooden porch. She toed the old aluminum glider and watched it rock creakily back and forth. Leaning over, she shielded her eyes and peeked inside. Then she walked to the very edge, peered over the railing, and into the weed and vine-tangled yard.
She was stunning. He could picture her at his table with him eating dinner. A nice chicken parm, garlic bread, salad. Okay, maybe not garlic bread, maybe just a nice loaf of good Italian bread. Girls—women, he corrected himself—could be funny about garlic on a first date.
And wine. Definitely wine. It wouldn’t be a Jack West dinner without vino. Spiked, of course.
“Right, Casey?” he muttered.
Casey’s tail thumped agreeably.
He continued to watch her. She pulled a key out of her pocket and tugged open the storm door. It was only on by one hinge so she had to grab it. She was laughing. She had a lovely smile. A long, thin, gorgeous neck and a clavicle men should want to worship with kisses. She fit the key into the door and entered.
“Either a realtor or a renter or an owner. We shall see,” he muttered.
He shut his eyes briefly, picturing it perfectly. Pouring her a glass of wine. Pouring his own. Not drinking it, though. Just letting it sit there. Watching her drink. Watching her falter. Watching the realization hit.
He felt the heaviness between his legs but ignored it. He had recon to do.
What was her name, he wondered? Alice? Jane? Or something complicated or trendy? Britany? Monet? Bella?
She came out a moment later, propped the screen door open with a door stop from the porch, and went to the truck. She climbed onto the tailgate, moving very much like a farmhand or an athlete—he’d have to remember that—and undid the bungee cords. She grabbed a big duffle, then another, and hauled them into the house. She made a return trip, snagged some boxes, carrying two of them, one stacked atop the other. Her biceps popped, her delts, too.
This was getting more exciting by the minute.
He’d have to go introduce himself very soon. It was the neighborly thing to do.