Where We Go From Here (Phoenix Falls Series Book 3)

“You should come home, buttercup.”

My mom’s voice is kind but firm as it comes rattling through the tiny speaker in my cell.

I’ve walked all the way from the Pine Hills site to the nearby town instead of dialling for a cab like I usually would, and the journey seemed like a good time to have one of my twice-weekly check-ins with my mom. I had intended to exercise, call, and get some of that fresh small town air on route to buying my groceries, but now the sky is full of thick rolling clouds and I’m dressed in denim shorts and a short-sleeved v-neck. I give the sky another hasty glance and swap my phone from one hand to the other.

“That’s not an option,” I say, horror trickling through me as the first wet dots appear on the blacktop.

“What, because you’ll see them? Because you’ll have to face the reality of the situation? Yes, you will, but you can handle it, Harper. Do not throw away your career just because you’re scared of bumping into two narcissists. If everyone did that then there would not be a single soul left in the whole county.”

“I don’t want to be there right now, and I’m not contractually joined to any projects at the moment. Maybe this is a good time for me to see what else this country’s got to offer.”

“In Pine Hills?” she asks sceptically. “And what is an artist like you going to spend her time doing in Pine Hills, for this length of time? It’s been three weeks. Are you eloping?”

I tilt my head and roll my eyes. A fat raindrop does a hit-and-run down my clavicle. “I’ve been writing for seven years without a break, mom. I need this.”

“Is that so.” Her voice is drier than a paper towel. “Okay, sure, so how’s the ‘supervising’ going?”

I bite back a smile. My mom is the person who helped me fandangle this arrangement in the first place, only she probably didn’t expect me to actually stay here for longer than one night. She’s the CEO of Ray Corp, making and maintaining a plethora of magical small town vacation properties, and I’m her workaholic daughter who ironically never vacations. I’m not the free-spirited mess with a personality disorder who puts her life’s responsibilities onto everyone else around her.

My mom has another daughter to fill in that role.

“Aside from the time when I said that I was going to ‘oversee’ the project to the literal Project Lead, it’s been fine. Good, in fact. Good and fine.”

Her long silence suggests an eyebrow raise.

I wipe at the raindrops turning my cotton top translucent.

Then I hear a long inhale and a low, “Well well.”

My cheeks burn pink.

“Isn’t this an interesting development. You’re fraternising with my employees.”

I comb my fingers through my soft blow-out as I rush to correct her. “There has been no fraternising, mom. I swear. I’ve just been… admiring from afar.”

I hear her breathe out a laugh. She’s probably also drumming her nails on the top of her mahogany office desk whilst patting her cropped Marilyn curls and shaking her head.

“He wouldn’t want anything to do with me, obviously. I look infantile in comparison to him. And he’s probably at least ten years older than me. And probably also in a relationship.”

I hear keyboard tapping in the background. “What’s his name?”

I shield my face from the rain and laugh, “No, mom, you’re not going to Google him.”

“Too late, I’ve already pulled up the list of men working the project.” There’s a scrolling sound, then, “Ooh, yummy. So much tanned skin.”

I squeal, mortified. “Mom, you are married.”

“And? I am admiring from afar.”

I rub the rain off my forehead and mumble, “Touché.”

As I get to the main portion of the town I skirt down one of the back alleys, leading to the small parking lot of a medium-sized supermarket. I jog, water splashing at my ankles as I head for cover under the extended roof housing the trolleys. “I’ve got to go, mom. I’m getting groceries.”

There’s a little tut on her end.

“Think over what I said – you shouldn’t have to sacrifice your life by running from your problems.” She pauses and then adds, “And I expect a name in my inbox by 5pm.”

I laugh. “Bye mom.”

“A name, buttercup.”

