Heartless: A Small Town Single Dad Romance
Heartless: Chapter 12

Cade: Fine. I’ll do it.

Lance: Yeah?

Cade: Yeah.

Lance: Fuck yeah, buddy. Let’s do this!

Cade: But I want to win. No mediocre shit. I don’t want to waste my weekends losing.

Lance: Deal. You need to borrow a horse?

Cade: No. Mine knows her job better than any of your shiny show ponies.

Lance: LOL. Kinda forgot what a dick you are.

Igroan when the first splash of coffee hits my tongue. I need it because I’ve been up all night trying to will away the world’s most persistent hard-on.

Thanks to Willa fucking Grant.

I could hear the rustling of her blankets in the room next to mine and wondered what she was doing. Tossing and turning? Sliding a dainty hand between those pretty thighs?

Thinking of me?

And I refused to relieve myself. I wrapped my palm around my thick shaft and gave it one firm tug while I laid there. Then I stopped. Because blowing my load while thinking of the twenty-something nanny sleeping on the other side of the wall just felt fucking gross. Daring her to sit on the edge of the hot tub, when we both knew why, was bad enough.

God. What was I thinking?

I lean back against the kitchen counter and swipe my hand over my mouth. Out of control, that’s what I am.

It’s like I didn’t break enough rules when I was younger—I was too busy being serious—and now that streak is cropping up on me.

It’s perfectly natural. Willa is a smoke show. She’d make a priest crumble. And I’m no man of the cloth.

“Good morning.” She waltzes into the kitchen like I summoned her just by thinking of her. All wild copper hair piled on top of her head and fresh-faced, which is making her look awfully young.

But when my eyes drop to her chest, all warning thoughts of her being too young grow wings and fly right the fuck out of my head. Her perky tits are teasing me through a soft, white cotton concert tee.

I couldn’t tell you which band it’s for, because all I can see is outlines of those goddamn nipple piercings.

Taunting me. Reminding me how that pretty, pale purple swimsuit wedged itself between her pussy lips.

Jealousy of a bathing suit is a new feeling for me.

“Good morning,” I bite out, madder at myself than her. But I lash out all the same. “Are you averse to bras as well?”

Her laugh is airy as she rises on her tippy-toes to reach the top of the cupboard where I keep the coffee cups. My eyes are drawn to the way her calves flex, toned legs disappearing into a pair of baby blue short-shorts, her bare feet on my floor. There’s something intimate about having Willa in my space like this. And Luke isn’t even here to make a good reason for it.

“Here, I’ll grab that.” It only takes me one step to stand directly behind her and reach into the back of the cupboard. I guess I don’t normally go through mugs this quickly when I’m the only one using them.

“Thanks,” she breathes, shrinking back down onto the soles of her feet, brushing the curve of her ass along my front as she does.

I step away quickly, placing the mug on the marble countertop and willing my cock to not pop up and make a special appearance, outing me as the world’s biggest creep.

As she pours herself a coffee, she says, “Not at all averse to bras.” Her lips tip up. “But I don’t normally sleep in them. Just grabbing coffee.”

She leans against the countertop, all smug with herself.

“Do you normally walk around like that when Luke is here?”

Her hands wrap around the mug, and she takes a tentative sip, eyeing me over the rim as she does. “No. I normally wait until I hear you leave. Then I get up and make my cup of coffee.”

I grunt, feeling like a dick for policing how she walks around. Luke wouldn’t even notice. I’m the fucker with his head in the gutter who can’t handle it.

“Then I go back to my room and put my panties on,” she huffs out quietly, peering up playfully from behind her mug.

“Wait. Did you just say that you wait for me to leave and then make coffee?”

Her brow arches. “Smarter than you look, Eaton.”

“But I’m up at 4:30.”

She shrugs. “Yeah. It’s kind of nice. I sit on the front deck and read my dirty books. It’s peaceful. I like the morning, and since I’m not out until three a.m. working, I can actually enjoy them. I hate sleeping in. I always feel like I’ve wasted my day.”

“Why do you wait for me to leave?”

She gives me a face that says she thinks I’m an idiot. “Because if you’re this grumpy midmorning, I’d hate to see you first thing. Those cowboys down at the ranch must be terrified of you.”

I grunt. They are. And that’s just how I like it.

“Do my nipples bother you, Cade?”

Coffee sprays from my mouth.

