Page 79 of On One Condition

“It looks great. What else have you got in mind?”

“I’m figuring that out,” I say, more than grateful when he doesn’t push for more. “What about you? Any headway with the mayor and his ridiculous demands?”

“Some. We’ve hired local contractors who want to work with us. It’s a costly move given the cancelations with outside companies already contracted. But we’re making it work and trying to make it right since we did overpromise and under-deliver.”

“That’s admirable.”

He shrugs. “It’s the right thing to do. Did it give Grossman the right to blackmail us over it? Force me to be here for two damn months? No way in hell, but we pride ourselves on standing by our word—so we will.”

Two damn months.

In that whole comment, that is what I heard the most. What my mind fixated on. I knew this was the scenario. Ledger told me the time frame that first night at Hank’s almost three weeks ago, but hearing it now after . . . everything, makes it hit a lot harder.

He’s going to leave again, Asher.

It’s no surprise. You knew that. Enjoy him while you can . . . but guard your heart.

Easier said than done because, despite my resolve and the short few weeks we have been involved, I already know my head and heart aren’t on the same page.

It’s ridiculous. How could what some would consider puppy love as a teenager suddenly come back with a vengeance upon seeing that same person as an adult?

Get a grip.

This isn’t love.

This is lust with a side of history thrown in.

And as if Ledger timed the reveal of his secret to stop my over-analytic mind, I look over to see why Ledger has stopped walking. In the middle of the clearing, he has a blanket laid out. On one of its corners is a basket with a few bottles of wine beside it.

I look over at him and simply shake my head. Words escape me.

“This is the place, right? Where we used to go and get lost in nothing but each other?” he asks as if my silence is a bad thing.

“Yes.” The single syllable is laced with surprise, affection, and . . . love. “How—I mean—what—”

“You deserved a date. Especially one without the town watching your every move. This—our old stomping ground—fit the bill. At least we won’t have to worry about Pop catching us fooling around.”

“Oh my God,” I say as I step forward, stretching our hands across the distance between us. “Do you remember that time—”

“When my hand was up your shirt and your hand was down my pants and Pop came out—”

“With a flashlight?” I laugh. “There’s no way he didn’t know what was going on.”

“None. At all.” Ledger’s smile is wistful, and it strikes me that it’s a rare look from him. He’s always steadfast. Always intense. Something else looks good on him. “I don’t think I’ve ever moved so fast in my life.”

“My favorite was the sweatshirt you balled in your lap to hide your hard-on.”

“I totally forgot about that.” He laughs.

“How could you? You stammered out excuse after excuse about why you couldn’t stand and take a walk with Pop when he asked you to go check out the new tire swing—”

“No. It was the new tractor because he said city boys needed to learn how easily accidents can happen on a farm. I’m pretty sure he wanted to add me to that statistic by pushing me under the tire simply to prevent me from touching you again.”

“As any father would.”

We both laugh, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve thought about Pop and truly laughed at his memory rather than feeling sorrow.

I’m healing.