I disconnect the call, sliding my cell into the back pocket of my shorts whilst simultaneously collecting a basket from the front of the store. I get a prolonged stare from an employee behind a till. His name-tag reads “Joe” and his age could be anywhere between fourteen to nineteen judging from his gangly limbs and mid-puberty complexion. At first I think that maybe he’s staring because of my cute blonde pouf, as I’ve realised that boys are like magpies and I am a shiny thing. But then I take a look down at my front and I realise it’s because my shirt is now transparent. I give him a withering look before I descend down the first aisle.

The basket was a bad idea but I’m too stubborn to go past Pervy Joe again in order to swap it for a trolley.

Milk, tagliatelle, a small fillet of white fish. I turn the corner and contemplate a medium-sized baguette, then twiddle aimlessly with the fingers on my left hand. This should last me for a couple meals but what else should I get? Life in LA means eating out. A lot. I haven’t been so active in the kitchen since I was in Home Economics class.

As I look down at my sparse basket I think of how I really ought to have got a cab here so that I could have carted more back to the bungalow. I won’t be able to carry much more than this, which means that I’m going to have to do another trip here in the not so distant future.

For some odd reason, I don’t actually mind.

I tally up the total cost so far in my head, well aware that after my Uber-insanity three weeks ago I should really try balancing that out with a little frugality. I put my hand in my front pocket to grab my purse but my heart suddenly stops in my chest. I look down at the flat area in my shorts and I squeeze my eyes shut, mentally screaming.

I forgot my purse? Who the hell goes shopping without their fucking purse?

I place the basket on the ground in front of me and I rub softly at my temples. Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot–

“Harper?”

A low voice, gentle and surprised, sounds behind me, and I whip around like I was just caught stealing spaghetti. His usually stern expression looks a little calmer right now, perhaps because he’s not currently managing a site full of grown men operating dangerous machinery.

I realise that this is the first time that I’ve seen Mitch off-site. Seeing him here in the middle of the food aisle, his uniform darkened with little speckles of rain, my own clothing so wet that it’s literally see-through, is so out of the ordinary that I grab my basket just for something to do with my hands. Something that doesn’t involve rubbing them all over him.

“Mitchell, hi,” I say with a smile. Getting to peek a look at him before he heads home this Thursday evening is such an unexpected secret treat that I almost don’t care about the fact that I’m going to go back to my bungalow empty-handed.

Re-remembering my transparent shirt situation I casually fold my right arm around my chest. Rainwater trickles down my legs as my bra cups squeeze and release. Mitch’s eyes flick down for a beat, he realises what I’m doing, and then his gaze is back on mine, more heated than before.

I throw out a pleasantry to tamper the sizzle in the air.

“Small world,” I say lightly. If he notices that I’m breathless he does a good job at hiding it.

“Small town,” he corrects me, putting his own basket on the floor and gripping his hands around the belt that’s keeping his cargo trousers in place. I quickly scan his basket, mentally calculating how heavy that many bottles would weigh. Little shivers tingle in the peaks of my chest.

“I didn’t know you lived near the site,” I say, as if I’m not about to now spend my evening logging into my mom’s Pine Hills reno folder and stalk her documents until I find out exactly where he lives.

I’m feeling naughty – maybe it’s because of the sound of the rain thudding hard and repetitively against the roof, or maybe it’s because he smells so good that I can taste him down my throat – so I give him a shimmery smile and say, “Lucky me catching you doing your weekly shop.”

His muscles swell and flex but he watches me, unblinking. “This isn’t my weekly. This’ll only last me a few days.”

I look back down at the crammed basket and then up at him again. His cheeks are starting to flush and he’s avoiding my eyes. Is he… self-conscious? About how much he has to eat to keep his giant body going? My eyelashes flutter as I contemplate our size difference. My mind whips up an image of him sat down at a table, legs spread wide, ready to feast.

Why is it so sexy to think of him refuelling?

I go a little lightheaded thinking about all of the ways he could use up that energy.