I get most of it back in my mug, but not all. My hand is soaked, and I can feel the droplets of it in my beard.

Willa blinks at me innocently, and my heartbeat thunders in my ears.

Fake innocence. She knew what she was doing when she asked that question.

“No.” I wipe at my face, turning to put my coffee back down on the countertop. I need to pick my next words carefully so I don’t come off like a condescending asshole.

I know I often come across that way, and I don’t want to with Willa. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, wanting someone to like me. “It’s just that—”

“It’s funny. I thought about you telling me panty lines aren’t something we should worry about people seeing, and I’m feeling the same way about my nipples.”

I blink at her.

Hell. No.

“We all have nipples, right?”

I swallow, at a loss for how to reason my way out of this. She’s trapped me in a box of my own logic.

“For example . . .” Her bright green feline eyes drop to my chest. “I can see yours right now.”

My chin snaps toward my chest, and sure enough, my nipples are giving me away.

“And they don’t bother me at all.” She licks her bottom lip slowly, with intention, before one cheek hitches up in a lopsided smirk.

Then she turns and walks back toward her bedroom, holds one fist up above her head, and says, “Fuck the patriarchy.”

And I’m left standing there. Watching her. Wondering if she’s wearing any panties under those soft, loose shorts I could so easily pull to the side.

“You can’t put your fingers there, pal. Or you’re going to cut them clean off.”

“I know what I’m doing, Dad.” Luke rolls his eyes and continues to chop a cucumber in the stupidest way imaginable.

I grab the knife and lift it up. “Listen. You’re going to hold this properly or risk giving me a heart attack. I want you to know how to do this properly. You said you’d listen to my instructions.”

The trade-off was that I have to listen to his terrible pop music on the speaker. The stuff that all his little friends have indoctrinated him with in only one year of school.

It’s Sunday night, and I’m making a full-blown gourmet meal. Luke is helping me cook because I refuse to raise a man who doesn’t know how to hold his own in a kitchen. Feeding the people I care about is how I tell them I care without having to say it out loud.

Because saying it out loud makes it a little too real for me.

“Fine,” he huffs out, dramatically shrugging his shoulders.

“Your dad’s right.” Willa appears out of thin air, reaching in and swiping a coin of cucumber and popping it into her mouth. “If you cut like that, all you’ll be left with is a thumb, and how will I teach you to play guitar?”

“Willa!” Luke turns on the chair he’s standing on and launches himself into her arms. “We missed you!”

She laughs, squeezing his ribs and spinning him in a little circle. They’re equally dramatic.

“She spent one night in the city, Luke.” I cross my arms, trying to hide how adorable I replace it that he likes her so much.

Willa winks at me over Luke’s shoulder. “I missed you too, you little psycho. I’m not so sure your dad missed me though.”

“Pfft.” Luke’s head rolls as she places him back onto the chair. “He did. He told me so.”

Willa looks visibly shocked by that. “Oh, yeah?”

“He said the house feels silent without you here.”

Her lips twitch as she tries to hold back her laughter. “I think that just means I talk too much or play my music too loud.”

“No way.” Luke sighs. “I love talking with you. And playing music with you.”

There’s a beauty in children his age saying what they mean. They don’t wonder how it will come off, or if someone might read too much into it. If it’s in their heart, they say it. I know Luke loves talking with Willa, and it makes my chest ache.

Especially when she gives him the full, megawatt smile that lights her up head to toe, ruffles his hair, and says, “I love talking with you too, buddy.”

“We’re cooking you dinner,” Luke announces.

“We’re cooking dinner,” I clarify. “Of course, you’re welcome to join us.”

I don’t want her thinking I’m downright obsessed with her.

I don’t want her knowing I did kind of . . . notice her absence. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but I’ve gone from being annoyed by her presence when I get home from a hard day’s work to smiling as I kick off my boots and listen to her and Luke laugh or talk together.

Music to my fucking ears.

“You boys are amazing chefs. Count me in.”

I go back to peeling potatoes in the sink beside Luke but say, “Let’s put some different music on for Willa.” It’s the perfect opportunity to get rid of whatever this happy, danceable shit is.

Horrified, Luke asks me what’s wrong with “Watermelon Sugar”, but before I can answer, Willa tilts her head at me and says, “Yeah, Cade. You got something against Harry Styles?”

I glance over at their wide eyes. One set offended, the other amused. “It’s just so . . . pop-y.”

