Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 11

ELEVEN

AURORA

The top of my Swarovski pen bounces atop the paperwork I’m dissecting and reconstructing at a wide table down in the common area of the bar.

Wyatt was right. This was much better than trying to work off of a nightstand upstairs. This allows me to lay out close to ten pages across and several deep as well, perfect for projects like the one I’m currently working on, a thirty-pager.

My pink AirPods Max do wonders for noise canceling, not that there’s any real patrons here—Ernie doesn’t count, he’s more of a bump on the log that never leaves, and Duke and Dallas are always around, but never loud—but the headphones help to keep me focused on the task at hand. Would you laugh at me if I told you I was playing cityscape noises as I work?

The haptic tap, tap, tap of my pen focuses me, and my eyes fly through line by line, seeking out any discrepancies, inconsistencies, or items that would be contrary to our client’s best interests.

My four colors of highlighters sit less than six inches from my right hand, just within reach for times like now , when I need to use the blue one to mark this joke of a stipulation that wouldn’t even hold up in court.

Who did these people hire to put this agreement together?

Fucking amateurs.

I snort in a mix of self-satisfaction and, okay, slight derision at the opposition’s weak-ass counsel as I write the amendment in the margin.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Pride is a deadly sin. But stupidity should be too. At least I don’t have that.

A hand—a male hand, and a not-unattractive one at that—drops down atop the papers I’m staring at and I jump back with what I hope isn’t an audible scream.

I yank my headphones off and instinctively hit the pause button on the software tracking my time on my laptop.

When I look up, Wyatt is standing over me, an amused smirk on his face that tells me that scream probably wasn’t only in my head, his brows ever so slightly quirked as he watches me scramble.

“Jesus H. Christ, Grady.”

Those thick brows of his rise further along his forehead.

“Warn a girl, why don’t ya?”

“Thought that’s what I was doing with my hand on the table?”

I roll my eyes at him and blow out a heavy breath, before tightening my ponytail for maximum control.

“Why aren’t you at work?” I ask him with a scowl.

He pops a shoulder casually. “It’s not my favorite thing to do to stay after hours.”

After hours?

I check the time on my laptop and see that it’s nearly six o’clock. The software we use says I logged eight-plus hours this session, between both projects. That flew.

And now that my headphones are off, my adrenaline is cooling down, and my heartbeat quieting so I can hear other noises aside from my own blood whooshing in my ears from that jump scare, I’m aware of quite a few voices around me.

“Shit,” I murmur. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. Dallas didn’t …”

“I’m sure you’re not in anyone’s way yet,” Wyatt is quick to reassure me, already knowing what I was worried about. “But personally, I wouldn’t wanna be this close to the dart boards when the regulars have had enough time for a few more beers to hit their systems.”

I give him a wan smile and start to pack up my papers, laptop, and various office supplies.

“Going well?” His eyes shoot to the table between us, the organized mess scattered upon it.

“Yeah, actually. It’s been working out down here. When I’m not at risk of ruining a multi-million-dollar deal with stray darts.” I gesture at the table, the bar. “And I’m making good progress on this contract.”

He shakes his head a little in disbelief but pulls out a seat and drops down in it, two bottles of beer in one hand.

“That’s a lot of who s and whom s there.” He tilts his head at the pile of papers. “Look at little Rory Weiss, all grown up and a badass with her pen and highlighter. Probably making grown men cry with your words, like you always have.”

He gets a low chuckle from me on that. “Let’s just say it wouldn’t be a first.”

His mouth doesn’t move, but his eyes light up, maybe even twinkle with something like pride and amusement.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” This time, the corner of his mouth does tick in a way that—on anyone else—would indicate something of a smile.

“That for me?” I point with one finger at one of the beers he placed on the table.

He makes an awkward grimace. “Actually, they’re both mine. Sorry.”

I laugh at him and reach out with one leg to kick whatever of him I can reach under the table. Pretty sure I got a shin. He doesn’t even flinch, the jerk.

“Nah, here.” He pushes the base of one bottle, sliding it along the empty side of the table, keeping it away from the work and electronics piled on the other edge.

“Thanks.” I take a sip and it hits me that I haven’t had any alcohol but beer since I’ve been back. Woof. I should really try to get a bottle of my favorite gin here, get a little stash upstairs for nights like these, when I’ve earned a treat.

