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

It takes Mitch five billion years to get his truck from the bottom of the valley to the bungalows. The sounds of twigs cracking and the metallic wane of the gate to the Nature Trail being opened mix in with the autumnal rustling of the surrounding pine trees. He brings his truck off-road and parks it not more than six feet away from the door, eyes burning into my back as his door slams shut and his boots thud into my empty living room.

I feel the air shift and grow warmer as he crouches down in front of me. Heat tingles down my back, quickly followed by another wave of nausea.

“Truck’s up, Harper. Do you want me to give you a hand?”

“Not exactly the appendage that I’m after,” I mumble, muffling my words into the quilt so that he can’t hear me. Then I lift my head an inch and a throb pulses in my belly. My face is completely level with his groin.

“There’s a bucket on the floor in the passenger side and we’ll keep the windows rolled down.”

He holds out a hand for me to pull myself up with and I study it like a foreign object. It’s large and tan with the tendons extended from his unending shifts of manual labour. He watches my perusal and a shadow crosses over his features, hardening them in the dimming light.

I flatten my palms under my belly and heave myself up, groaning as the blood rushes erratically from my head. He pulls a pained face as he watches me and he lifts himself in time with my movements, hands hovering nearby in case I decide that I do need him to steady me.

Which I do. So badly. But I don’t want to finally indulge in this runaway-vacation post-break-up fling and then, part way through, cut it short because I’m about to vomit.

He walks beside me as I make my way to his vehicle, his eyes wary as he debates with himself about whether or not he should be holding me upright. I don’t even put a pair of shoes on. My fuzzy socks are sacrificed in exchange for the prospect of more water, rest, and sleeping in Mitch’s house. I tuck the seatbelt between my breasts and he watches me silently, chest rising and falling in heavy pumps as his hand grips the roof above my head. I slot in the lock and tuck my knees under my chin. Then I look back at the still-open bungalow door and spot something.

Mitch can tell.

“What is it?” he asks. His voice is huskier than before and when I glance up at him I can see that heated thoughts are flickering behind his irises.

I stare intently at a spot in the living area. “You’re forgetting someone,” I murmur.

He turns to glance at the bungalow. Then he shoots me an irate look. “You’re kidding.”

I make a sorrowful sigh.

One minute later Mitch has locked up the bungalow, I’ve got my teddy bear in my lap, and he’s driving through the forest like he’s got a pregnant woman in his passenger seat. Every branch that we crunch over has his eyes flying my way, checking that I’m not about to heave. When the air streaming through the window laps at my cheeks I shiver unconsciously and he leans over me to roll it higher up.

He smells so good that I think I audibly moan. He misreads the sound as one of anguish and he says to me in a deep gentle voice, “Give it fifteen minutes, Harper. Fifteen minutes and I’ll be taking care of you.”

My stomach makes another vicious contraction and I squeeze my thighs flush against it, aching everywhere. The only balm to my pain is the sight and the scent of him. I imagine that if he pulled over, got me in the back and pushed inside of me, he would have just found nature’s cure for food poisoning.

“Did you really drink champagne to try and alleviate the symptoms of food poisoning?” he asks suddenly, his brow furrowed and his voice a low scrape.

I narrow my eyes on him, wounded and defensive. It almost distracts me from the sloshing sensation in my brain. “Yes. Did you really give me four hundred dollars to pay for my shopping in the grocery store?”

Now it’s his turn to look uncomfortable. He scratches roughly at his stubble as his cheeks stain crimson. “You needed money for a cab, too,” he says quietly. Then with more bite he adds, “And I told you to fill up that basket. I didn’t want you going hungry, Harper.”

“And I told you that I was going to run back to Pine Hills to get my purse. I’m not a charity case and – before you start making assumptions – I pay my own bills with the money that I made. Okay, my mom put me through college, but I paid her back the second that I could. I’m not a helpless mess.”

This last line is followed by a sudden full-body shiver and then a series of painful heaves over Mitch’s bucket.

“And I didn’t spend it,” I add, sliding my eyes over to him with a defensive scowl. “I kept it on the counter in the kitchen. I just forgot about it when all the dizziness happened.”

“I bet the champagne helped,” he deadpans, as if I’m not this close to tossing the bucket on him.

“I’m from LA,” I say, angry enough to semi-shout despite the ringing happening in my ears. “We aren’t exactly renowned for sensible behaviour.”

You know what really isn’t normal to me? Being taken care of when something bad actually happens. It’s not as if anyone from my hometown came looking to check up on me when I fled my now-ex fiancé. My now-ex fiancé who I helped to get cast in the movie that I wrote.

