Love Finds a Home: Sweet with heat gay romance (Home in Hollyridge Book 3) Read online

  Love Finds a Home

  Home in Hollyridge

  Elle Keaton

  Dirty Dog Press

  Copyright © 2020 by Elle Keaton

  All rights reserved.

  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.

  Please don’t steal my work.

  Cover by Cate Ashwood

  Edited by Sandy B

  Created with Vellum

  For Sandy B., thank you for inspiring me to finish Love Finds a Home. Wyatt, Bennet and Wicket were stuck on my laptop waiting to be freed.

  And to CCBelle for naming Wicket, she said it and…it stuck.

  To all my readers who love Hollyridge as much as I do, I hope to keep writing more.

  To my ARC readers who continually amaze me.

  And, as always, to MrE for continuing to believe in me. I love you.

  Elle

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  A Thank You From Elle

  About Elle

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Wyatt

  “Thanks for the ride,” Jordan called out again after he slammed the door shut and turned to walk backwards away from Wyatt’s truck with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “No worries,” Wyatt replied, grinning at his friend.

  Jordan shook his head. “I keep telling you a four-hour ride is a big deal. Seriously, thanks, man.”

  Wyatt rolled his eyes. “I’d do it for anyone.”

  Wyatt watched as Jordan climbed the stairs of the porch and obviously fumbled with his key a bit before waving once more and disappearing inside the house he shared with several other college freshmen.

  Sliding his old truck (a 1990 Ford 250 with rebuilt engine, thanks to the help of a friend) into gear, Wyatt pulled away from the curb to head back to I-5 and then I-90 and east. An eight-hour round trip to drop off someone he didn’t know very well would seem a bit weird to many folks but, for one, Wyatt liked driving, and two, he liked his friend Jeff’s younger brothers—Jordan was one of a set of identical twins and he’d been in Hollyridge visiting his brother for a few days but managed to miss the bus back to Seattle much earlier that morning. Plus, Wyatt always wished he had siblings so he’d kind of adopted him.

  The notorious Seattle traffic fell away once he passed North Bend, where I-90 climbed up and over Snoqualmie Pass, his truck chugging along past the slower semis and RVs. Wyatt loved this time of year, when the leaves were just beginning to change. Mixed in amongst the evergreens that made up the Snoqualmie forest were bigleaf maples, cottonwoods, ash trees, and aspens, all dotting the hillsides with color and showing off their red, orange, and bright yellow leaves.

  Without Jordan in the passenger seat, the car was quiet. Wyatt chuckled; Jordan talked even more that he did, and that had to be some sort of achievement. Reaching over to the stereo console, Wyatt turned up the volume and settled in to enjoy the ride while Madonna, Maroon Five, U2, and My Chemical Romance battled it out.

  He couldn’t imagine a better day.

  He and Jordan had left Hollyridge early enough that it was only just after noon when Wyatt crossed back over into Eastern Washington. The pass was steep on the west side, but on the east side the highway meandered downward, taking its time before finally crossing the Columbia River and reaching the desert floor. Many people thought of Washington State as wet and green, but a huge portion of the state was high desert. Summer temperatures could get up into the 100s, but now, in the early fall, it was pleasant; Wyatt rolled his window down, letting the sunshine warm the side of his face.

  At Vantage, after a short debate with himself, Wyatt decided to take the back way around Hanford Reach. The road was only two lanes, but he was tired of dealing with all the semis and other traffic heading through to Yakima and beyond. And, if he was lucky, one of the farmers along the way might have a fruit and veggie stand open with fresh-picked corn, or even apples and pears. If there were apples he’d stop for sure; maybe he could convince his mom to make a pie.

  If Wyatt hadn’t had his window down, he might not have paid attention to the battered cardboard box on the side of the road. As it was, he only saw it out of the corner of his eye. He’d driven another mile or so before what he’d seen coalesced, and he had to go back and make sure he’d been wrong. After slowing to a stop on the shoulder, he maneuvered a three-point turn and turned the truck to head back.

