“Sorry, Finley, but I need to go to the bathroom. My high blood pressure meds make me have to piss every twenty minutes.”
I wave at Mr. Morgan. “I’ve got this.” I heft Jacob up until I’ve got him in my arms, bridal style.
Without missing a beat, Finley hustles in front of me, leading me over to a battered and ancient pickup truck, opening the passenger door.
I set him inside. She grabs a towel from the bed and flings it over him. Then she puts a dirty paint bucket on the floor between his legs.
“Not your first time, huh?”
“Nope.” Her mouth is a thin line. “Thank you for your help.” She shuts him inside then faces me. “Mister, um. . .?”
“Weston. Archer Weston.” I stick out my hand and wince. I didn’t mean to introduce myself like like I’m James Bond.
“Finley Fox.” She shakes my hand quickly, her grip firm. Her head tilts, gaze narrowing on my face. “Archer is an unusual name. I know that name.”
My heart skips a beat. It’s not likely she would know my connection to Oliver, not unless she did some serious digging, but it isn’t entirely out of the question either.
The divot between her brow relaxes. “You’re staying in cabin four.”
My shoulders ease. I nod to Jacob. “He checked me in earlier. He was a lot more sober then.”
She rubs the side of her head. “Small miracles.”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “I was heading back to my cabin, so I’m going your way, if you need help getting him inside.”
She nods, a slow motion that includes a flicker of her gaze. Wait. Did she just check me out?
“That would be great. Thank you for your help.” She pauses and then blows out a breath before speaking quickly. “And if we could forget about that whole thing where I called you a lumbersnack, I would appreciate it. If I had known you were a guest, I would never have compared you to”—her face scrunches in thought—“something both brawny and appetizing.”
I bark out a laugh.
Finley Fox is not what I was expecting, not at all. Of course, her warm feelings toward me will change once she realizes who I am.
I should tell her why I’m here.
And yet.
She’s smiling at me, a small, tired smile, and I can’t summon myself to utter the words that will ruin this . . . whatever this is.
Then we’ve been smiling at each other for a few seconds longer than what should be comfortable. Turning away, I call out over my shoulder, “I’ll follow you back.”
As I drive down the winding two-lane road, an internal battle wages in my mind.
I’m going to tell her. As soon as we get back and I help her get Jacob into bed, I’ll come clean. I can’t pretend I’m some random good Samaritan. I have to tell her the truth, right?
But if I don’t tell her, then maybe she’ll let down her guard, and I can ask her questions. It might be the only chance I have to figure out what’s keeping her from selling.
Within a few minutes, we turn off onto the gravel drive. My headlights dip and weave over a few of the cabins interspersed with towering pines.
The property is extensive. The scattered cottages vary in shape and size. They’re mostly A-frames, but there are a few square bungalows too, like the cabin I’m renting.
We turn left, curving up a slight rise toward the main house.
It’s an eclectic structure, an odd mixture of architecture, as if different hands have been adding to it over the years and the result is something sort of charming and sort of misshapen.
The main office, where I checked in earlier, is in the front, basically a room connected to the residence by an interior door. Finley drives around, parking on the side next to an unattached garage.
Pulling up beside her truck, I take a few deep breaths.