Leave Him Loved_Harloe Rae Read online

  “Hardly. I’m a snob, remember?”

  That leads back to how we got on this topic. I cough to clear the prickling dryness from my emotional whirlwind, wishing for a gas station to magically appear at the corner. “To answer your earlier question, I’m not in Bampton Valley yet. I pulled over before crossing county lines.”

  Vannah hums in that knowing way of hers. “Having second thoughts?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, I just needed a moment to compose myself. The drive has me wired.”

  “Do I need to come visit?”

  “Already?” It’s my turn to tsk. “I’ll manage for a few days at least. After that, all bets are off.”

  “Noted, but I’m sure you’ll find ways to stay occupied.” Her suggestive tone doesn’t go undetected.

  “The landscape is stunning,” I deflect. “Makes me wish I’d taken an agricultural course or two.”

  “Find a farmer to clue you in. You can assist with stroking the roots.” This girl is shameless.

  I continue along the mature, respectable path. “That probably won’t be difficult, considering the array of plants I already see.”

  My friend giggles, as if catching on to my game. “That’s the right mindset. I want to hear all about your dirt discoveries, emphasis on dirt-y.”

  “And that’s my cue to get going. You’ve effectively raised my spirits.” The grin lifting my cheeks is all thanks to her.

  “Pay it forward, and have fun. Don’t forget to send me pictures of your place.”

  That reminder gives me another boost of happiness. “Can you believe I’ll have my own house?”

  “You’re such an adult, growing up right before my eyes.” She gives a few sniffles for good measure.

  “And you’re a dork. Thanks for the chat, Van.” I’m hoping my sincerity bleeds through the earpiece.

  “Always, babe. Talk soon.”

  The line disconnects with a click, and I deflate against the seat. No more delaying. I swipe over to the map, tracking the remaining distance. Twelve minutes left on my journey. That seems impossible, considering the lack of civilization. Only one way to find out. I switch gears and set off on the winding road leading farther south.

  The rest of my drive to Bampton Valley passes in stretches of undeveloped plots of soil, thumping tires, and spotty radio reception. A premium Spotify subscription is in my near future. So is a car wash if the state of my usually shiny hood is any indicator. That’s another thing to expect when traversing across sections of loose gravel.

  Occasional structures become more frequent as I narrow the gap to my target location. Water towers and windmills make room for businesses and homes. Seeing people bustling about is also a welcome sight. My chatty app keeps me company, but the robotic companion is one step above total silence. My extrovert personality has me craving social interactions and new connections. Nothing is better than being in close proximity to others. According to the virtual routes I’ve found, my address isn’t too far from the main drag cutting through town. That should be convenient if nothing else.

  As I turn onto Oak Lane, it seems the stars continue to align in my favor. Rows of tall trees shade the road. Their swaying limbs beckon to me as I pass at a crawl. The quiet street is lined with adorable houses separated by large yards. I already appreciate that my neighbors can’t peer directly into my windows from the comfort of their living room. Manicured lawns, blooming flower gardens, and pruned bushes showcase a level of care that’s often absent where I come from. My initial impression of this environment gives me a warm and inviting vibe. I’m willing to admit that a dose of whimsy is already sweeping over me.

  My phone alerts me that I’m approaching my destination on the right. Even if the numbers weren’t plastered on the mailbox, I can tell this is it. I pull into the cobbled driveway with a wide smile painted on my face. This vacancy is a gem to cherish, similar to my job.

  The house is small, around a thousand square feet, but size doesn’t matter—especially in this case. This single-story rambler is plenty for me. A purple door pops against the white siding and black shutters. Colorful bricks edge the walkway, and an assortment of potted plants are arranged on the deck. This place oozes quaint charm.

  I hop out of the car with a renewed pep in my step. The fear I’ve worn like a dark cloak falls away with a flourish of beaming sunlight. After entering the code into the lockbox, I slide the key into the deadbolt. A wave of cinnamon spice swirls with the clean scent of a fresh start as I step inside the foyer. I treat myself to a greedy inhale while spinning in a slow circle. It’s easy to envision this as home.