“I have an idea.” Willa’s hand snaps up, and then she strides out of the kitchen.

I try not to stare at her ass in the denim cutoffs she’s wearing.

I fail.

Then I’m back to the potatoes, skinning them aggressively while trying to monitor Luke’s precious little fingers. He’s focusing so hard that his tongue is captured between his lips, eyes narrowed.

He looks . . . grown-up. I know he’s not yet, but he’s also not the fully dependant toddler he once was. He doesn’t wake me up multiple times a night. He can get his own cereal out for breakfast.

It’s terrifying.

The music shuts off, and I turn to the kitchen table where Willa has pulled a chair out for herself and has a beautiful, ornate acoustic guitar slung over her lap. “What should I play?”

Luke shouts for her to play “Watermelon Sugar” before he drops the knife and sits to watch her.

I can’t blame him. She’s practically glowing.

I groan dramatically, just picking on him now. Feeling alarmingly relaxed. Better somehow, knowing that Willa is here under the same roof rather than out in the city or whatever she and Summer got up to on their girls’ weekend.

Perfectly normal outing for two young women, I’m sure, but I’ve never been good at turning off the protective streak. The one that’s constantly worrying about everyone’s safety.

“Pick something easy, like ‘Twinkle Twinkle.’ We don’t know if Willa is any good.”

“Dad!”

Willa laughs and shakes her head, before dropping her gaze to the strings that her fingers and pick hover over, a curtain of warm copper hair shielding her face like she’s a little bit shy. Her long lashes flutter shut for a moment, and her knee bounces.

Then the smooth hum of the strings fills the kitchen. I immediately recognize it as a slowed down acoustic version of the song that was just playing.

I stop and put down the peeler in my hand. I’d be the first person to confess that I leave my radio tuned to the country station. I’m no connoisseur. And when I’m out in the pastures, the soundtrack is the snorts of our mounts and the thrum of the cows’ hooves against the land.

Truthfully, silence doesn’t bother me in the least.

But she’s impossible to look away from. I figured she’d have some basic knowledge of the guitar, but this is impressive. Or maybe it’s just because it’s her.

There’s something soulful, something that warms me to my bones as I watch her.

“Wait! You missed the part where you sing!” Luke’s tone is accusatory.

Willa peeks up, timidly pushing her hair behind her ear. “I don’t sing, Luke. I just like playing guitar.”

“You sang during our dance party the other day.”

She drops her eyes, lips pressing together, cheeks flushing the prettiest shade of pink. “That was just for fun.”

“Sing! Sing! Sing!”

A deep laugh bubbles up out of me. Luke is so damn persistent.

Willa’s eyes widen on mine, and I cross my arms with a shrug. “Sing, Willa. Let’s hear it.”

Her blush deepens, crawling down her neck onto her chest. It’s how she’d look with beard burn on her.

My beard burn.

“Fine. But I don’t have a good voice, so no making fun.”

“You do too!”

She points at Luke. “This was supposed to be background music while you cooked, not a concert.”

“It sounds so good, Willa. I want to play the guitar as good as you.”

The shy smile that touches her lips as her head dips down has me softening toward her. She’s so brash sometimes, and then there’s this sweet side. This bashful side. This insecure side.

And she has no business feeling that way at all.

“It’s beautiful, Willa,” I add, hoping to reassure her, but her cheeks go darker.

What I want to say is wholly inappropriate.

You’re beautiful.

How was your night out?

I’m sorry I haven’t been leaving enough coffee for you in the morning.

Words that lodge in my throat. Turn to cotton batting on my tongue. Words and feelings I don’t know what to do with anyway.

She pulls the hair back down to cover her a little and starts the song again from the beginning. A tiny part of me thinks I should turn and keep peeling, but a bigger part of me can’t take my eyes off her smooth legs bent under the guitar. One bare foot propped on the lower bar of the chair. Slender ankle flexed, the curved arch of her foot somehow sensual. I run into this problem where she’s concerned a lot.

The most trivial little details have me obsessing over her.

The tune sounds just as good as it did the first time. Sultry and slow. It’s like she took some teenybopper song and made it sexy.

Her lean fingers move across the string seamlessly, stretching and flexing with every note she strums.

And then her voice kicks in, and it’s a shot to the gut.

Raspy and sweet, all at once.

Shy and sure.

Quiet and strong. Just like her.

