Page 22 of Hoax and Kisses
The vague response piques my curiosity, but I fight the urge to quench it.
Just a casual one-time thing, Matt.
I rough a hand through my tangled hair and dip my chin. “I’d better go, then.”
“Yeah, of course.” She stands there, wrapped in nothing but that towel, her body so damn tempting, so inviting.
I take a step and lean forward, dropping a soft kiss on her cheek. “Thank you for tonight,” I whisper. “It’s been a long time since I had this much fun.”
When I straighten, the pink hue that stains her chest from exertion has darkened and crept up her neck. “M-me too.”
At the door, I glance back at her one last time. “Welcome to Pine Falls, Zoey.”
Chapter Seven
ZOEY
Ipark my car on Main Street, not too far from Rosie’s café.
I’ve been in Pine Falls for four days, consulting with my team virtually in preparation for tomorrow’s town hall meeting, as well as uncovering all there is to know about the town and its population. I got a rental car and cell coverage, spent some time with Rosie at the coffee shop, and took a trip out to the lot we’re considering purchasing. But I have yet to explore the town properly.
So today, I’m in tourist mode. I’ve got Rosie’s recommendation list in my pocket, with all the places I can’t miss for the full “Pine Falls experience.”
And this time, I’m prepared. Yesterday, I bought a pair of cute boots, some leggings, wool sweaters, more technical clothes (ew), and a hat in case—god forbid—it snows.
The good news is that I officially blend in perfectly with this outdoorsy town, dressed in nothing but hiking gear, looking like a Patagonia Ambassador.
The bad news is that I miss my designer clothes and my heels.
But let’s be real: I’d never get a slice of approval from the locals in the outfits I love. I’d be branded as a spoiled, rich city girl, blitzing through the town, salivating over the prospect of owning it.
Can’t have that.
On top of that, the streets of Pine Falls are mostly made of cobblestone. Sure, it gives the town its charm, but it’s also the mortal enemy of every shoe in my expansive collection.
If only my dad could see me now. Maybe I’ll snap a picture and send it to him later. It’s strangely satisfying, the thought of him grumbling and scolding me about wearing “sloppy clothes” to a work function.
But like this, I don’t feel so much like an outsider anymore.
And all the self-doubts that consumed me in the tub that first night have melted away. I’ve put my focus on what I do best: work.
Well. Almost. Like 95 percent work. The other 5 percent is dedicated to a tall, long-haired man.
Fine. Eighty-twenty.
… Sixty-forty. But not more.
Every time I moved through the hallway this week, my body heated, and memories from that night rushed back to me. The way he held me against the wall, so strong and sure of himself. Hard in all the right places, yet with the gentlest touch. Precisely how I thought he’d be.
I can’t recall the last time I let myself be so vulnerable with a man. Probably because I never have. I guess, without trying, Matt made trusting him easy. Like I was in good hands (literally) and could shut my brain off for a while. It was nice.
More than nice.
Damn, he knew what he was doing. Wet kisses and raking fingers all over my body. A few times this week, when I closed my eyes at night, I imagined his hands warming my skin, roaming my curves with the same intensity. And if I thought about it hard enough, I could almost trace where his touch had been.
Okay, maybe I’ve been obsessing over it a little. Nothing too wild, but enough that I sometimes catch myself daydreaming, in the middle of a work meeting, about long dirty-blond hair in a bun and a sweaty chest.
Sooo, yeah. Definitely fifty-fifty.
