Page 7 of One Night Rebellion
"I'm glad I followed you to the lemonade truck."
She smiles, the first real, unguarded smile I've seen from her since I've been back. "Me too."
I force myself to walk away before I do something stupid like kiss her right here in the middle of downtown Bellehaven. But as I head back to my car, I can feel her watching me go, and it takes everything I have not to turn around.
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The house isas perfect as it looked yesterday. I had somehow thought maybe I was seeing it as amazing because I wanted to, but no. It's actually perfect.
It's a 1920s Craftsman on Maple Street, just four blocks from downtown. Two bedrooms, one and a half baths, with original hardwood floors and a front porch that wraps around one side. The kitchen needs updating, and the back bathroom could use some work, but the bones are solid.
"Foundation's good," Troy says, emerging from the crawl space under the house with dirt on his shirt and a satisfied expression. "No major structural issues that I can see. Electrical's been updated, plumbing looks decent. You'd want to replace that water heater soon, but nothing urgent."
Dad's been going over the paperwork with Malcolm, and he gives me a thumbs up. "Numbers look fair. Interest rate's competitive, and you're not paying too much over market value. I'd say pull the trigger if you like it."
And I do like it. More than like it, I can see myself here. Can picture having people over for barbecues in the backyard, sitting on the front porch with a beer after work, maybe someday having a family here.
"Let's do it," I tell Malcolm.
The paperwork takes about an hour. Earnest money, inspection contingencies, all the legal stuff that makes buying a house feel real and terrifying at the same time. By the time we're done, it's almost six o'clock, and Dad and Troy have both headed home.
I sit in my Mustang outside the house—my house, if everything goes through—and try to process what I just did. I put down roots. Real, permanent, this-is-where-I-belong roots. The type of shit I never thought I'd do when I tore my knee all to hell.
The smart thing would be to go home, have dinner with Mom and Dad and Sierra, maybe watch some TV and get to bed early. But I don't want to be smart right now. I want to celebrate, and I know exactly where I want to do it.
Rusty's isn't busy, just a handful of regulars scattered around the bar and two guys playing pool in the back.
And there she is, behind the bar, polishing glasses with a white towel. She's changed out of the pink tank top from this morning into a black V-neck that hugs her curves in all the right places, and her hair is down now, falling in waves over her shoulders.
Addie looks up when I walk in, and I swear I see something like relief flash across her face before she schools her expression into something more neutral.
"Well, well," she says as I slide onto a barstool directly in front of her. "Look what the cat dragged in. How'd the house hunting go?"
"Good. Really good, actually." I can't keep the grin off my face. "I put an offer in. Earnest money down and everything."
"Congratulations." And she means it. I can tell by the way her whole face lights up. "That's exciting. Which house?"
"The Craftsman on Maple. You know the one? Blue shutters, wraparound porch?"
"Oh, I love that house," she says, setting down the glass she was cleaning. "Mrs. Henderson lived there forever. She used to make the best apple pie. She'd always bring them to the Girls Club where I stayed after school while Mom got her shit together."
"Well, hopefully I can live up to her legacy," I say. "Though I should warn you, my pie-making skills are pretty much nonexistent."
"I'm sure you have other talents," she says, and there's something in her voice that makes my skin warm.
"What can I get you?" she asks, all business again, but I catch the way she's looking at my mouth.
"Whatever beer you've got on tap is fine."
She pours me a Bud Light and slides it across the bar, our fingers brushing when I take it. It's barely a touch, but it’s enough to send electricity shooting all over my body, and my cock against the fly of my jeans.
I watch her work, the easy way she chats with the regulars, how she remembers everyone's usual order without having to ask. When she comes back to my end of the bar, she's got that guarded look on her face again.
"You want another?" she asks, nodding at my nearly empty glass.
"Sure." But when she starts to pour, I reach out and gently touch her wrist. "Addie, wait."
She freezes, her eyes darting from my hand on her arm to my face.