We both sip our beer in relative silence for a few. It’s more comfortable than you’d think it should be between exes, and I blame that on him.

Finally, he asks, “Have you done anything fun since you got here?”

I don’t miss a beat. “Does wrestling a few cocks count?”

He sputters on the sip of beer he was trying to swallow, eyes wide as the Saks window display on Fifth Avenue, but collects himself.

“I really wanna hope you’re talking about your mom’s chickens, but all she’s got is hens, Hellcat.” Been an age since I’ve heard that nickname. I don’t hate it.

Chin pressed into my chest, I smirk up at him. “You caught me. I was playing with her peckers.”

He shakes his head, the tiniest of what could technically be referred to as a grin on his breathtaking face. Maybe it’s only breathtaking to me because the last time I saw it, he admitted he thinks of me when he comes. Maybe every time he comes? I haven’t exactly tried to clarify with him, but the wording I’ve replayed over and over in my own head each time I have come on my own hand—picturing him doing the same—since that night leads me to believe it was, in fact, meant in the present indefinite tense. Sloppy wording that would never get approved in any document for a client of mine, but amazing spank bank fodder.

My face flushes.

Blissfully, he doesn’t bring attention to my reddened cheeks, the way I’m ready to fan myself with the top sheet from my stack of papers.

He just keeps talking about the hens.

“Aside from what I can only imagine was a rip-roaring day I would’ve paid to have seen with you and the …” A poignant pause. “Chickens …” Those piercing, deep green eyes find mine. “You done anything to give yourself a break since you’ve been back?”

Let’s see … Run through the mental checklist real quick. I’ve been with my mom as much as she’ll allow, taking her to appointments, working through the few bucket list items she’s thrown on the list so far, doing my actual work whenever I’m not with her … The answer not really is on the tip of my tongue, but that’s not entirely true, now, is it?

“My ex took me to a bonfire the first weekend I was here.”

He pulls a wince. “Oof. Sounds like it could’ve been awkward.”

I shrug, looking up at him from beneath my lashes. “Eh, could’ve been worse.”

Those eyes, something dark in them, flash at me again. “Got any plans tomorrow?”

I scan through my mental calendar. My mom doesn’t have any appointments over the weekend, I have no mandatory tasks for work. This contract isn’t due until late next week, and it’s the only time-sensitive one currently on my plate.

“Not that I know of. I was gonna stop over at the house again, but considering my mom’s been kicking me out of the house at every opportunity, I’m starting to get the idea she wouldn’t hate some alone time away from me …”

He snorts the closest thing to a laugh I’ve heard from him since being back—my stomach dips in response and I ignore it—and his eyes travel the room, catching on something on the far side of the bar. “I bet she would,” he mutters.

“Did she put you up to this?” My suspicion sensor blares at me.

Her sending me to the bar my first night. Knowing I ran into him immediately after the fact.

Him trying to take me off her hands both then and now.

Are they tag teaming me for some reason?

He shakes his head a single time. “No, Rory. You’ve just been staying awful busy since you got here. Haven’t even seen you around since the bonfire the other week, and I thought you might use a little mental break.”

Truthfully, my time here has been way less intense than my usual life back home, but the added mental strain of watching my mother slip down the irreversible slope of terminal illness, on top of what just being back here has done to me, he’s not wrong. A mental break is more than a little tempting for me at this point. That, or a mental break down .

“What did you have in mind?” I ask him.

“Do you still own jeans?” Wyatt asks in that low voice of his.

I scoff. “Of course I own jeans.” I don’t. “What, do you think people on the East Coast only wear power suits and gowns?” I hope he didn’t get a peek inside my pathetic excuse for a closet.

He tilts his head and shrugs with just his eyebrows. “Haven’t seen you in ’em since you been back.”

“It’s called style, Grady. That’s something I got in the city.”

The back-and-forth barbs, the bantering, it’s more old territory for us. A familiar landscape. And he falls back into it as easily as I do.

“Yeah, well, that style’s gonna get dirty real fast with what I got in mind.”

I don’t miss the way his eyes roll down my body as he says it. I hope he misses the reaction in me as he does. The attraction, the flirting, that’s as familiar as territory gets between us.

