Page 2 of Pick Me
I stifled a sigh. Aware of his presence? Was he kidding?
The Sunday Orchard office might have made a good-sized tack room back when the building had housed horses instead of the gift shop. But when filled with two desks pushed front-to-front, a couple of file cabinets, and one incredibly sexy, incredibly annoying, incredibly cranky man who was constantly jabbing his keyboard like it owed him money, or making frustrated noises as he squinted at the paper ledgers where his Uncle Drew had kept the orchard’s accounting before he’d broken his ankle and let Knox take over, or glaring at me while he pontificated on my latest failings as a roommate—specifically my inability to “wash out a damn coffee mugif your damn life depended on it, Goodman”—the space felt incredibly cramped. It wasn’t really possible to ignore someone.
And I knew this, because it made pretending to ignore him that much more satisfying.
“Hmm?” I looked away from my computer screen and blinked innocently at Knox. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
Knox’s gorgeous face went red, and his jaw clenched. “Hard at work, were you?” His biting tone suggested he thought the opposite.
“Oh, no. I finished my work for the day fifteen minutes ago,” I lied, conveniently forgetting the two additional hours of work I’d need to do that evening to stay on track. “But you were being really boring, so I started daydreaming.”
Good. Lord.The look the man gave me could have turned Whispering Key into an icy tundra.
It was a little thrilling but mostly baffling.
Have you ever had someone take an instantaneous and irrational dislike to you? I hadnot… until I’d arrived at Sunday Orchard.
When I’d finally,finallypulled down the long driveway from the road, it had been the golden hour. The place had been gorgeous in the early evening light—menacing cattle aside—and very nearly empty, since the orchard was closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Webb had greeted me with a handshake and introduced me to his uncle Drew, his sister Emma, his son Aiden, and his younger brother Hawk, all of whom had been welcoming and friendly andlovely. He’d shown me briefly around the office and given me a plate of dinner they’d kept warm for me. Then he’d helped me drag my big suitcase up to my new barn-apartment.
I’d been so tired from the drive that I’d nearly been sleepwalking at that point, so I hadn’t seen Knox emerge from the apartment’s tiny bathroom dressed in nothing but a low-slung towel until I’d walked smack into his naked chest and bounced off it. He’d been startled, obviously, and he’d reached out his hands to steady me, while I’d tried very hard not to chub up right then and there, becauseohmyflippingGod, he was the guy from the picture.
Thatguy from the picture.
The happy-go-lucky one with the devilish grin that made my stomach fizz like pop rocks. And he was standing right in front of me, close enough that I could watch the lucky little water droplets cascade from his beard down his thick, muscular shoulders.
I would swear to you until my dying day that when I first glanced up at his face, his fingers had clenched around my biceps for half a second and his eyes had flared with interest—withwant—like Webb hadn’t even been in the room with us. And at that moment, you could have told me that Vermont contained nothing but rabid tourists and homicidal cows, and I would have told you it was all worthwhile, becauseholy shit, lumbersexuals were even hotter in their natural habitat.
But then Knox had taken a step back, given me a single up-down, from the toes of my worn Birks to my Mordor Fun-Run T-shirt, and proclaimed,“Thischildis the programmer you’re paying an arm and a leg for, Webb? The one you expect me toshare an apartment with? For fuck’s sake, the kid was supposed to be here hours ago. He can’t even tell time.”
Then he’d stalked off to his bedroom, leaving me gaping after him while Webb stammered out a lame-assed explanation about Knox’s “minor health issues” forcing him to leave his “dream job” in Boston, and how he was having a “tough time adjusting” and blah blah blah.
Like that was an excuse to be rude to someone?Please.
The old expression says to never meet your heroes, right? The real trick is to never meet the hot guys you’ve randomly jerked to because, trust me, the disappointment was epic.
Sadly, that had been the high point of our relationship, and it had all gone south from there.
Later that night, I’d knocked on his sliding door to apologize for showing up late and explain about the traffic, but even though his light had been on and I’d fuckingheard himmoving around in there, he hadn’t acknowledged me.
It was so nonsensical, I was confident that there’d been some kind of mix-up, so I’d tried talking to Knox again the next day. I’d rocked up to the office promptly at eight, taken my seat at the empty desk Webb had shown me the day before, and smiled at Knox so hard it hurt my cheeks. Then I’d done the whole “I think we got off on the wrong foot” thing.
Knox had looked calmly back at me and said nothing.
So I did what I always did when I was feeling uncomfortable in a situation—I’d started talking. And talking.And talking.
I’d told him I was excited to be in Vermont for the first time. I’d told him about my love for caramel-flavored coffee. I’d told him I had two brothers, plus a cousin who was like a brother, and wasn’t it a strange coincidence that we were all gay? I’d even told him a crazy story Toby had texted me from home, about how Gerry Twomey had started a photography business taking intimate boudoir shots, and how Lorenna and George McKetcham, Whispering Key’s favorite sex-positive octogenarians, had loved their pictures so much they were turning them intoChristmas cards. I’d told Knox I couldn’t wait to see an actual covered bridge and shared that cows really freaked me out. I’d gottenvulnerable, for fuck’s sake.
Then I’d asked him—begged him, really—to grab lunch in town later.
The man had remained quiet through my entire recitation, and only when I’d run out of shit to talk about had he said, “Jesus Christ you talk a lot, Goodman. Are you done now? Because work begins promptly at eight.” Then he’d focused on his laptop for the next four hours like I wasn’t even there.
That had beenit.
That had beenall.
Not a single word about lunch, and the smile that had made my knees weak from the website picture? I’d only seen ittwicein the past two weeks, and it had been aimed at his adorable little nephew each time. It was like Knox had had a smile-ectomy. A surgical removal of his sense of humor.
He acted fine with everyone else. I mean, for sure no one would describe him as happy-go-lucky anymore, but he was polite at the dinner table, he colored pictures with Aiden, and he was forever making dry little observations that sent his brothers howling. He and Drew helped their neighbor Marco tie fishing lures for hours when Marco’s arthritis flared, while listening to Marco’s stories about his daughter and toddler granddaughter who lived a couple of hours west in a town called Poultney. He was endlessly patient when his sister sat in front of him and explained every single facet of some young adult book she’d read while he was just trying to eat his morning oatmeal.
