Page 88 of Duke
No.
I shake my head.
“Me neither,” he says softly. “Come home with me, Blue.”
My instinct is to say no to that too.
I can handle this on my own. I don’t need help. Chances are I’ll be heading to New Mexico sooner rather than later, and Duke doesn’t need to be with me for that. Then this whole thing will be over, and we can all move on with our lives.
But I just—God, he makes me feel sosafeand seen and cared for. I don’t want to be alone right now.
I’m so sick of pushing people away. So sick of my bullshit. I learned early to be hyper-independent—to take care of my own needs so I didn’t inconvenience anyone or cause them to blow up—but now, that identity chafes.
It feels too tight. Too…stupid. Why am I wasting my time punishing myself this way?
“You should’ve been a lawyer.” I trail my fingertip over the nubby fabric of his T-shirt. “You’re really good at convincing me to do things.”
“That a yes?”
“That’s a yes.”
He falls asleep in my bed again. This time, I make sure to tuck him in.
____
Parking my Mini Cooper beside Duke’s truck, the breath leaves my lungs.
In front of us is the cutest fucking house I think I’ve ever seen. Or would it be a cabin? It’s small, but it’s got a front porch that’s dominated by a massive limestone fireplace, rocking chairs drawn up to the hearth. Shingled wooden siding and a tin roof give it a rustic edge. A pair of farmhouse windows look out on a yard studded with soaring oaks.
My heart soars too when I see a field of bluebonnets off to our right.
Is this real? Or am I on a movie set?
I pop my trunk and open my door. Stepping out into the afternoon sunshine, I’m immediately hit by the smell of freshly cut grass. The air is warm, soft without a touch of humidity.
I feel the knot of tension in my gut loosen ever so slightly.
“Repairs just wrapped up. It’s the old foreman’s cottage,” Duke explains as he lifts my bags out of my trunk. “Been a dream of ours to restore it, but we never had the cash to do it until recently. Now—”
“It’s a dream that came true,” I breathe, clinging for dear life to the top of my car’s doorframe. “Duke, this is magical. Holy shit.”
Chuckling, he tucks the strap of my pink Vera Bradley bag over his shoulder. “It sure as hell ain’t Aspen—”
“It’s better.” I turn my head to look at him. “It’syou.”
He’s wearing a pair of gold-rimmed aviators. When he smiles, the world tilts beneath my feet. “It’s still a work in progress. Inside’s pretty spare. But yeah, I really like living here. Big improvement over the bunkhouse, that’s for damn sure.”
I hold the doorframe in a death grip. Is it possible to stay here and not fall head over heels in love with this man?
Is it possible to leave after, well, everything he’s done for me?
He pushes the front door open—no one locks up around here—and I follow him inside the house. It smells like new paint and Duke.
The furnishings are sparse but cozy looking. There’s a smaller version of the New House’s table in the kitchen, and a leather couch is paired with some upholstered chairs in the living room.
My eyes catch on the stacks and stacks andstacksof books lined up neatly on a far wall. Paperbacks. Textbooks. Recent bestsellers I recognize, all in hardback. Even some cookbooks are in there.
“You cook?” I ask.