  This stretch of highway, while busier now since people had been moving to the area, was still fairly quiet. As he retraced his route, only one car passed him going the other direction, and for miles all you could see was the brown of summer in the desert—tumbleweeds, scrubby rabbitshrub, sagebrush and bunchgrass. The Columbia River was miles behind him, and the road didn’t find it again until the Tri Cities, where the Snake River joined it from the east.

  Wyatt drummed his thumb against the steering wheel and tapped the brakes, slowing down so he wouldn’t miss the spot where he’d seen the box. The thing was, the desert was dry as a bone this time of year and the only wild creatures living between Vantage and Richmond were pygmy rabbits, coyotes and birds of prey. Not fuzzy white things. And he’d seen something sticking out from the dingy box, something alive.

  Up ahead along the right side of the road Wyatt once again spotted the cardboard box. He pulled over about fifteen feet from it, shut the engine off, and climbed out. Hot wind gusted at him from all directions, creating dust bunnies and mini tornadoes before settling down again; a tumbleweed rolled across the road.

  The box was shaking, and the top flaps, which looked like they had been taped shut, were bouncing up and down. A smallish hole had been punched through where the flaps intersected, and smaller holes dotted the sides, but none were big enough for whatever was fuzzy and white to escape—yet. At least Wyatt knew the box wasn’t full of snakes—as far as he knew there were no furry reptiles—but just in case he was going to do a search when he got home.

  A truck whizzed by, heading toward Richland. Somebody shouted out the window, but their words were stolen by the wind, and Wyatt’s attention was on the box anyway. It wiggled and shook, the ever-present wind picking up again and banging a big tumbleweed against the container. The box whimpered, and leaning closer Wyatt saw something fuzzy and white—was that an ear?

  Shaking off his reluctance, Wyatt stepped closer and crouched down to peel back the box flaps. Two glittering black eyes peered back at him. Quickly, he opened the flaps all the way so he could reach in and pull it out—a filthy, possibly white (really, the only thing white at this point was the one ear he’d seen) puppy.

  They stared at each other for a heartbeat. And Wyatt fell in love.

  Again.

  Because he was already in love—but he wasn’t thinking about that right now.

  The puppy wiggled, its long pink tongue escaping its mouth and swiping Wyatt across the face and everywhere else it could reach.

  “Awww, you’re welcome. No way am I licking you back, though.”

  Clasping the puppy to his chest, Wyatt trotted back to his truck and climbed inside. The puppy was grimy, covered with dirt an
d probably bugs.

  “What happened to you?” Wyatt asked.

  The puppy wiggled and licked Wyatt some more.

  “Somebody just left you there, in a box? You could’ve been eaten by coyotes! Who would do that to you? Dude, you are lucky I came along. But what am I going to do with you?”

  Wyatt tried setting the dog next to him on the passenger seat but, sensing Wyatt’s weakness, it scooted right back over and crawled into his lap. The pup was small, right? He’d been through a traumatic situation and needed the reassurance.

  Carefully Wyatt flicked a lever and pushed his seat back as far as he could, allowing him to reach the gas and the clutch, but giving enough room for the wiggle monster to make himself comfortable.

  “I can’t take you home. We can’t have pets at my place. But I promise you, I’ll find you a home.”

  Two

  Bennett

  Bennett heard Wyatt before he saw him. Wyatt had no sense of quiet, he talked a lot. When they were working and Bennett didn’t feel like talking, Wyatt would talk and answer himself, which was pretty handy. This time, however, it was his enormous gas-guzzling truck Bennett heard before Wyatt’s voice. He didn’t think Zach had scheduled Wyatt to work at the vineyard that day, but maybe he was wrong, and Bennett could always use the help. Wyatt worked as hard as he talked—was that even a sentence?—so Bennett didn’t mind his companionship. If he was going to be honest with himself, he actually looked forward to having Wyatt around.

  Ducking between and around the grapevines heavy with fruit, Bennett made his way to the parking area. By the time he reached the gravel lot Wyatt was parked next to Bennett’s truck—a Chevy, which Wyatt constantly rode him about.

