Page 7 of Stuck with my Pack
Lily nudges me with her elbow, her smile softening.
“You know, big brother, you could just talk to her,” she says.
I shake my head. “It’s not that simple now, and it never was then, either.”
“No,” she agrees, “but maybe it’s worth it. Some of the best things we have in this life are the hardest things to get.”
I don’t respond, my thoughts tangled up and churning as I sit on the old porch swing and watch the orchard sway gently in the evening breeze. Sophie’s scent lingers in my memory, wrapping around me like a thread I can’t break. No matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, I know one thing for sure.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
4
SOPHIE
The rain pummels the kitchen window, a relentless rhythm beating in time with my heart. The storm outside is acting in tandem with the storm brewing inside me.
I sit at the battered wooden table in the kitchen, its rough surface and patina right at home in the old kitchen. My pen in hand taps against my notebook, its pages littered with scribbles of repairs and costs.
The ink smudges are evidence of my growing frustration.
The inn’s to-do list is laughably endless—leaky pipes, drafty windows, peeling paint, and a roof that’s probably older than I am. Every time I think I’ve wrapped my head around it, another problem rears its head.
A gust of wind rattles the windows, and the sound makes me jump.
“Get it together,” I say under my breath, rubbing at my temples. My coffee’s gone cold, but I drink it anyway, letting the bitter taste sharpen my focus.
It’s then that I hear it—a faint, rhythmic dripping sound. At first, I convince myself it’s just a leaky faucet somewhere in the house. But the sound grows louder, more insistent, until I getthat dreadful feeling you get when you hear running water where it's not supposed to be.
Pushing back my chair, I stand and follow the noise, my bare feet padding across the hardwood floors. The hallway is dim, shadows dancing as the wind blows shrubs in front of the porch light outside. The sound leads me upstairs, which crescendos into a steady pouring sound.
My stomach drops when I discover the source. Water is dripping in a steady stream through the ceiling of the only functional guest suite in three different spots, splashing onto the beautiful wooden floor below.
“Oh, no, no, no.” Panic surges through me as I dart back toward the kitchen, yanking open cabinets in search of anything that can catch the water. Pots, bowls, a stockpot—whatever I can find.
By the time I return, the water has formed a small lake around the baseboards. I set the pot in place, the clang of the water running into it echoing in the empty room.
Plink, plink, plink. The sound is defiant and unyielding.
Desperate, I grab a chair and drag it beneath the leak. Climbing up, I stretch as high as I can, trying to push a towel into an ever-widening hole in the ceiling to stop the water. The chair wobbles precariously beneath me, and my heart lurches as my foot slips on the slick seat.
I yelp, bracing myself for impact—only for a strong hand to grab my waist, and the delicious scent of cedar and summer to wrap around me, steadying me before I hit the ground.
“Careful there,” a deep voice drawls, tinged with amusement.
I look up, and there he is—Tyler Hawk, drenched from the rain but still managing to look infuriatingly irresistible. His sun-streaked hair is plastered to his forehead, and his faded T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders and muscled chest.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intended as I clutch my chest, willing my racing heart to calm. His hand still rests on my hip, where he braced me from falling.
Pulling his hands away, Tyler smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re the one scaling furniture like it’s a jungle gym. What were you even trying to do?”
“Fix the leak,” I bite out, gesturing toward the ceiling. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you were about to break your neck,” he says, stepping closer to inspect the damage.
I glare at him, heat rising to my cheeks—partly from embarrassment, partly because his scent is starting to seep into my awareness and send heat waves to my core. He smells warm and earthy, like citrus and something smoky…maybe sage. The scent is grounding, yet entirely too distracting.
“Well, I don’t see you offering any solutions,” I mutter, hopping off the chair and nearly slipping again on the wetness beneath the chair.