“What do you have in mind?” Did my voice turn into a whisper?

Did his throat just bob?

“Oh, I’ve got a lot in mind for you, Hellcat.”

My turn to swallow, eyes wide.

“In fact,” he continues, “when it comes to you, there’s not much that isn’t on my mind.”

Dear God. My stomach definitely just fell into my pelvic region.

“But my dirty mind isn’t what’s going to get your clothes all messed up.”

“No?”

“Nah, that’ll be what we’re getting up to when you’re wearing those jeans tomorrow.”

“And what’s that?”

“That? That is called blue balls.” Ronnie’s voice is accompanied by his body dropping onto a backward chair that he drags up and straddles next to the table we’re occupying. The spell between us snaps, the moment—whatever was in it—broken.

Wyatt’s face, that was bordering on not-not-amused, drops flat, back into his normal dry expression. He levels his gaze on the new arrival, his messy sandy brownish hair, the beer gripped in his hand, arms rested on top of the back of the chair.

“What the fuck are you talking about now?” Wyatt’s voice is practically a growl. “And tell me it wasn’t my junk … again.”

Ronnie gives a casual shrug. “I figured Rory was asking what your problem was.”

“Jesus fucking—” Wyatt breathes out, but Ronnie keeps going.

“If I had to guess, his balls are bluer than an indigo bunting right about now. Speaking of his balls, you already know this, Roro, but it still baffles me. They’re shockingly not massive for how big the rest of his package is. Isn’t that weird, though? I dunno, I guess I always thought the bigger the dick, the bigger the balls.”

This is both better and worse than watching a train wreck. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stop his verbal diarrhea if I had magic Pepto Bismol of the vocal cords for him.

“Maybe balls are all, more or less, the same size, regardless of length and girth of the rest of the equipment?” Ronnie hypothesizes, like he’s on his own scientific podcast with no guests and no audience, and that doesn’t deter him in the least. His arms wave wildly as he discusses with himself. “But maybe that’s a good thing in his case.” Eyes on mine, he (not at all discreetly) jerks his head in Wyatt’s direction in the least subtle move I’ve ever seen.

“Ronnie.” The threat in the growl is as clear as his Mamaw’s famous Jello salad, but Ronnie somehow misses it.

This is a kind of entertainment I’ve never seen on Broadway, and I’m eating up every word his trap is letting loose. Wyatt, however, looks like a cartoon character right before steam comes out of their ears and they fly through the roof. Ronnie ignores both of our reactions, enamored with the sound of his own voice. Or perhaps it’s Grady’s cock he’s obsessed with. Could I blame him if it were the latter? How many years has it been since I’ve seen it, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t on my mind … frequently.

Ronnie keeps rambling, despite the imminent danger to his right side. “If the berries matched the twig, he’d have a pair of peaches in his pants, you know what I mean? I’d say they were more like plums if memory serves. Anyway, I’m getting off topic here. His plums have gotta be so blue they’re purple by now. Hell, plums are purple.” He shrugs but doesn’t slow his roll for a single breath. “I guess that works. My point is, the man hasn’t been hooking up since you’ve been back. I ain’t even seen many girls in this bar since you showed up. You must’ve scared ’em all away. And I don’t need to tell you how big of a snake he has that needs to feed regularly.”

He makes a pointed look at me, then glances completely obviously, faux-surreptitiously, to Wyatt’s pants and back to me.

“Ronnie.” The warning turns into more of a hiss on that one, and even I can tell Ronnie’s about to get a free realignment of his jaw, courtesy of Wyatt’s fist.

“I know I’ll never forget the size of that anaconda.” He winks at me in a ridiculous gesture that no one in this entire bar could possibly have missed. “Actually, Rory?—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I have a question on that front. How did that work between you, physics-wise?”

“RONNIE!”

“I mean, I get that you can push babies out of that thing, so I know that it, theoretically, it should work. A rubber band and a watermelon, and all that. But I mean, I saw the thing, and in my professional opinion, I don’t think it would fit. Did he tell you? Yeah, he showed it off when we were camping one time. A little rude, if you ask me, my wife was right there—does he have no boundaries? Gracie hasn’t looked at me the same since. But anyway?—”

Wyatt’s hand claps over Ronnie’s mouth, cutting off his words, but not stopping him from trying. Mumbles and grumbles are still leaking out from beneath Wyatt’s palm, and it’s taking more effort than I’d care to admit not to laugh at the scene in front of me. Looks like Ronnie is one move away from getting his neck snapped, judging from the expression on his best friend’s face.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” I’ve never heard Wyatt’s voice so dangerous.