  He watched Wyatt climb out of his truck, a little awkwardly since he seemed to be holding something in his arms.

  “Hey, Bennett.”

  Wyatt was always careful to call him Bennett and not Ben, which Bennett appreciated—for whatever reason, being called Ben bothered him.

  “Wyatt.” Bennett moved closer. “What is that?” he asked as something furry squirmed and wiggled in Wyatt’s grasp.

  “Wicket.”

  “A what?”

  “Meet Wicket.” Wyatt held the wriggling… thing out toward Bennett. “He needs a bath, but I think he’s going to clean up pretty well.”

  Bennett did not take the offered animal, but he did move closer to inspect it. Button-like eyes latched onto his gaze, and its entire body began squirming and wiggling even harder, if that was possible.

  “He likes you!” Wyatt exclaimed.

  Curiosity overcoming him, Bennett asked, “How do you know its name is Wicket?” He didn’t see a collar, but maybe it was in Wyatt’s truck.

  “He and I thought of it ourselves, while I was driving. Doesn’t he look like an Ewok?”

  Bennett narrowed his eyes at Wyatt and the dog. “You thought of the name together?” No one but Wyatt would come up with a name like Wicket. Although, and Bennett would never admit this to Wyatt, it did kind of suit the animal.

  “Yes?” Wyatt said innocently, his dark brown eyes dancing with laughter, “I was running through ideas and Wicket just came to me—it’s perfect I think.”

  Bennett shook his head. What was he supposed to say to that?

  “It has nothing to do with the Star Wars marathon you were telling me about? Again, why are you here with a filthy animal?” The dog was gray from dirt and Wyatt’s shirt was dark where he’d been holding the puppy close.

  Wyatt clutched the animal back to his chest, widening his eyes dramatically. “It’s not Wicket’s fault he’s filthy! Some asshole left him in a box on the side of the road, didn’t they?” Wyatt scratched the top of Wicket’s head. “Someone who is going to burn in hell, if I have anything to say about it,” he crooned, “but I’m not going to use violent language around an innocent puppy, am I?”

  “Okay… but why are you here?” Bennett needed Wyatt to focus on the actual issue—the stinky puppy, not karmic justice. Because suddenly he was feeling slightly jealous of the attention a mangy dog was getting.

  “Well, Wicket needs a bath andaplacetostayforalittlewhile.” Bennett imagined Wyatt crossing his virtual fingers that Bennett would say ‘yes’, as he added “I can’t take him to my place, my mom is allergic. I’m not taking him to the shelter; he’s already been traumatized. You’re the only one I could think of who could help us.”

  In Bennett’s opinion, the dog did not look one bit traumatized. He looked pleased with himself because a sucker named Wyatt had stopped and picked him up.

  He must’ve hesitated a moment too long. “Please, Bennett? He’s just a little guy and the world has already tried to do him in. It won’t be for long, I’ll get him cleaned up and take him to the vet and then I’ll, uh, put flyers around town or something. Please?” he repeated. “I have to go be at work in two hours.”

  If Wyatt had to be at work in two hours, that meant he wasn’t sticking around to help Bennett take sugar samples for Zach, the owner of the vineyard and Caesura Winery. Damn. Wait, he wasn’t… disappointed, was he? Disappointed that Wyatt, who generally drove him up a wall, was only stopping by to foist a doggish thing onto Bennett?

  No, of course not.

  “Sure, I guess. But only for a couple days. Zach has the crew scheduled for next week if everything keeps ripening as it is, and I’m going to be too busy to watch a pain-in-the-ass dog.”

  Wyatt rolled his eyes. “Dude, Bennett, I’m part of the crew. Zach has me out here every day for the foreseeable future. But today I’m working an afternoon shift at Demeter’s.”

  Demeter’s was a tasting room in town. Kind of in competition with Caesura, but the wineries in Hollyridge acted like a big extended family. Maybe a little dysfunctional at times, but they looked after their own.