If I asked him, I wonder if Mitch would help me bury a body.

I look over to him and realise that the car has stopped. He’s pulled up onto a wide driveway with a cute porch to the left and a large garage to the right. Curiosity wins out over the need to stop throwing up so I tentatively turn in my seat so that I can look out the back and scope the neighbours’ houses. Their porches are all glowing with sconce lights, and jack-o-lanterns are lining their steps. I twist back to look at Mitch’s and see that he hasn’t decorated for Halloween.

“You don’t like the holidays?” I ask, watching his jaw muscles tighten and relax. He unfastens his seatbelt and silently gets out of the truck, rounding to my side and then holding the door open for me.

“I told you before – I haven’t been back here for a while. I’ve been living closer to the site.” Reiterating this confession makes him blush for some reason.

When he directs those penetrating eyes on me again I suddenly remember what I’m holding and I try to hide the bucket from him.

“Pass the bucket, Harper. I promise I won’t look.”

I frown deep and my throat constricts, my stomach preparing me for another onslaught.

“Yes you will,” I murmur, horrified. I’m touching base with delirium and the champagne in my bloodstream isn’t helping. Pin-pricks begin stabbing behind my eyes and my oesophagus tightens as if I’m about to cry.

He regards me with consoling patience, eyes thoroughly assessing, and then he nods his head and opens the door wider. “Okay, Harper, that’s fine. Just leave the bucket next to the truck and we can deal with it later.”

I know that he’s lying but I do it anyway, placing it carefully just outside of the vehicle before stepping out on wobbly legs. The autumn pinch in the air makes me wrap my arms over my chest. A second later I feel a warm unzipped jumper drape snugly over my shoulders, and then Mitch is directing me up the porch steps as he slips his keys from his pocket.

Once he’s got the door open and me inside he’s on an immediate mission for warmth and light, turning on heaters and lamps when I’m barely past the threshold. Whilst he’s got his back to me I nuzzle my nose into the collar of his jumper and the scent of his skin obliterates the last iota of common sense from my mind.

I follow him into the kitchen which is set to the right of the entryway and he immediately fills up a glass with water, handing it to me and watching me drink the whole thing. I pull an expression of distaste when I finally finish it and he makes an apologetic face in return.

“We have to flush it out, Harper, I’m sorry,” he says as he turns slightly so that he can fill up the kettle. When he sets it to boil he gestures that we should leave the room and I tag behind him like a stray. “I would give you a tour but now probably isn’t the best time,” he murmurs, something like regret lacing his tone.

I shake my head and try not to vomit in my mouth. “Just show me where you keep the shovels and I’ll let the earth reclaim my body.”

He gives me a withering look and then jerks his chin at the stairwell. I cling to the banister and drag myself upwards. “That’s not funny,” he grumbles. “I don’t want you saying things like that. I want you to get hydrated, rested, and then–”

“And then you want me to get the hell out of here, I know, I know.”

At the top of the stairs he stops next to me, looking down into my eyes with a harsh crease on his brow. “I wasn’t going to say that at all, Harper. I…” He shakes his head, runs his hand down his jaw. “I wouldn’t have offered you to stay here if I didn’t want you here.”

“Because I’m the boss’s daughter.” I say it like a fact, eyes sharp on his own.

He narrows his gaze in return and reaches behind me to hold onto the ball at the top of the banister. The combination of his warm skin and the traces of his cologne make my eyes slow-blink and my knees wobble. He gives me a hard look before he leans in a little closer and tells me, “That’s one of the reasons why you shouldn’t be here.”

Then suddenly we’re walking again but my mind is still levitating at the top of the staircase.

“What do you mean?” I ask petulantly. “What are the other reasons?”

He pulls open the door to one of the rooms and my heart jolts in my chest.

This is a man’s bedroom. This is not a room that is shared with a woman – there are no touches of prettiness or femininity. It’s dark and seductive, all brown and navy. My eyes are unable to move away from the king sized bed pressed up against the wall, covered in a plumped up quilt and a haphazardly discarded navy comforter.

“Why are we in here?” The words come out of me in a hoarse whisper.

“I thought…” He clears his throat and then tries again. “I thought that you could sleep in here. I wouldn’t have you on the couch, and the room upstairs isn’t technically…” He trails off, not finishing the thought, leaving me unsure.

“I should sleep on the couch.” I say it firmly, so that maybe one of us will believe it. Then I’m pressing the back of my hand against my mouth and keeling over on the threshold.