Ronnie’s eyes widen, bouncing to Wyatt, then me, before going back to his best friend’s. Wyatt must be convinced Ronnie got the message, because he drops his hand, wiping it on his Dickies.

“Did you have to lick me?”

Ronnie tilts his mouth up in a boyish grin and shoots me an overdone wink.

“Figured someone at this table ought to.”

“Leave.” The word was more of a low rumble than a syllable, but Ronnie hops back up off his chair, finally sensing that his own balls might be in danger, and backs away from the table.

“Good to see you, Ror.”

I tilt my head at him in a small nod, stifling the laugh that’s been aching to break free this entire encounter. “You …” You know what? Fuck it. “You too, Ronnie.” Can’t say it wasn’t a good time. An awkward time, sure, but not a bad one.

“He is such a fucking …” Wyatt lets the muttered insult trail off, hanging his head before shaking it, seemingly unable to think of anything bad enough to describe his best friend.

I’m sure he wants to sink into the earth right now. Or maybe just bury Ronnie six feet under it. But I’m still fighting a chuckle. Nobody back home would bust my nuts like he just did, and I don’t hate the warmth in my gut right now.

“Aurora Weiss, care of Smoky Suds, question mark question mark. I’m guessing this is for you,” Dallas calls out dryly, reading from a label. He steps over to the table I’ve been stationed at all day, bearing a fairly massive box. It’s got a giant red sticker on the side, an open mouth with perishable written on the tongue, along with a name that sends a thrill through me. Goldbelly .

Fuck, I can’t believe it. A taste of New York, here in the Heights. My mouth is watering at the thought. What it could be.

Zabar’s? Junior’s? Fuck, tell me it’s bagels. Oh, but I’d do unholy things for Gray’s Papaya at this point.

Hell, I’ll even eat carbs today, and it’s not supposed to be a cheat day. Three weeks away from my favorite city in the world has turned me into a fiend.

I jump up from my seat and accept Dallas’s outstretched offering. “Thank you, thank you, thank you !” That was way too close to a squeal for my liking, so I reclaim my composure and try again.

Dallas raises his dark brows at me, and Wyatt watches on, something like amused curiosity.

“What the hell is that?” Wyatt manages to point with only his eyeballs at the box I’m holding like it’s a winning lottery ticket, clutched to my chest.

“Good food.”

Dallas rolls his eyes and walks away, but Wyatt’s forest green eyes narrow on me, or maybe on it.

“What?” I ask him.

“Where’s it from?”

I point to the label, the branding that’s all over the box. “This site. Goldbelly.”

“Who’s it from?” he amends.

I busy myself with opening the packaging, and he whips out a pocketknife to speed the process along.

The lid pops open after a couple of slices and I’m pretty sure what comes out of me would be described as a moan that Trevor’s never pulled out of me any other way before.

Beneath the dry ice, the box is full, and I mean full of Korean barbecue. Everything I need for a complete feast, it’ll be just like I was back home, crammed in a corner table, arms pressed up against a stranger’s as I shove bulgogi, kimchi, and meat down my throat. I’m too hungry to even make a joke out of shoving meat down my throat in public right now. Guess that’s what I get for working eight hours straight in a blackout.

When I look up from Christmas in almost-October, Wyatt is still staring at me, waiting for an answer.

“My favorite Korean place back home,” I tell him.

“They sent you a box of food? They miss you that much?”

His voice is almost teasing, if this version of Wyatt was capable of it, but I know what he’s asking.

The ding of a small bell being rung twice in rapid succession flits through the bar, and the growing post-work crowd continues to get louder the longer we sit here.

“No,” I roll my eyes. “It’s from Trevor.”

“Trevor?” Ice rolls through those two syllables. I try not to roll my eyes.

“A guy back home.”

“Hmph.”