The first line is something about strawberries and summer evenings, which is fitting, because her strawberry red lips move, and I’m entranced.

Luke sways to the song, happy and oblivious. But not me. I can feel my precious control slipping where she’s concerned. And who knew some stupid song would be the thing to do it?

She peeks up and her voice breaks ever so slightly when she catches me staring her down.

She doesn’t look away though.

The lyrics talk about breathing in and breathing out—which is a great reminder for me at this current juncture.

My stomach bottoms out, and I worry about what’s written on my face. My carefully practiced poker face is slipping, like she’s peeling it back, piece by piece. All the armor, all the protection.

I’m not ready to be laid bare. Not by her. Not by anyone.

Luke’s mom may not have been the right woman for me, but she was a woman for me. And I did my best to keep her happy. I tried to love her. And in my own way, I did. It wasn’t cinematic but I was faithful. I provided for her. I worked myself to the bone to build us a good life.

And she left.

It wasn’t enough. Even today, I don’t have much more than I did then.

And at the end of August, Willa will leave too. Back to her city existence. Back to bars and famous musicians. Back to an exciting life that doesn’t include a moody rancher with a chip on his shoulder.

Maybe it would be fine. Maybe I could let her go and move on.

Luke will be sad either way. But he’ll be devastated if I let him think there’s more here than a seasonal arrangement. And his heart isn’t one I’m willing to gamble.

So, I turn my back on her and get back to peeling potatoes.

I listen to every note, hang on every word, and feel grateful that she can’t see my face as I do.

“Again! Again!” Luke exclaims, and I just shake my head. I won’t say no because I’m enjoying it way too much to stop her.

“How about another song?” she asks him.

“What song?”

“A song your dad will know.”

“He doesn’t know any good music,” Luke provides very matter-of-factly.

My shoulders shake as I laugh silently. “It’s true,” I call over my shoulder.

“He’s too old!”

I turn and narrow my eyes at him jokingly.

“He’ll know this one then.” Willa’s fingers strum a few chords, and I instantly know the song.

I turn my fake dirty look on her, and she grins back. Who doesn’t know “Dust on the Bottle”? It’s a classic.

Her voice is thick with amusement, her posture straighter when I smile at her. She lights up when I laugh.

She sings about dust on a bottle and how the contents just keep getting better with age. It’s funny, she’s poking fun at me and she knows it. The night flows from there. Conversation, jokes, good food. And after that song Luke has resorted to teasing Willa and me about being old. He’s dubbed us “Grandma” and “Grandpa.”

“Pass the mashed potatoes please, Grandma.” He dissolves into a fit of giggles, the golden evening rays glinting off of his dark, shiny hair, cheeks rosy from summer days spent in the sun.

I feel alarmingly . . . at ease.

“You’re a weird kid, you know that?” Willa picks up an unevenly cut piece of cucumber and pops it into her mouth. “A total weirdo.”

Weirdo is Luke’s favorite joke insult right now, and he laughs so hard that he gasps for air. Willa laughs too, looking at him with so much affection that my heart twists in my chest.

“No, Willa! You’re a weirdo! I’ve seen you dance. You’re the biggest weirdo in the world!”

Her hand falls across her chest, and she leans back dramatically. “How dare you, Luke Eaton. That’s just cruel. I dance beautifully.”

“Show my dad! Show my dad how weird you dance!” Amused tears glisten in the corners of his eyes, and he wipes at them with pudgy little fingers.

“Okay, fine. He can be the judge. Got that, Cade? Luke and I are going to dance, and you’ll decide which of us is the bigger weirdo.”

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, wondering why I ever disliked her. How can a single person not like Willa Grant?

She’s fucking enchanting.

“Okay?” Her head quirks, and her silky hair tumbles around her shoulders.

I give her a small smile, chuckling at the absurdity of their competition, but too entertained to stop them. “Okay.”

“Good.” She grins at me, moving over to the countertop to hook her Bluetooth up to the speaker. “Let’s do . . .” She glances over her shoulder at me as her thumb presses down and the first few notes of “Summer of ’69” filters out through the sound system.

I shake my head. But can’t help the smile stretching across my face. She would.

Willa starts off with a terrible moonwalk, before moving into a horrendous sprinkler. She may have been shy playing guitar, but she isn’t shy about dancing. She’s fun. She’s funny. And Luke loves it. He doesn’t even dance. He just jumps around laughing at her, spindly arms and legs flailing wildly.

