Page 11 of Wildest Dreams

I hear one little sandal step over the threshold and I shoot her a warning look over my shoulder.

“No,” I order. “Wait out there.”

Stubborn as hell, she waltzes right in.

“Jesus, woman.” I jab a blunt finger at the unlocked potential crime den that we’re currently standing in. “Let me check both floors before you come sashayin’ in here like that.”

Then I quickly turn around and trudge as far away from her as I can.

I can’t deny it, this place has potential. The interior seems to be all wood despite some of the stonework outside, and it doesn’t look like it’s sustained any elemental damage unlike the front porch. The panels have clearly been lacquered good because they’re that warm caramel colour, but the floor needs one hell of a cleanup because it’s got dust and debris all over it.

I head over to the staircase, give the banister an experimental shake, and then begin ascending the wide wooden steps.

When I reach the top I can’t help but glance back down at Aisling, something like relief spreading through my chest as we watch each other. She’s actually waiting for me to check out the upper floor and not being a little tyrant for once.

After a good two minutes I make my way back down the stairs.

“Both floors are clear,” I mutter, eyes flicking over to the empty fireplace.

“So I’m free to sashay now?” Aisling taunts, and I drop my gaze back down to meet hers.

“Funny.” I look over her head toward the doorway, where Fallon is now running down the porch steps into the arms of her boyfriend. My abdomen twists like it’s just taken a sucker-punch.

“If your car’s unlocked I’ll grab your stuff from the back,” I tell her, taking the sleeping bag gently from her arms. I see her tiny love heart freckle, just below her elbow, and something clenches tight in my chest.

I swipe a patch of the wooden floor with the toe of my boot, and then I set the bag down on the one area that’s no longer dusty.

She stares down at the rolled-up sleeping bag for one long beat. Then she brushes right past me so that she can beat me to the car.

I stroll lazily by her side as she jogs toward the truck.

“It’s my brother’s car,” she pants, “so you’re not allowed to touch it.”

“Okay,” I say, folding my arms over my pecs, waiting in silence for her to point to her bags. After a moment of pouty indecision she rolls her eyes, reluctantly pointing a dainty finger toward a number of expensive looking carry-ons.

I take a deep inhale, feeling guilty as hell that I’m about to dump maybe ten thousand dollars’ worth of fabric into the state’s dustiest abandoned cabin.

I look down at her for confirmation but she’s just staring at her nails, cheeks a little pink.

That seals the deal. Without another word I grab three bags per fist and begin trudging back up the rocky incline, making my pace a little slower so that maybe she can keep up with me this time. When we’re back inside the lake house I stand over the sleeping bag on the floor, warring with myself over whether or not I can actually drop the rest of her bags beside it.

I check over my shoulder and see Aisling leaning against the front doorjamb, watching me with a curious but fiery expression on her face.

I start lowering her bags. Her eyes narrow dangerously.

Damn. I glance around looking for a better spot, and then I realise that I could just prop her bags over on the bare kitchen counter. Without looking back I make my way to the kitchen, swipe my forearm over the wood to clear any dust, and then I heft the bags on the top.

For the briefest of moments, something catches my eye – one of her bags partially unzipped and a flash of faded fabric peeking out. Khaki fabric. Worn-in and familiar.

I have to do a genuine double-take before realising that I’m probably seeing things, so I just shake my head and try to push the notion from my mind.

Get it together, asshole. There’s no way that’s what you think it is.

I slap the dust off of my forearm and we get back to staring each other out.

It’s got to be at least fifteen seconds before I finally clear my throat, breaking the tension.

“That lock’s rusted to hell,” I tell her. “You need a new one, ASAP.”

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