He could be a grumpy horse in a Disney movie, with how low his brow is right now, that long face. If he were, his upper lip would’ve fluttered in the wind with that sound.

“Stop,” I tell him.

“I didn’t start anything,” he quips back.

That time I do roll my eyes. Think I’m starting to get cranky, because that attitude in his voice is about to set me off.

“He knows I miss New York. This was as close as I could get to feeling at home while I’m here. And, damn, I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until I saw that kimbap.” I cover my rumbling stomach with one hand and point back behind me, to the stairs that lead up to my apartment. “I’m gonna heat some of this up, I think.”

Before I can stand, Dallas is approaching the table again, this time with a red oval plastic basket in his hand, a red and white paper liner peeking out from all sides, and the smell of something distinctly fried seeping into the air around it.

He places the basket on the table—grilled chicken sandwich and fries, and a side of mayo—and heads back behind the bar wordlessly.

“Wha—we didn’t order this,” I call out uselessly to his retreating form.

“Yes, we did,” Wyatt tells me quietly.

My eyes jump to his, and the look he gives me makes my stomach drop, but not because it’s empty.

“You haven’t eaten all day.” It’s not a question.

“Did Dallas tell you that?”

“No, my eyeballs told me that.”

I grab a fry—food for thought—dip it in mayo (can’t believe he thought of that), and start munching while I eye him suspiciously. I did say I’d have carbs today, after all. Strangely, my mood spikes on the first bite.

“Your leg was jumping a mile a minute, you were tapping your highlighter on the table, dead giveaways that you’re about to enter the danger zone, and you’re clearly wrapped up in whatever—” his arm waves at the paperwork I set to the side “—this is, and probably have been all damn day. I know you, Aurora , and I know you haven’t eaten in way too long. So eat. And wear jeans when you meet me tomorrow.”

The warmth in my center is from more than the hot food.

Do I still own jeans?

Do I own boots?

The voice in my head scoffs. Of course I do.

Did I have to order them after the barn cat episode, as it shall henceforth be known (not to be confused with the feral cat interlude)? Perhaps. But the point is, I do have boots and jeans.

Not a chance I’m going anywhere in this town where the wildlife has a shot at assaulting me with bare legs again.

Preferably, I can just avoid the wildlife, period.

Logic says if I can avoid the rats in NYC all this time, I should be able to dodge most of the wilderness here too. But if I were operating entirely off of logic , would I be meeting my ex alone in the woods?

I look from the pin he texted me, the map on my phone, to the location I’m in, and wonder for the fourth time in even fewer minutes if I ended up in the right place.

A small field that leads into some woods, whose trees are dancing in the first cool wind of the season, branches bouncing with the occasional gust. I know October just started but fall seems to have rolled in overnight. Before long, it’ll be sweater weather, the perfect season in New York. But I guess these fog-kissed mountains are a pretty good backdrop to autumn too.

The loud hum of an engine sounds a moment before a large navy truck pulls up next to me. My mind runs away from me briefly, convinced it’s a serial killer who’s trapped me out here, but when I turn and see Wyatt’s profile in the cab, I breathe a sigh of relief and turn the Cutlass off.

He’s out of the truck and headed around to the back by the time I’m out of my car.

It’s not until I’m out of the car and looking his truck up and down that I realize it’s towing something, a whole trailer on the back of it. Two small vehicles on top of that.

Loud clunking sounds, maybe a lock or a chain coming off, a ramp dropping down off the back, and I follow around to see what the heck he thinks he’s getting me to do out here. Compared to the alternatives my mind is coming up with, I almost hope he needs my help hiding a body.

Four wheelers.

Son of a bitch.

My mouth dries and my throat clogs with something thick when I see what he’s wearing, his Southern boy on full display today. Jeans, his usual boots, and a dark green T-shirt that is absolutely glued to his biceps, those incredible shoulders of his, showing off a tattoo that runs about halfway up his left arm. It’s caught my eye every time I’ve gotten a glimpse of it so far, but this is the first time I’ve had a clear view of it. Something mechanical, beautifully shaded in a way that fluctuates every time his tendons flex. Not that I’m staring close enough to see or anything. All that, paired with a tan, backwards baseball hat, just to be sure I’m rendered speechless, estrogen spiking with my heart rate.