Five seconds later Mitch is back with another bucket, ushering me over to the bed with the basin held out in front of me. He risks a glance at the centimetre gap between my knees and his bed and rasps out, “I can change the sheets first.”

He could but I don’t want him to, so I give in to the need to slide my knees onto the mattress, kneading the softness with my hands and splaying my thighs out slightly. I hear his breathing catch behind me so I turn around to look at him, settling in on my butt. Then I fall face-first on his mattress and his quilt bulges up around me.

When I see that he’s still watching me, a restrained expression on his face, I say, voice gravelly, “It’s almost exactly what I expected.”

His cheek ticks up for a split second. My heart racketeers in my chest.

“Almost?” he asks, clicking on a bedside lamp and illuminating the room in a campfire glow.

“I was backing a mirror on the ceiling,” I whisper.

He laughs, loud and bright, and for the briefest moment I see a flash of his full undisguised smile. Those perfect white teeth against his deep bronze tan, twin creases in his cheeks and an amused sparkle in his eyes.

“Okay,” he laughs, turning his face slightly so that I can’t get the full whack of the smile he’s trying to tamper down. “I’m gonna bring you water and an electrolyte tablet, and then I’ll leave you until you need me. The bathroom is next door” – he gestures at the wall facing the bed – “and I’ll be up as soon as you need anything. Just shout for me, or knock on the wall or something.”

“Are you a light sleeper?” I ask quietly, turning on my side and cuddling his quilt up between my thighs and against my chest.

His eyes linger there momentarily, and his face loses the light-heartedness that was colouring his features only a second ago. Then he says, “I’m not going to sleep yet. It’s only seven, Harper.”

Time is not a concept to me in Mitch’s sexy bedroom. All that I see is navy softness surrounded by deep brown furniture, all of which I’m pretty sure he made with his own two hands. Every available surface is hard polished wood and the only light amidst the darkness are his sharp diamond eyes.

I’m sweating and shivering on his beautiful cotton quilt and the only concern on his face is that I get well soon. He doesn’t care that I literally vomited for half of the car journey and he’s gotten over the fact that when I first met him I was a pain in the ass. For a second I consider telling him everything – why I came to Pine Hills and how infatuated I have become with him – but then I’m hit with a deep cramp and he’s out of the room, storming down the stairs so that he can grab me a glass of water as quickly as possible.

When he comes back I sit up on one elbow and sip tentatively at the glass that he hands me. I notice that all three buttons at the top of his Coleson Joinery shirt are now undone, an extra inch of deep tan skin now exposed in the dark navy V. He’s winding down after a hard day’s work, but he’s still managed to fit me into his busy schedule. I snuggle down into that luxurious thought and finish up my water.

“So if I call your name you’ll come?” I ask him politely.

He gives me a long look, his jaw working overtime. “I’m here to help you with anything you need,” is what he manages to say, gruff and tense.

Oh, but what about your needs, Mitch?

I choose to change the subject, mostly because I’m now seeing two of him and my thoughts have become so outrageous that I’m scandalising my own psyche.

“I’m sorry for, like, everything, by the way,” I say quietly. Embarrassment mixed with food poisoning is one hell of a depressant. “For the mood swings that I came here with, and for the stuff that I say literally all the time – for someone who has spent the past seven years writing you would think that I’d learned a thing or two about communication. But the reality of the matter is that it’s the most isolated job in the world.”

A look of perplexity crosses his face. “You’re a writer?” he asks, a crease deepening against his brow.

I forgot how little I have actually told him about myself. All he knows is that I’m a spoiled princess from LA – how the hell has he tolerated me these past three weeks?

I shake my head because this conversation is not for right now. “It doesn’t matter,” I mumble, tightening my grip on his quilt as my shaking begins to mercifully subside. “I’m just sorry, okay?”

Compassion sparkles in his eyes. I wish I could pull him down here with me.

“You don’t need to apologise for anything. Just get better for me, Harper.”

My chest squeezes, warm and tight. I’m not used to this hands-on care and it’s making my body react in the most painful ways. I clench my legs tighter and he takes a big step back.

“Don’t go truffle-pigging in those drawers whilst I’m gone,” he warns me, mock-stern, a thick finger pointing at the small bespoke cabinet beside my head.

I bite into my bottom lip, smiling, and nod my head even though I’m a little liar. The second that he’s out of this room I’m going through those drawers like I’m digging for gold in the Outback.

A flicker of an almost-smile touches his cheekbones. Then he gently closes the door.

I’m asleep before my hand reaches the first drawer.

