Page 37 of A Place Like You

“We shouldn’t do this, but I don’t want to regret not kissing you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, afraid of breaking the spell between us.

Her eyes hold a mix of uncertainty and longing, like a stormy sea, both inviting and dangerous. She swallows and takes a step back. “Believe me, you’re not missing much,” she says, turning around. “I’ll bring the laundry basket unless you need to go.”

Her response is laced with humor, running away from our attraction and what could’ve been a good fucking kiss. She’s probably smarter than I am. She’s protecting herself from not only this moment but the fall down of an impulsive moment.

If I were using my brain, I would listen to her and leave. The next time, not even her common sense will stop me. The next time, I’ll probably persuade her and won’t stop until I’m satisfied. The pull between us is undeniable, like two magnets drawn together, unable to resist the attraction.

As she walks away, I’m left standing there, torn between my desire and the rational voice in my head. The taste of regret lingers on my tongue, tempting and bittersweet.

Chapter Twenty-One

Drake

And against all logic, I decide to stay for more.

After the kitchen is spotless, we transition to folding laundry. Wren sets the basket with freshly washed clothes on the couch, and we settle on the living room floor together. The scent of laundry detergent fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the lemon-scented candles she’s placed around the room.

As we start the task, I can’t help but feel like a fish out of water, just like I did the first time I worked at the ranch. “What is that gadget?” I point at a plastic square she’s using to fold t-shirts.

“This shirt folding board?” She arches an eyebrow as if waiting for me to catch up.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, I’ve never seen one like that before.”

“Well, it’s used for . . . folding clothes,” she answers with amusement, then clears her throat. “Have you ever folded clothes in your life?”

“Have I ever folded clothes?” I burst into genuine laughter, the sound echoing through the room.

“I’ll take that as a no.” A playful glint sparkles in her eyes as if she’s enjoying my ineptitude.

“I knew it. You’re just a pretty boy who grew up in a rich household, weren’t you?” she teases, her grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

She’s not wrong, but I don’t like the implications. “Why would you say that?” I try not to sound offended but fail.

She leans in, her expression teasingly mischievous. “All of you Kershaws look too . . . pretty and well-groomed. Five-hundred-dollar haircuts, well-manicured nails, and a little clueless about mundane things.”

“Mundane things?” I repeat, wondering if everyone in town sees us like her. Just a bunch of “fish out of water” billionaires, who, if left unattended, might die before the end of the day.

If that’s what she thinks, she’s probably right. Usually, we pay to get things done, but in our current situation, we don’t have money for anything. We’re poor billionaires who can’t fend for themselves—we’re fucked.

“Yeah, everyday chores people like you delegate to others,” she explains. “Let me show you how this contraption works.”

“You’re assuming too much,” I reply, my voice holding a hint of laughter and a touch of seriousness, as I watch her demonstrate the art of folding with ease. “But I would appreciate it if you repeated that because you went too fast.”

Instead of teasing me for being a pretty boy, she takes a different approach, explaining patiently how to fold the different clothing items with slow and deliberate movements. Her fingers glide gracefully over the fabric, making me wonder what it’d be like if she did the same with me.

Focus on the clothes, asshole. Even folding clothes is making your dick twitch. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Once I get a hold of the task, I begin to do it on my own. My movements aren’t as delicate as hers, but I try my best. This is almost like stitching with precision, but there’s no danger of losing a person if I do it wrong.

The scent of laundry detergent fills the air, mixing with the faint aroma of the lemon-scented candles she has scattered around the room. The air crackles with electricity, charged by the shared energy between us, like the electricity in the moments before a storm.

“So, are you ready for your first day at the clinic?” Wren asks, breaking the comfortable silence between us. Her voice is soft, and her eyes hold genuine interest as she looks at me.

I nod. “You know, I never thought I’d end up in a small town like this,” I confess, my gaze fixed on the clothes in my hands as if searching for the right words. A couple of days ago, I would’ve said something like: I never thought I would end up in a forsaken place like this. Today, I don’t feel that way anymore. Yet, I’m not sure what I feel about this place.

“Is it crazy to say that it feels more like home than my old house?” I ask.

Wren nods. “That’s the magic of Heartwood Lake.”

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