He glances up for just a split second, then goes back to the four wheelers in the trailer, working on getting them freed and out for us.

“Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” Wyatt says through his teeth. He grunts at something he’s loosening, and it pops free with an audible noise. “Had to stop last minute for an extra can of gas. Think Weston drained mine last time he showed his face.” He scowls, but I don’t think it’s at the trailer.

“No problem,” I say quietly, and use the time to get my bearings. Turning in one spot, I take in the scenery, not dissimilar to where we held the bonfire, maybe just a little muddier? Really, a lot of the fields and wooded areas around here look the same, and it’s been too long since I could call these my stomping grounds to identify them by sight alone.

Tire tracks run off one side of the dirt lot, through the grass and into the woods beyond. A chill runs down my spine at the thought of going in there of my own free will. This is something Aurora Weiss, senior associate, would never pick for a day for herself.

Did you think he was taking you shopping and to a spa?

The voice like acid in my head trolls me.

Well, no, but I didn’t think four wheeling was going to be the theme of the day, either.

I turn back around until I’m facing him again, and I don’t think the perspective really helped. I’m still close to speechless, seeing those arms flex as he rolls one ATV down, and then the next.

Consciously, I knew the attraction between us—at least on my side—hadn’t gone anywhere. I think I thought there would be so much hostility between us, that the physical want, that old familiar need that’s never hit me with anyone else, wouldn’t have a chance to really flare up. But here we are, being mature, friendly adults about the whole thing. He’s been a perfect gentleman, not holding my past actions against me like I expected him to. Accepting my request to start fresh, offering to be friends for as long as I’m here. I won’t be the one to mess that up with my hormones and libido at the helm, even if it’s all I can think about when I watch him work with his hands like he’s doing now.

After all, just because I’m still attracted to him on a visceral level doesn’t even mean that a hookup would still be anywhere near as good as it used to be. I’ve probably built it up in my head, for one, and for two, surely all of our emotions and the love we had for one another was a part of that, too, wouldn’t you think?

It’d probably be a borderline hate fuck at best if I gave in to anything with him now, and I certainly couldn’t blame him if that’s how he felt about me. Most of the time it’s how I feel about me.

So, no. I’m not going to ruin this tentative, temporary friendship we’ve found between us with my horny lusting after this man who I’ve put through enough. My hormones are probably just a bit haywire with all the added emotional stress lately. Like I’m not enough of a mess on a good day, anyway.

He finishes unloading the two vehicles and turns back to look at me, arms wide. “You ready?”

I shake my head slowly at him. “We both know this is not what I’m cut out for, Wyatt. Unless you’re going to tell me you’re taking me on some scenic, flat route to a secret metropolitan deep in the Smokies where they have the finest gastropubs that serve only the most delicate floral gins, and every door has a designer store behind it?” The hope in my voice has all but disappeared by the end of that mirage I painted.

Wyatt wants to laugh; I can see it on his face. But he’s a strong man, and he doesn’t. Instead, he kicks the dirt with the toe of his boot. “Today, Aurora Rose Weiss, we’re reminding you of your roots. A little one-on-one time with nature.” He waves a hand at the skyline, the mountains, and the horizon beyond. “A little adrenaline, a little adventure with the ATVs.”

No one else could make it sound as appealing as he does, I’ll give him that. Exploring nature couldn’t be much further from the top of my list, unless perhaps you added live jazz music to the experience somehow. One Hinge date at a jazz club in Greenwich Village was all I needed to know that’s for sure a tactic the devil is going to use on me when it’s my time for eternal torture.

But exploring nature while seated, marginally comfortable in these clothes, with Wyatt Andrew Grady as my tour guide and protector from the wild things … I guess it could be worse, that’s all I’m saying.

If I had to go out there … this isn’t the most awful way to do it.

I push my tongue into my cheek as I think it all over and withhold a smirk when I see his eyes track the motion, the way that one motion visibly affects him. At least I’m not suffering alone here.

I shove my hands into my back pockets, elbows out to the sides, and my chest pops out a little with the movement, this shirt I chose just form-fitting enough to make the most of my assets as I do.

Wyatt’s eyes shift to the side, to the trees, where there’s nothing else to see, and clears his throat, and I have to bite my lip to hide my smile.

Today’s gonna be fun.