He swallows and continues, “I, uh, I live in Phoenix Falls. Usually. But it’s a bit farther out so…” He scrapes his perfect white teeth over his bottom lip, as if he’s unsure about whether or not he should say what he’s about to. I keep my eyes on his but in my peripheral vision I can see the fast rise and fall of his broad chest. I wonder what that would feel like moving hard and fast up against my back. “I’m living closer to the site for a while. For convenience purposes,” he adds quickly.

I’ve forgotten what we were talking about and my pupils have dialled out.

Mitch’s eyes rake me up and down and in that deep voice of his he states, “You haven’t called since I gave you my number.”

But holy fuck have I thought about it. Mostly at night, when my body is burned red-raw fresh from the shower, and a cotton tee is rubbing over my sensitised skin. My fingers drift over to my phone and I contemplate calling him. Texting him. Sending him a wish you were here photo taken in the steamed-up mirror.

Instead I give him another little smile, a dimple popping in my left cheek.

“He didn’t come back,” I clarify.

He blinks as if confused. “Who?”

I laugh. “The guy? With the white construction van?”

It takes him a moment but then he remembers. “Oh. Oh yeah, that’s why… that’s why you’d be calling.” He swallows. “No other reason.”

I tilt my head, watching him curiously. Wait: did he want me to call him for a different reason? Does he… does he feel this too?

He rocks on the heels of his large workingman’s boots, tongue poking at his cheek, unable to keep still. It takes me back to the morning in my bedroom, his thickly-muscled thigh bouncing fast and frenzied. He’s restless. And I can think of a great way for him to expend all of that pent-up power.

Over and over and over again.

“I like your uniform,” I say without thinking, my voice a little hoarse. “The navy. It looks good against your skin.”

He scratches roughly at the back of his head, eyes on the tiny space between our boots. “Uh, thanks. We were… we were gonna go with khaki, but the website didn’t stock them.”

“You mean that they were all out of 2XL?” I say teasingly, giving him a small wily smile. But when the tips of his ears begin to turn crimson I realise that I’ve literally just hit the nail on the head.

Oh my God. Of course normal websites wouldn’t stock clothes that fit him.

He looks nervously up at me and his cheeks are a little ruddy. I give him another encouraging smile and after a moment his eyes crinkle in response, his shoulders rolling back as if he’s finally relaxing.

I think that that might be the Mitchell Coleson version of a smile.

His eyes drop down to my basket and he jerks his chin at it. “Nice pasta.”

I wonder how many tonnes of carbs it would take to satisfy a man his size.

“Oh, thank you. I don’t know why but I only like the thick one. Spaghetti gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

I think he breathes out a laugh but I’m not one-hundred percent sure. He’s not exactly smiling, but he also doesn’t look like he’s trying to run away from me so that’s probably a pretty good sign.

“And you’re, uh” – he looks at the other items in my basket – “you’re cooking fish.”

I nod sagely, crossing and re-crossing my legs. “I know, I’m evil. I don’t usually eat meat but I’m so iron-deficient that I’m literally anaemic. Not that fish will help with that, probably, but I’m like working my way up to a steak.”

This time I do get a laugh and, bonus point, a sexy deep-cut laugh line in the tan hollow of his cheek.

Fuck me sideways. Literally.

“Do you like seafood?” I ask, before my brain can catch up with my mouth.

Then Mitch’s eyes are darkening and flashing up to mine, a heavy sensation pooling deep in my stomach. But he doesn’t make me feel like an idiot. He just rubs a hand down his mouth, eyes momentarily straying to my bare legs, and then he nods once like I just asked him a normal question. “Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah, I like seafood.”

Is it hot in here? I feel like I’m spiralling on a Codeine trip. Images of the bed in my little bungalow flash through my mind, the soft sheets crumpled luxuriously under my back, and my thighs splayed backwards, knees bent and weightless over his large undulating shoulders. The rhythmic roll of his body as he works his tongue between my legs. Stubble scraping at my belly when he looks up to check on me. The unrelenting thud of the headboard against the wall when he decides that I’ve had enough and now it’s his turn to take.