*

The lamp has been turned off when I open my eyes, and from the absence of any streetlight making its way in under the drawn curtains I gather that it must be the middle of the night. I’m stiff, my body is cold with sweat, and my arms feel heavy as I struggle to right myself. If I had woken up ten minutes later I think that I would’ve ended up having an episode.

My sleep paralysis affects me only rarely but I’ve worked out that it’s triggered when I don’t lie in the right position. When I go to sleep on my back I tend to wake up okay, but it’s hit and miss. The numbness pervading through my chest and arms makes me shudder involuntarily until my stomach bug is resuscitated, making me lean over and grab the bucket.

After my little retch suddenly last night’s adventure hits me like a lorry and I shoot bolt upright because I’m in Mitch’s bedroom.

I fumble for the lamp switch and then squint when I turn it on. My breathing is laboured and adrenaline is coursing through my body. I’m nervous. Excited. Then my mind wanders to how I would be feeling if Mitch was in here with me right now…

I look back to the cabinet that’s housing the light and I see that Mitch brought me another glass of water, setting it on a coaster that I don’t remember being there yesterday evening. My wrist feels weak so I lift the glass slowly and take a few small sips.

Then I look at the drawers.

Why would he ask me specifically not to go through his drawers? Okay, other than for obvious privacy reasons. If anything he simply drew my attention to them harder. Now I’m dying to find out what he keeps next to his bed.

I put the glass down and sit on my hands, restraining myself.

One drawer. Just one, I reason with myself.

Hm. Sold.

I lean slightly over the edge of the bed and tuck the drawer knob between my middle and pointer fingers, easing it forwards so that it slides quietly. Just a few inches, then I stop and peer in.

It’s empty bar one inconspicuous black box. I can’t read it under the shadow cast by the top of the dresser so I gently pick it up and hold it under the lamp.

It’s glossy, like the kind of box that an expensive cologne would be in. I flip it over and run my fingers over the small raised text, written in gold script. In the centre is the word MAGNUM and then in small font beneath it is the word Plus.

I gasp when the words finally penetrate my 3a.m. brain.

MAGNUM? As in the largest condom size that’s manufactured in the world? Followed by the word Plus?!

I squeeze my thighs together and pant. Is he joking? I scrabble for the lid seal and pull it open, shaking a mass of foil packets out onto the bed in front of me, checking that they are in fact real. I pick one up and hold the large square up to my face, a circular ring punctuating the surface beneath it. This must be part of the food poisoning process – hallucinations. But then I blink down at all of the wrappers between my legs and I’m having a hard time believing that they’re just a figment of my imagination. I pick up a handful and let them fall between my fingers. Good God. I’m more than half-tempted to rip one open – I’m not even sure why – but then suddenly I realise that Mitch having condoms next to his bed, in his top drawer no less, means that he’s having sex. In this bed. And the thought of that makes me shove all of the evidence back where it came from and stumble off the mattress, clutching my belly and heading straight for the bathroom next door.

Dark images flash behind my eyes as I hurl painfully in his bathroom sink. Another woman lying backwards on his navy comforter as he stands between her thighs. Not an oversized t-shirt or a fluffy bed sock in sight, her hair any colour other than my own. She’s in bespoke lingerie and he’s shoving his boxers down his quads – thickly muscled and rippling with the need to expend, to release. He pulls open the nightstand and grabs the first wrapper he can reach. She reads the words MAGNUM Plus on the foil as he tears it open. He rolls the rubber down his length with nothing but satisfaction on his features. He’s never seen her vomit. This moment is nothing but sex in its rawest form.

The sound of a light clicking on downstairs draws me back to reality and I quickly rinse the bowl before another wave washes over me. A tube of toothpaste sits on the side of the sink and I squeeze a streak onto my finger, lick it, then spit. Sweat has trickled into my eyes and it’s burning so bad that I’m sobbing quietly, my brows pinched together as I struggle through the painful hysterical embarrassment of this mortifyingly ridiculous moment.

Two hands suddenly reach around my face and scoop the fallen tendrils from around my cheeks, pulling them into a ponytail at the back of my head and holding it securely. I shield myself from his view as I cup water in my hand to rinse my mouth, and then I look up at him in the mirror, backlit by the faintest glow from downstairs.

He’s wearing flannel pants and a grey t-shirt that’s moulded obscenely to his expansive chest. When he speaks his voice is low early morning gravel, the deepest that I’ve ever heard it.

“It’s okay, Harper. Get it all out.”

I bend back over the sink as my stomach contracts and the movement has me arching directly into his groin. I’m already lightheaded and dehydrated, but the sudden firm press has my body boneless. I moan quietly over the bowl, my hips moving mindlessly against him.