  The floor plan is mostly open with only two half walls bisecting the large living area. I scan the collection of included pieces staged thoughtfully. A deep-seat couch sits under the large bay window, framed by two matching chairs in a similar shade. Those neutral hues complement the bold colors of the rugs and accents. A wood dining table rests at an angle near the opposite wall, waiting for the evening meal to be served. It all fits together in an understated manner, as if the entire setup were created specifically for this house. The decorations are minimal, those final details left for me to make the space mine. With a few personal touches, this could easily be my refuge.

  Furnished rentals are somewhat of a myth. Finding one is another rare treasure I’m fortunate enough to have as part of this deal. The eclectic array of items appear to be in good condition. What the owner provided gives the room a warm, cozy feel that wraps around me like a comforting hug. This is exactly what I need after making the move to a strange town on my own.

  A short walk through the kitchen reminds me that a grocery run is a top priority. I wander down the short hall to the master bedroom. As requested, they left this space mostly bare-bones. Only a plastic-wrapped mattress and solo dresser adorn the area. I packed my entire back seat to the roof with stuff that will fill this empty square. But hauling all those mementos and belongings inside can wait.

  I flop onto the crinkly bed with a squeal. My very own place. Extrovert or not, I need this change of pace. Growing up with four siblings didn’t lead to a lot of privacy. My roommates in college were often is very near proximity. I always thrived on those static bundles of combined energy, but conquering the unknown is the name of this challenge. When will I get a better opportunity to live alone? The answer is never.

  So, it’s official. I’m no longer a resident of a big city. That thought doesn’t hold the same quake it did this morning, quite the opposite as a low hum buzzes under my skin. The flutters in my stomach chime in, and I grin at the giddy sensation. I’m here, ready, and surprisingly eager. The truth rattles against my ribs with a long exhale. Planting myself in the heart of farm country isn’t daunting at all.

  I reach for a bubble-wrapped object from the box when more pressing needs demand my attention. The low rumble begins in my belly and ripples outward. Unpacking is a sure way to lose track of time, but I’ve been at it for at least an hour. The tips of my fingers are one package away from forming blisters. As if the paper cuts weren’t enough damage. I glance down at my nails, mentally adding a manicure to my growing to-do list.

  My stomach releases another grumbling protest, refusing to be ignored. My fridge and cupboards are still empty—quite unfortunate when the demands are ratcheting louder inside me. My appetite has always been rather insistent, and this is no exception. It would’ve been easy enough for me to grab some snacks on my way, but I wasn’t thinking that logically. My options at this point are limited.

  I wince, pinching my features as I scan the previously spotless room. It didn’t take long for me to turn the space into a complete disaster. Tissue paper, Styrofoam peanuts, and cardboard explode across the carpet. I’m still working on the skill of being neat and tidy in my adulthood. I can use the distraction of a trip into town to delay further organizing my mess. Plus, I look forward to getting acquainted with Bampton Valley and the community as a whole. I have my fingers crossed that the residents are friendly to
newcomers. But to be fair, it will serve me right if everyone gives my attempts at being social the cold shoulder. A huff rolls out of me. No, I refuse to let any shred of negativity interfere with my restored upbeat outlook.

  Using that internal push as additional incentive, I whip out my phone and get tapping. It only takes a quick search to discover that the local supermarket is within walking distance. A few miles will be a breeze after hoofing it across campus the past four years. I grab my purse and keys, pausing in front of the mirror for a once-over. Twisting this way and that reveals the layer of funk I gained from sorting through my piles of stuff. The hours behind the wheel certainly play a role. Showering would be wise to wash off the crud, but the beast in my belly won’t wait. My cutoff shorts and basic tank-top aren’t glamorous, but I’m not trying to win a pageant. I’m presentable enough. How many first impressions will I make on a fast trip to the store?

