Page 55 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

“Just leave it. Just . . . leave.”

She winced at my dismissal, then bolted from her chair.

I stayed in mine, clenching my jaw as she collected her purse, slung

it over her shoulder, then left without another word.

The door banged shut. Her footsteps raced across the porch. And then there was nothing.

Good. That’s what I’d come here for, wasn’t it?

I didn’t need my neighbor distracting me with her sexy dimples and big brown eyes. I didn’t need her temptation. What I needed was peace and quiet. Ever since she’d moved in next door, I hadn’t had either.

I rose from my chair, taking our plates over and slamming them in the sink. One broke in half. The other in fifths. Then I piled the other dirty dishes on top. Maybe I’d clean them later. Maybe not.

Who was I trying to impress?

As I turned to the fridge for another beer, my gaze caught on the cake I’d spent all day making.

I swiped it off the counter and carried it to the garbage, where it got thrown inside, pan and all.

Fuck you, cake. And the woman I made you for.

Standing in the middle of what would eventually be my living room, I surveyed the progress my contractors had made over the last couple of weeks.

Walls that had been demolished and moved were now drywalled, taped and ready for texture. The maple cabinets I’d chosen for the kitchen were in the corner, covered in a drop cloth and waiting to be hung once the walls were painted. The enormous island that separated the kitchen from where I was standing had been set in place.

My project was coming together. The demolition and reconstruction of my house had been time-consuming. For the last month, I’d wondered if this was a mistake, if attempting to tackle such a large remodel on my own had been the equivalent of shoving an entire pound cake in my mouth and attempting to chew.

But when I’d come over tonight to check on the progress, I’d found a slew of samples leaning against the island. Paint swatches. Carpet squares. Tile boards for the bathrooms and kitchen backsplash.

Finally, we were getting to the good stuff.

The foreman estimated that in another six weeks or so, I’d be able to abandon my Airstream and move into my home.

Though it had been draining, a part of me didn’t want this project to end. What would I do at night when I didn’t have colors to pick and flooring options to weigh? My neighbor certainly wasn’t keeping me occupied anymore.

It had been two weeks since my dinner at Kaine’s house, and I hadn’t seen him once in that time. The first week, I’d found excuses not to be home. I’d driven to Kalispell for three impromptu shopping trips. I’d eaten at Bob’s Diner once and the bar twice. At night, I’d taken to sleeping with earplugs so if Kaine ventured over in the dark, I wouldn’t hear his knock.

Then last week, I’d simply left town, traveling south to Bozeman, where I visited the veterans’ organization and delivered them a huge check. Logan had decided to stay home, letting me represent the company in his stead. I think he opted out of the trip because he wanted me to get all the praise for our donation.

It was different to be in the spotlight, and though I’d enjoyed my day being fawned over, I preferred to stay behind the curtain.

The rest of my trip had turned into a short vacation, exploring a new part of Montana. I’d driven to a quaint town called Prescott and spent a few nights there in one of the most charming motels I’d ever seen, The Bitterroot Inn.

That area was a bit more rugged than Lark Cove, though just as beautiful. Underneath the modern-day amenities, you got a small glimpse of the Old West.

After a few days, I’d left Prescott and taken a scenic drive through Yellowstone National Park, slowly making my way home and back to my corner of paradise.

The trip had been wonderful and the long drive exactly what I’d needed.

Sitting behind the steering wheel with nothing but the radio and my thoughts, I’d had time to think about everything that had happened in my life these last few months. The quiet drive had given me time to get some perspective on the dinner nondate that had toppled upside down.

I’d been so excited to have dinner at Kaine’s. His invitation had made me feel like more than just his late-night booty call, and I’d taken it to mean he at least wanted some sort of friendship. That he’d wanted to get to know me as a person, not just a bed buddy.

It wasn’t a date. I knew it wasn’t a date. Still, the evening had started off awkwardly, like the blind date I’d had my freshman year in college that had lasted all of twenty minutes until the guy ditched me to go bowling with his roommate.

But when Kaine and I settled into those chairs on his porch, I felt a shift. A click. He was easy to sit beside.