In The Weeds

  IN THE WEEDS

  B.K. BORISON

  Copyright © 2022 by B.K. Borison.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: Sam Palencia at Ink and Laurel

  Editing: Annie Meagle

  Editing: Sarah Tompkins

  Proofing: Ian Borison

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  For everyone looking for their happy.

  I hope you know how brave you are.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Other Books By B.K. Borison

  Coming Soon

  Thank You

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  AUGUST

  BECKETT

  She’s sitting at the bar when I walk in, summer heat thick and oppressive at my back. My shirt clings to my skin, and her eyes cling everywhere else—a smile tilting at the corners of her mouth.

  Long legs in cutoff shorts. Straight black hair to her waist. A full bottom lip painted red. She turns in her stool as the door snaps shut and looks right at me like I’ve kept her waiting. A tilt to her brow like she’s pissed about it, too.

  “Sorry,” I tell her as I slip onto the stool next to her, not quite knowing why I’m apologizing or how I got over to this seat to begin with. I’m caught halfway between doing and wanting, the humidity from outside lingering.

  Her eyelashes flutter like she’s amused and a thick press of syrupy heat curls in the space between us. “For what?”

  I … have no idea. I rub the heel of my hand against my jaw and busy myself with the drink menu, an inexplicable rush of embarrassment burning at my cheeks. I’ve never claimed to possess an ounce of charm, but I’m usually better than this.

  I nod towards her half-empty glass.

  “What’re you drinking?” I ask. She rolls her lips to hide her smile and tips her glass back and forth.

  “Tequila.”

  I must wince because she laughs, her chin tilting up but her dark eyes staying right on me. “What? Not a fan?”

  I shake my head and she drops the glass on the bar top between us, turning it around and around in her pretty hands. One eyebrow arches high on her forehead. “Maybe you just haven’t had the right kind.”

  “Maybe,” I agree. I stop the movement of her hand with my fingers over hers and bring the glass to my lips. I make sure to set my mouth against the cherry red lipstick mark she left behind.

  Smoke. Lime. A bite of salt.

  I drop the glass back to the bar and lick at my bottom lip.

  “Not bad,” I grit out.

  She grins at me, her dark eyes like a thumbnail scratching at the line of my jaw. “Not bad at all.”

  She has a scar at the top of her thigh.

  I don’t know if she realizes it, but she wiggles every time I pass my thumb over it, her leg digging into my hip where she’s draped over me. Her skin smells like lemons and rosemary, and I tuck my nose into the space below her ear where it’s strongest, drag my face down until I can press a kiss to the smooth line of her throat.

  She hums.

  I can’t stop tracing my palms against her skin, feeling her softness against me. Her fingers tangle and tug at my hair and I press my face harder into her neck with a groan. She huffs a laugh against my collarbone.

  Two damn nights together and I officially don’t even recognize myself. Evie is like a tide rolling in and clipping me at my ankles. A low, forceful tug. A blissful inevitability.

  I drag my thumb over the scar again, slower this time, and her nose digs into my shoulder.

  “I don’t usually do this sort of thing.”

  I glance at the table tipped over in the corner, the coffee machine that somehow managed to stay upright during our very enthusiastic entrance to the room. The ceramic dish holding the creamers isn’t anywhere I can see, but the little disposable plastic containers are scattered across the carpet like fallen stars. Dots of white against navy blue.

  I smooth my palm down her back and stretch my fingers wide, trying to see how much of her skin I can cover at once. She’s warm under my touch, her skin a deep, flawless brown. Like a bottle of whiskey on the highest shelf, afternoon light dancing through.

  I shift beneath her and grunt when her thigh grazes something interesting. “Nearly destroy a hotel room?”

  She rocks her forehead back and forth against my neck with a laugh and it slips down over my shoulders to sit heavy in the center of my chest. She leans up on one arm and rests her chin in the palm of her hand.

  “No.” She reaches behind my ear and plucks a feather from my hair, glancing at the half-torn pillow shoved haphazardly under my head. I’m surprised I didn’t rip the sheets clean off the bed that second time—when she scratched her nails down my back, wrapped her long legs high around my hips, and set her teeth against my collarbone. She sighs low and slow, eyes searching mine, a bemused grin tilting her lips when I wrap a lock of her hair around my finger and tug. I had my whole fist in it about twenty minutes ago, and she looks amused that I’ve settled for a strand now.

  “I don’t usually get distracted on work trips,” she explains.

  Neither do I. I don’t usually get distracted at all. While a one-night stand is my relationship of choice, I wasn’t planning on one this trip. The Northeastern Organic Farmer’s Conference isn’t a hotbed of seduction. Or it hasn’t been, typically.