  A hollow pang followed by a fierce growl sets me in motion, as if the reminder is necessary. I switch off the lights on my way to the door. The floorboards creak with my retreating steps. Hints of cinnamon and a whisper of belonging follow me out. If I strain hard enough, I can see a vision of what’s to come painted on the walls. That inkling seems to click as my feet cross the threshold. It’s not the swift slide of the deadbolt locking. This reminds me of a gut instinct. My childhood was jam-packed with rich family traditions. Desperation to create my own rituals coils inside me. Establishing this as a Saturday afternoon routine would take minimal effort. Minus the cleaning, of course. Mondays are bad enough on their own and deserve all the chores.

  Strolling down the driveway puts a smile on my face. The leafy canopies above protect the sidewalk from baking to a crisp. Not that the sunny climate is unbearable for early summer. With highs reaching the upper seventies, mid-June offers pleasant enough temperatures. Compared to central Minnesota, the humidity isn’t as oppressive. This heat is drier and more manageable. No one will hear me complain about sweating less.

  I contemplate popping in earbuds, but blocking out the rainbow of elements would be a crime. Gabby birds tweet from their nests. A delicate breeze tickles my arms, and splashes of vibrant colors preen at me from all sides. My senses get an all-inclusive experience unlike anything the smog of big cities serve. Most of the suburbs I’m familiar with are bland in comparison. Maybe I should take notes for Vannah and the other girls. This almost feels like a case study about the grass always being greener. But treating this opportunity as a research project would probably be in poor taste. Even so, I can’t stop myself from mentally devouring every detail. When my friends come to visit, I’ll be properly prepared to give a tour.

  “Well, hello there. You’re a new face.”

  I shield my eyes and turn toward the chipper voice. A woman around my age waves from across the street.

  I send her a grin in return. “Hey, I certainly am. Just moving in today, actually.”

  She jogs toward me, not bothering to look for cars. “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Sondra.”

  “Audria.” I accept her hand for a brief shake.

  “Oh, I like that. It’s unique.”

  “Thanks. That’s my parents’ attempt at making sure their kids have a special flair since there are five of us.”

  She barely bats an eyelash at my larger-than-average family. “Are you far from home? The baby flying the coop?”

  “Am I that transparent?” A cringe tugs at my features.

  Her shoulder lifts in a lazy shrug. “Nope. I recognize the story. Mine is a bit similar.”

  “You didn’t grow up here?”

  Sondra tips her head back with a laugh. “Lord, no. I’m from Chicago originally. Never did I ever picture myself planting roots in a tiny alcove such as Bampton Valley. Yet here I am, six years later, with a mortgage and career.”

  My shock stuns me silent for a beat. “Wow, and I thought relocating from Minneapolis required a major shift in perspective.”

  Her wink hums with secret knowledge. “It’s all relative. You’ll get wrapped in the sweet fold and never want to leave.”

  I allow my lips to lift at her suggestion. Vannah had slapped down a similar verdict. “Oh, I’m only staying until next spring. No doubt this town will try to suck me in, though. At the end of my lease, I have every intention of wiggling my way back out. No offense.”

  “None taken.” She quirks a brow, but not in a haughty way. “It looks like you’re on a mission, so I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hi. Holler if you ever need anything. That’s my place there.” Sondra points to a yellow house three down from mine on the opposite side.

  “I appreciate that. It’s great to meet you.”

  “Likewise. We’ll be seeing plenty of each other, I’m sure.”

  “Until then.” With a wiggle of my fingers, I resume my hunt for food.

  Pedestrians cross my path, becoming more frequent with each passing block. Their greetings are genuine, and I find it second nature to return their gestures with the same kindness. My earlier reservations prove to be unwarranted.

  Perhaps the most startling part of this outing is the nonexistent motorized traffic. I see a handful of cars on the road, but the only evidence of congestion is people milling about on foot. I hang a right at the next corner and smile at the street sign. Is it cliché that Main Street is the focal point of town? The common name offers a solid reference point, regardless of how overused it might seem. I would be hard-pressed to find someone who couldn’t identify a place that has a Main Street. That gives us a way to connect, even from opposite spectrums.