I’m so lost in my haze of lust that my body jerks a little when I snap back to the present, and the toe of my little boot accidentally nudges against his large one. He grunts, surprised, shifts his belt, and looks down at me. I take a big step backwards and quickly tuck a rain-dampened curl behind my ear.

“Sorry,” I breathe out, waving my hand airily next to my face as if to say don’t mind me. “It must be the change in the altitude. I’m not used to being this close to the mountains.”

The heat of Mitch’s testosterone is literally rearranging my chromosomes.

“Anyway,” I say quickly, turning slightly so that I can shove the baguette back onto the shelf, “I should be heading back. I forgot my purse so I need to run back to Pine Hills. Get my cash, call a cab this time, yadda yadda yadda. The altitude, you know,” I add on, a gratified shimmer spreading in my chest when I see that almost-smile of his again.

He shakes his head in a way that I would like to describe as endeared and he releases his clutch on his belt, pulling a battered leather wallet out of his side pocket.

“How much do you need?” He thumbs through a fat wodge of bills.

I blink fast, eyes on his thick fingers, the wad of cash, that one raindrop that’s slipping pornographically slowly down the vein in his hard bicep. “Oh, no, that’s okay, really. I have to sort out my own problems. Otherwise I’ll never learn.” Advice that my mom told me repeatedly throughout my childhood. Interestingly the words were never shared with my sister.

He starts pulling out notes. One, two–

“You’re allowed a helping hand. You wanna call a cab back to the site?” His eyes meet mine and he’s being genuinely serious. In LA sometimes you’re lucky if a millionaire will split the bill with you. “Or I could… I could drive you back.”

My stomach drops, warm and heavy. I’ve seen Mitch’s truck and it’s the sexiest vehicle that I’ve ever seen. It’s so gnarly that I’m not even sure if it’s even road legal. If he let me climb into his passenger seat right now after paying for my groceries and saving me from the rain I’m not sure that we would leave the parking lot, ever. The thought of clambering over the stick-shift and straddling his lap is enough to make me squeeze my legs together.

“That’s too kind,” I rasp, no longer smiling. He’s pampering me and I don’t know how to handle it.

He pulls out four notes and pushes them into my left hand, eyes lingering there momentarily before he reaches around me to retrieve the bread that I put back a minute ago. His chest is now about three inches away from my mouth and I’m dying for him to close the gap. Instead he steps backwards and places the baguette in my basket, the thick stick somehow looking small in his hands. Then he reconsiders and grabs one to throw in his own basket too.

My cheeks are aflame. “I’ll pay you back,” I say, suddenly shy, and looking up at him from under my lashes.

He picks up his basket like it weighs nothing.

“Don’t,” he replies and he takes another step backwards.

I don’t want him to leave me. He looks begrudgingly over his shoulder and I start to think that he doesn’t want to leave me either. When he turns back around he gives me a parting lift of his chin, his jaw muscles bunched tight. “I can afford your groceries, Harper. Fill up that basket.”

I stay rooted to the spot as he walks away, both of my hands now clutching the handle of the basket, four bills crumpled in my left palm. He glances back my way before he turns the corner and a painful warmth spreads in my belly.

I whip around, my feelings all over the place, and haul ass to the check-out.

Free-Show Joe is manning the only till in operation so I unpack my basket with a violent flourish. His eyes stay on the scanner.

I pay for a carrier bag and then he reads out my total, so I absentmindedly hand over Mitch’s notes as I pack away the food.

“Uh, ma’am?” he says suddenly, a fearful edge to his teenage twang.

I look up at the cashier and he readjusts his branded cap.

“You, um…” He turns back towards the reader, pressing buttons until the cash drawer pops open.

I frown. Am I still under? Mitch gave me forty – that covered my total.

But when he hands me my change I understand his bewilderment.

I look down at the cash in my hands and my lips part in surprise.

He really wasn’t kidding when he told me to fill up my basket and to get a cab back to Pine Hills.

Mitch didn’t give me forty dollars. He gave me four hundred.