  Our shared glass of tequila turned into a shot on the bar top in front of me. That shot turned into Evie ordering the rest of the bottle. And that bottle turned into me licking a line of salt from the inside of her wrist, her knee pressed to mine beneath the bar. We stumbled back to the tiny hotel on the hill and fell into bed like we were made for it.

  It turns out I don’t mind tequila so much when I taste it on her.

  Now we’re here, tangled up and naked for the second night in a row. I told myself I wouldn’t go back to the bar, wouldn’t go looking for her. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her skin pressed to mine. The low, husky moan when I slipped my hand between her legs. Her dark hair spread across stark white pillows.

  As soon as the last speaker finished at my conference, I wandered right back to that dive like she was singing a damn siren’s song. And there she was, sitting on the same stool at the same bar, that same grin lighting up every inch of her face.

  I trace my knuckles down her arm, mesmerized by the path of goosebumps that rise in the wake of my touch.

  “Do you regret it?” I sit up, gently urging her to follow. She does, long legs rearranging around my hips. “The distraction?” I clarify.

  The sweat has hardly dried on my skin, but I want her again. I’ve got an itch in my palms every time I look at her. I want to taste the soft skin just under her ear, feel her body tremble and roll above mine. I want to press my hand to those two divots at the base of her spine and feel her skin burn like an inferno as she moves against me.

  She smiles and bites at her bottom lip like she knows where my mind has drifted off to, tracing the line of ink that curls over my shoulder. She taps there once and I get a glance of us in the mirror above the dresser, twisted white sheets and skin that shines like spun gold, my arm banded low around her waist. Never in my life have I wanted to take a picture of myself, but the urge strikes hot and fierce now, her bare skin against mine. Her face in my neck and the swell of her ass just barely visible.

  I nose beneath her chin and press a single, lingering kiss to the fluttering skin above her pulse—a wordless encouragement to answer the question.

  “No. Turns out you’re a fine distraction, Beck. The best kind, really.” Her answer is a whisper, a secret in the dark. She pauses, and then: “Do you regret it?”

  No, I don’t regret it. Much as I probably should. I smile and drag my teeth up the line of her throat, nip at her earlobe and tug once. I watch in the mirror as her whole body shivers, her hips rolling down into mine.

  “I like your kind of distraction,” I tell her as I catch her waist with my hands. I guide her into a smooth rhythm above me until we’re both panting, her nails scratching through my hair.

  “Did you—” She hums and lifts up on her knees, maneuvering us with her hand on my chest until my back is against the headboard. She’s bossy when she wants to be, and I like that she tells me exactly what she wants, how she wants it. The rasp of her voice in my ear last night had me
shuddering against her, hands clenching at her hips as I worked to follow every single instruction she laid out.

  “Make it slower.”

  “Harder.”

  “Like that, yes. Right there.”

  My head hits the wood with a dull thump and she settles back in my lap, rearranging the sheets until it’s skin on skin, a low moan of want heavy on my tongue. She mumbles something under her breath and then hiccups a sigh, another sound I chase with my lips against hers. She pulls back and looks down at me through heavy eyes. “Did you want more?”

  The question has me huffing a laugh. I look at her and all I seem to do is want. I lean up until I can catch her mouth in a kiss and lick deep, my hand slipping from the back of her head to curl around her jaw. I hold her there until her hands turn into fists in my hair, body shifting impatiently above mine.

  I can be bossy, too.

  “I want more,” I tell her—another confession—my hand slipping down between us to brush the soft skin just below her belly button. “I want everything.”

  I wake to a low roll of thunder, rain drumming against thick glass. A cool breeze sweeps in through the cracked window and I twist beneath the sheets with a groan, my hand searching for sleep-warmed skin. Last I remember, Evie muttered something about room service, snuggled further into the blankets, and fell asleep with both hands wrapped around my arm. It was … nice. Different, but nice.

  I lean up on my elbows and glance at the empty spot next to me. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her moving around the room—didn’t feel her slip from the bed. I don’t usually sleep so soundly.

  My gaze trips to the bathroom, the door half-cracked, a used towel slung over the back of it. It’s possible she stepped out to grab coffee, but I don’t see her suitcase and the nightstand is glaringly bare. I scan the rest of the room. The only sign that she was here at all is a half-empty glass of water on the dresser—a crumpled receipt on the desk.

  I collapse face-first into my pillow.

  This, at least, is a familiar feeling. Waking up alone.

  “Stupid,” I tell myself. I sigh and dig the heel of my palm into my forehead.

  I know better.

  I have things I’m supposed to be doing here, and none of them are a gorgeous woman with legs for miles.

  I flip onto my back and watch storm clouds gather outside the window. I just need to remember what those things are.