  It’s impossible to miss the patterns in the crowd. I’m not talking about behavior quirks or transportation preferences, although those might be part of the package. I spy so much plaid and denim that feeling left out is almost mandatory. There are enough cowboy hats and belt buckles to host a rodeo. As a self-proclaimed taste tester, sampling this rustic style is just beyond the initial trial phase.

  A blast of air conditioning chills my skin as I stride through the sliding glass doors of Valley Market. The grocery store resembles a Hy-Vee, but on a smaller scale. That doesn’t stop the space from buzzing with weekend activity.

  A laundry list of yummy goodness forms in my mind as I wander to the cart corral. It’s never wise to go shopping on an empty stomach. The meal plans stack up faster than I can track ingredients. I absently tug at a cart sticking out on the end. Nothing happens. That gets my attention, knocking me from my food stupor. I put in more effort but struggle to remove one from the bunch. They’re all wedged together in tight formation. Kudos to the attendant for shoving them in with such precision. I giggle to myself, thinking about Vannah cackling over that last comment.

  I shake my head and get back on track. With more force than I probably needed, I yank backward. Not even a single squeak of metal. The damn things don’t budge. I exhale harshly, blowing stray hair off my forehead. Next comes a little mental stretch to prepare for war. I grip the handle and wrench with all my might. There’s barely a wiggle.

  On my next futile attempt, I ram an elbow into an unforgiving surface. Since I don’t have a wall behind me, it’s safe to assume someone just got jabbed in the gut. My innocent victim releases a muffled grunt, confirming the worst. I hang my head as a wash of humiliation singes my cheeks. My hopes of making a good impression are dashing off faster than the power-walking supermoms in aisle four.

  “Whoa, easy there.”

  I spin on my heel at the gritty timbre, feeling like a spooked horse. Is he trying to soothe me? Make sure I don’t trigger a stampede? Those thoughts vanish as I take my first decent glance at the man.

  When I picture a hunk of farm-raised hotness, Scott Eastwood from The Longest Ride pops into my brain. This guy couldn’t be farther from that stereotype. He’s dark and broody without leather chaps or a Western shirt in sight. Broad shoulders, toned muscles, and a trim waist fill my vision. His white T-shirt is tight enough to hint at a set of defined abs. It’s no wonder
my arm is still vibrating from the impact. Without shame, I admit my mouth waters at the idea of tracing those washboard lines. I would gladly volunteer to scale him faster than a hayloft ladder.

  The logo on his hat is familiar. Carhartt has a recognizable enough stamp, even to someone detached from country style. I’m pretty sure their apparel is made with heavy-duty labor in mind. Back home, the brand is popular with the hipster crowd. I have a feeling this guy didn’t choose the label to be trendy. Maybe he’s more purposeful about his fashion statements than I’m giving him credit for. He makes a ball cap look ultra-sexy, regardless of his purpose. As if hearing my thoughts, his stare bores into me from the shadows under the curled brim.

  The chance to offer a polite apology and salvage my manners is vanishing with each stilted breath. I nearly choke on the buckets of sand lodged in my throat. “Shit… I mean, shoot. I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”

  Painful silence is all that greets me. It seems the stranger is too busy giving my body a full scan. I shift my weight from the blatant perusal. The need to fidget needles at me. Is he sizing me up because I’m seriously lacking in the height department? A tiny nudge from me certainly wouldn’t result in serious damage—to his flexing physique or otherwise. To be fair, anyone over six feet makes me look like a shrimp. I wait several seconds for a response, but he remains disturbingly quiet.

  Taking the hint, I creep toward a stack of small baskets and prepare to sulk off without causing further injury. “Um, okay then. I’ll just be moving along.”

  He blinks at me, drawing attention to his alluring gaze.

  “Wow, are you wearing contacts?” I squint at him like some sort of stage-five creeper.

  If possible, his frown dips lower. “No.”

  “I’m aware that it’s super weird for a stranger to randomly ask. Your eyes are just really blue.”

  “And yours are brown,” he deadpans.

  Speaking of, I’m not scoring any brownie points with this guy. “Solid observation. Isn’t it rare to have light eyes with dark hair?”