She does some shaky, twerky move that I’m sure the kids these days have a name for, and eventually grabs his hands in hers to make him dance with her. He jiggles his hips and smiles up at her so widely that my cheeks hurt just watching.

I realize they hurt because I’m smiling that hard. The back of my throat aches as I watch Willa spin my little boy around the kitchen on what’s meant to be her day off.

“Do you see how weird she is, Dad?” Luke calls to me.

“Yeah. Super weird,” I agree as she turns to give me a fake scowl over her shoulder.

The only weird thing is what I’m feeling about a woman I’ve known for mere weeks.

It’s not just weird.

It’s fucking absurd.

“Okay. Now Grandma and Grandpa dance!” Luke giggles, pulling Willa over to me.

I scowl at them both.

Willa holds a hand up to her mouth and whisper-shouts toward Luke, “I think he might be the weirdest.”

Luke cackles, and even I can’t turn him down. Bryan Adams isn’t so bad, and they both look totally irresistible standing in front of me with wide smiles, bright eyes, and rosy cheeks.

“Let’s go, Grandpa.” She reaches a hand toward me, eliciting another round of manic laughter from Luke, who is clearly beyond exhausted based on how bad he has the giggles.

I wrap my hand around hers with a groan, like I’m annoyed, even though I’m not.

Not even a little bit.

I stand and spin Willa in a quick circle, telling myself that I’ve already danced with her before at The Railspur.

This is just in my kitchen.

There isn’t much left in this song anyway.

“I’ll be right back!” Luke tears out of the kitchen, cackling like the Joker as he goes.

I spin her again, feeling my boxers grow tighter at the light laughter that crests her perfect lips. When the song ends and the beat of silence slips into a softer, slower melody, I should step away.

But I don’t. Instead, I pull her close, not missing the tiny, shocked gasp she breathes out as I do.

“Should I stop?” I drop my voice, letting my eyes linger on her lips.

Her response comes fast, without hesitation. “No.”

I pull her closer, lining our hips up and feeling her hand slide across the expanse of my shoulders.

As we sway, I take my time trailing my fingers over her rib cage. And I don’t miss the way she shivers when I do.

“You’re a hell of a dancer,” I husk.

She smiles up at me. “Yeah. A total weirdo.”

I chuckle, rubbing a thumb over her lower back. Her hand feels clammy where it’s gripped in mine.

“Pretty good at guitar, I might add.”

“Ah, well, when Ford Grant is your dad, it’s pretty much mandatory.”

“What about the voice?”

“What about it?” Her eyes roll, suddenly shy again.

“Your voice is beautiful.” I say it because it’s true and I met her eye when I do. She’s strangely uncomfortable with being complimented, always deflecting or making a joke. We sway quietly to the song, listening to the words.

It goes on about a stranger’s heart that has no home—smiles covering your heart. It’s haunting and beautiful, and I replace myself straining to listen. “What song is this?” I ask, entranced. “Her voice almost sounds like yours.”

Her eyes dart away, and my hand tightens on her waist. I let myself imagine my calloused hands gliding over her smooth skin. Worshipping every inch of her. Sinking into her.

“The song is ‘Fade into You’ by Mazzy Star. It’s one of my favorites,” she rushes it out quickly before the compliment leads her to changing the subject entirely. “Thank you for trusting me with Luke. This is already the best summer I’ve had in a long time.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for making him laugh like that. Best sound in the world. You missing anything about the city?”

“No. Just riding.”

She steps closer, and I feel the press of her against me. The heat. The friction. My hand splays on her back. “I’ll replace you a horse to ride.”

“You’re a good man, Cade Eaton. Quite possibly one of the best.” Her voice is so soft that I barely hear it.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I drop my head toward her. Everything around us fades away. I don’t know how she has this knack for telling me the things I crave. Tracing my insecurities the way she does. Soothing the hurt she doesn’t even know exists.

I trail the tip of my nose up the side of her neck and wish I could swallow the small moan that escapes her. I want so much more than one stolen dance in the kitchen while my son is off doing god knows what.

“You guys are both the biggest weirdos!” Luke mocks us as he runs back in wearing his too-small Batman costume from last Halloween. We both startle, pulling away quickly, realizing we were altogether too close just now.

And maybe Luke’s not wrong. There’s definitely something weird happening.