Knocking Boots - Willow Winters Page 0,38

my chest as I climb down the stairs, not bothering to grip onto the iron railing. I don’t go around kissing random women. Maybe I did once, but that was a long time ago.

This house is old, built in the '30s and in need of a little more TLC. I bought it just before I bought the bar from Mac. I round the stairs in the foyer and take in the progress I’ve made. The slate flooring at the entry is fucking freezing against my bare feet. The furnace definitely went out.

I was able to get more work done on the house before I started spending all of my time at the bar. The first floor is completely remodeled, with new practically everything and fresh paint. Gray tones and dark blues are the theme throughout the open floor plan, including the black granite and steel backsplash in the kitchen. I spent all the money I had to make this place into the modern bachelor pad I wanted it to be.

But now when I look at it, it’s just cold. Empty. Devoid of life. The lines are too straight, and the furniture practically looks brand new. 'Cause it’s barely been touched.

The door to the basement opens up with a creak and I switch on the light, a single bulb at the bottom of the rickety stairs. I never did get around to making the downstairs what I wanted it to be. A half-built bar is in the very back. Drywall's been put up and screwed into place, but I haven’t spackled it yet.

I don’t even want to finish it anymore; I think I just wanted to believe I was loving the bachelor life.

The truth hits me hard, like a bullet to the chest, but I keep moving, heading toward the furnace to mess with the electrical box. I know the right cords that need to be wiggled and tightened to get it to kick back on. I should get Joseph to come down here and fix this shit.

As I’m messing with the cords in the box, I think back to how pissed off I was when I bought this house.

It was the first one on my list. The realtor showed it to me, and I bought it right then and there. All the money that I had saved up for the wedding became a down payment instead.

The furnace clicks on with a loud swoosh and clink.

Shutting the thin metal door to the box, I stare at it as the fire burns high and the sound of air running through the house kicks in.

I didn’t give a damn about anything other than getting as far away as I could without being so far that I’d lose my family.

Now here I am, all these years later, in a cold house, alone.

And pushing away the cute little sweetheart who made me happy for the first time in God knows how long. Why? Because I couldn’t give her an answer to “what are we doing?” that she’d accept.

I kick the basement door shut, feeling more and more pissed at myself, and head to the island to have a seat and call her, but before my ass even sits, the phone goes off in my hand.

And it’s her.

My breath stills for a moment, the only thought being that she’s telling me she’s not going to the wedding. I’ll figure it out one way or the other, but she’s coming. I’ll make it up to her… but she’s coming to that damn wedding, and I’m finally going to get a taste of my sweetheart.

I hit the button and answer the call.

“Hey there sweetheart,” I say easily as if I’m not tense and waiting for her to try to back out of this. As if I’m not trying to figure out exactly what I need to say. I’m not letting her go. I’ve fucked up so much in the last few years, but letting her walk away from me before I’ve had a chance to make a move on her isn’t going to be my next mistake. “Missed talking to you last night.”

“Charlie,” her soft voice pours through the phone, and the tone catches me off guard. It’s apologetic. I hear her breathe into the phone. “Look, before you say anything, I just want to say, I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have told you off-”

Oh fuck no. I’m not taking this lying down.

“Sweetheart, you can stop right there.” I can practically hear her sharp intake and see her