He chokes on his breathing and moves one fist from my hair down to my hip, preventing my grinding.

“No – shit, no.” His reprimand is gentle, pained. “You’re not feeling well. I’m trying to make you feel better.”

I look back up at him through the mirror, his hips positioned strong and steady behind me. His shoulders shield the doorway, blocking most of the light, and his body is so tall that he had to stoop to get under the frame.

“I can think of something that would make me feel better,” I mumble.

He lets go of my body and stumbles backwards, shoulders hitting off both sides of the jamb. I turn around to face him and my eyes catch on the bulge beneath his waistband. He notices what I’m seeing and he covers it with both of his hands.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, angry and breathless. Then he thinks back on what I just confessed and he heaves out, “That’s the champagne talking.”

I steel my jaw to try and stop the tremble. A month ago I was engaged and thinking about red carpet events for the movie I wrote. Now I’m single, curdled with food poisoning, and tears are threatening behind my eyes. I swipe at them quickly, brushing away any evidence.

“That won’t even be in my system anymore and you know it. You’re giving yourself a get-out.”

“I’m giving you a get-out,” he argues back.

“Why?” I demand, incredulous. A guy is turning down a no-strings hook-up? If my head wasn’t throbbing I would be shouting at him, but as it is we remain to be having the world’s quietest argument.

“Let’s not go there, Harper.”

“I’ve seen you watching me when you’re on your site and I don’t think that I’m so bad at reading people that you don’t actually like me. I’m in your house, and you’re letting me throw up in your bathroom for Christ’s sake. So what’s the issue?”

I put my hands on my hips. He glances briefly at my fluffy bed socks.

“Don’t think you can control yourself with a hot young thing like me?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly the issue. That and the fact that you have food poisoning.”

“Fine. If you think that I’m incoherent with illness then I may as well ask anyway. Don’t you feel this?” I defiantly keep my chin up despite the spinning in my head, the weakness in my body. “Is there something happening between us or am I really on a roll for the worst luck of all time?”

He closes the gap between us and I shut my mouth tight. “You want honesty? Okay baby. When I came over tonight I was going to ask you on a date.”

The shock on my face must penetrate the darkness because his mouth curls into something almost resembling a sneer.

“You… I… what?” My voice is nothing but a whisper. After all of my provoking and teasing, I think that ninety-nine percent of me didn’t actually believe that he’d reciprocate any romantic interest.

I was going to ask you on a date.

I can’t remember the last time that I was asked on a date and, up until a month ago, I was literally engaged.

He licks his bottom lip, hands twitching at his sides. His eyes stray to my chest, covered by the cotton of my shirt, but that doesn’t stop him from appraising the curves and points shielded beneath the surface.

Every atom in my body is screaming for him to touch me. He swallows hard and his Adam’s apple rolls.

“But that’s irrelevant now,” he finishes. “We just need to get you better.”

He turns ninety-degrees in the doorway and gestures for me to leave the bathroom. When I enter the corridor he walks silently with me until I’m sat upright in the centre of his bed, very dazed and very confused.

He goes to reach for the glass of water when suddenly his gaze catches on something – his top drawer, slightly ajar. His eyes slide over to me, studying me for a moment, until his chest finally heaves and he shoves the drawer shut.

Shit. I swallow and hold my hand out for the glass, trying to distract him from the fact that I just behaved like a truffle pig.

He hands me the water and watches me in silence, the light from downstairs making his shadow eclipse me fully. I’m completely shielded, with MAGNUM Plus protection. When I finish the glass he takes it from me and returns half a minute later with it refilled. He sets it on the cabinet but his eyes are on mine. We said way too much tonight, feeling untouchable in the darkness.

Finally he says, “Get some sleep, Harper.”

I nod and shuffle backwards on his bed, jolting a little when I feel the wetness from where I’ve been sweating.

His thumb runs back and forth on the top of the dresser and he watches me with a crease on his brow as I tuck myself under his quilt.

He opens his mouth to speak, stops, then starts again.

“About what just happened in the bathroom…” he begins, his other hand scrubbing at the back of his head.

Which part exactly? I want to ask him. The part where I told you I wanted you to have me, the part where you told me you wanted to take me on a date, or the part where I rubbed my ass against your supersized hard-on?

I blink at him innocently.

“It was a heated moment. I shouldn’t have said those things.” He winces and looks away from me, apologetic and ashamed. “I guess maybe you won’t remember any of this in the morning, anyway,” he says quietly.

I give him a small smile even though my heart just dropped like a tonne of bricks.

Trust me, Mitch. I will.