  Bennett knew, almost better than anyone else, how hard Wyatt worked, so he shouldn’t be giving him a hard time. Wyatt’s mom had been sick and lost her job, and Bennett didn’t know what the problem was. But she wasn’t working right now so, at twenty-one years old, Wyatt was shouldering the responsibility of paying her bills and rent along with everything else.

  And still he had an amazingly positive attitude. Sometimes, rarely, and only in the dark of night, Bennett wished he was a little more like Wyatt. A little more positive, that he could let the weight of the world just roll off his back. All his life he’d been told by his folks how important this, that, or the other was—and failed them.

  Instead of complaining about not being able to do the things other guys his age did, Wyatt just got on with it. He was working three jobs as far as Bennett knew—and yet, he always had time for people, he always had a laugh, a smile, a joke.

  “Okay.”

  Wyatt’s grin escalated to supernova bright. “You will? Really? Thank you! Wicket thanks you, too!”

  Wicket let out a timely woof, as if he really was thanking Bennett.

  Before he knew it, he was being hugged by both Wyatt and the stinky dog who managed to lick him right across the nose.

  “Eww.” Bennett wiped his face. “I hope he doesn’t have mange. Come on, I think there’s a tub in the big storage barn. You can use that, and I think there’s dish soap around to get the worst of it out.”

  “Dish soap? He’s a dog, a very special dog!”

  “If dish soap is good enough for oil-covered birds, it’s good enough for him. You can always get some, I don’t know, fancy dog soap later on.”

  It took both of them to wash the five-pound menace. One look at the silver tub and Wicket did his best to escape. By the end of the bath, which— from the howls—a stranger might think they were torturing the dog rather than quickly dipping him in the water and scrubbing him down, both men were soaking wet. Bennett grabbed a stack of clean shop towels and wrapped them around Wicket while Wyatt held on. After toweling the dog off as best he could, Wyatt set him down. Wicket proceeded to run in circles, barking and shaking himself dry, until he finally came back
and plopped down directly onto Bennett’s foot.

  “He does like you,” Wyatt said.

  “Only because it wasn’t me dunking him under water.”

  Wicket leaned more heavily against Bennett’s ankle; he was not getting attached to a fuzzy footwarmer. No way.

  Wyatt looked thoughtful. “Maybe. Well, I gotta go because now I have to go home and change clothes before Demeter’s.”

  Bennett had been trying not to notice the way Wyatt’s damp T-shirt clung to his frame, accentuating his broad shoulders and lean chest, his tanned skin and long fingers. Okay, the T-shirt had nothing to do with how sexy Bennett thought Wyatt’s hands were. Or might be, if he had feelings like that. Since he didn’t (have feelings like that), he met Wyatt’s dark gaze instead.

  His eyes were equally dangerous, but Bennett steeled himself against them, against the amusement, the laughter, the happiness that always simmered in them. For one thing, Wyatt was only twenty-one, too young for Bennett. For two, Bennett was a failure in so many ways—actually living “out” was something he didn’t think he could do. His parents hardly accepted him as it was.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Zach has me scheduled the whole day.”

  Wyatt bent down and picked up Wicket, who’d begun sniffing around the shed, and plopped him into Bennett’s arms.

  It wasn’t until Wyatt had left, a dust cloud following him out to the highway, that Bennett realized he was going to have to go into town and buy dog food and some sort of leash for Wicket.

  Three

  Wyatt

  Wyatt unlocked the flimsy hollow door of the apartment he shared with his mom and pushed it open, the door squeaking where it grazed the wood floor. He wished, not for the first time, that he could afford something better for the two of them, something not in the crappy part of town, but that was impossible with the medical bills piling up. No matter how many hours Wyatt worked, it seemed like they were always short, or behind, or juggling one bill to pay another. Their apartment wasn’t even a true two-bedroom, Wyatt’s room was actually the dining nook. When they’d moved in years ago, his mother Mariah had found a three-panel wooden screen, painted it, and set it across the entrance to give Wyatt privacy. It worked, but it also meant he was never bringing a date home.