  NOVEMBER

  EVELYN

  Well.

  I was not expecting that.

  I pace back and forth in my room at Inglewild’s only bed and breakfast, watching my shadow follow along the floral wallpaper. Jenny, the owner, must have visited my room while I was at the farm because I came back to candlelight and cookies, everything soft and romantic.

  I frown at an ivory candle and debate my options.

  I was in a similar bed and breakfast that weekend in Maine. There were flowers on the windowsill and a man with art on his skin pinning me to the bed, his lips against my neck and his throaty laugh in my ear. The same man I just ran into at the farm he apparently works and I was sent to evaluate.

  Was not. Expecting. That.

  Cookies tempt me from the shiny pewter tray in the corner. I snag one and swipe at my phone.

  Josie answers on the third ring. “Did you get there okay?”

  “We have a problem,” I say around a mouthful of dark chocolate and peanut butter.

  “Uh oh,” her voice turns serious over the sound of paperwork being shuffled on the other end, the clink of a mug being set on a saucer. I check the time. It’s still late afternoon in Portland. She’s probably on her eighth cup of coffee. “Did Sway book you one of those escape room things again?”

  Two months ago, my representation team thought it would make quality content if I were locked in a room for forty-five minutes by myself. No preparation or warning. Thank god I’m not claustrophobic.

  “No. Thanks for the reminder though.” Josie laughs and I collapse on the edge of the bed, eyeing the plate of cookies. “I got to the farm today.”

  “And? You were excited about this one.”

  I was excited about this one. I am excited about this one. A Christmas tree farm just off the eastern shore of Maryland, owned and operated by a woman named Stella. Her story is lovely and romantic, and the small glimpse I got of the farm today was nothing short of magical. I just wasn’t expecting her head farmer to be the same man I had my first—and only—one-night stand with three months ago.

  He had wandered into that dive bar with messy hair, a white t-shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled, and eyes like sea glass. He took one look at me and I felt my stomach drop all the way to my toes.

  “Beckett is here.”

  “Who?”

  “You know,” I drop my voice. “Beckett.”

  I hear the fumble of a glass and a string of creative curse words. “Maine Beckett? Hot, tattooed Beckett?” She sucks in a breath through her teeth and when she speaks again, her voice is three octaves higher. “Out of the ordinary, Evie is finally cutting loose, one-night stand Beckett?”

  I give in and grab another cookie. “That’s him.”

  I told Josie about Beckett after one too many glasses of Sauvignon blanc, wrapped up on her couch like a burrito. I couldn’t figure out why I was still thinking about him months later. It was supposed to be fun and fleeting. A harmless night. No strings.

  Not something to relive in a marquee performance every other night in my fever dreams.

  Josie laughs, a sharp cackle that has me pulling the phone away from my ear. I roll my eyes.

  “Thank you very much for your support.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” she says with a snicker. She tries to sober herself, but another chuckle slips through. “What are the odds? Is he visiting?”

  “No, he works here. He manages the farm operations.” He runs the place with the owner, Stella, and the woman who heads the bakery, Layla.

  That sets her off into another fit of giggles. I debate hurling the phone right out the window. “Guess that explains why he was so good with his hands, huh?”

  “I’m going to fire you.”

  I never said anything to Josie about his hands, but I remember them in explicit detail now. How his palm covered the entire expanse of my thigh. How, when he flexed his fingers and lifted, his biceps did something delicious. He was demanding with them, guiding me into the perfect position. The press of his thumb behind my ear. The delicate lines of a constellation trailing from his wrist to his elbow.

  “You’ll never fire me,” Josie says. “How would you have any fun at all?”

  Josie’s been my self-appointed personal assistant since we turned eighteen and I decided to start my own YouTube channel. Her role and title have been formalized since my social media explosion, but her job as my best friend remains her top priority. I can always count on her to tell me how it is.

  It’s both the best and worst thing about her.

  “Okay, let’s recap. You slept with a smoking hot stranger in August. You left without a word and now, in November, you’ve run into him again while judging his farm for a social media contest.” She makes an amused sound that I do not reciprocate. “Really, though. What are the odds?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Again. I have no idea.”

  I pick at a loose thread at the edge of the quilt. I can’t leave. What would I tell my corporate sponsors? Sorry, I can’t do this trip because I slept with one of the employees three months ago. They’ve been agreeable in meetings, but I don’t see that going over well.

  And more than that, I’m not in the habit of running from my problems. Beckett was a choice I made. A choice I have zero regrets about, despite the memories of that night sticking to me like glue. I was telling him the truth when I told him he made a fine distraction. For once, I was blissfully out of my head. I laughed. I had fun.