There it is again—that whisper of a smile.What will it take to see those full lips turn up in a genuine, full-out smile?
She stares down at her toes. “I meant—you should stay a few minutes and wait out the deluge…if you wanted to?”
I hesitate, not sure if I’m understanding the offer. And I’m not really sure if I want to understand her offer. Is she inviting me inside the cottage? With her? Or maybe she’s suggesting that I can stand here on the porch and wait a few more minutes for it to actually start raining even harder.
We stare at each other.
“This rain is going to be more than a few more minutes, so I might as well just”—I nudge a chin toward my pickup.
“If you stay, I’ll be nice. You have my word.”
“I don’t know anything about your word.”
“Take my word for it, my word is good.”
“Sounds convincing.” I turn to go. Again.
“Hold on,” she calls out. She flings herself inside then returns with one of those tiny, folded-up umbrellas that can only cover a chihuahua. She pushes the button to open it, and it slowly flops open.
“You can keep it. And thank you for bringing my cell phone,” she says, her voice formal. She steps backward, and I leap down the porch steps, missing most of the barrage of rain coming from the tin roof. I race to the pickup, yank the door open, grab the pizza box, slam the door closed, and run back to the porch, holding the pizza box in one hand and the useless umbrella in the other.
She’s still standing on the porch steps.
“You hungry?” I ask her.
The almost smile is there again, teasing at her lips. “That’s all you got? Onlyonepizza?” She lifts an eyebrow, and then her lip draws up just enough that I wish I had filled the whole damn pickup with pizzas.
She takes the umbrella from me and tosses it next to the door. “You get bonus points for keeping the pizza box dry.”
“I know what’s important.”
“Be nice, Monster,” she says to her dog, who’s licking the water off my boots. “No eating our guest. He brought pizza.”
“You mind if I dry off?”
“Oh, sorry. Of course.” She takes me to the bathroom and hands me a stack of towels before returning with a dry T-shirt.
“You can see if this fits. I don’t have anything else. If you bring me your shirt”—her gaze drops to my legs— “and your…your socks, I’ll pop them in the dryer to dry off.”
I hold up the offered shirt and eyeball it. “You wear this?”
“It’s my nightshirt.”
“I guess you don’t want me walking around shirtless. It would be too much of a temptation.”
She closes the door in my face.
I sit on the closed toilet lid, pull off my wet shirt, and tug on the shirt she gave me.
It’s tight, but it fits. Barely. When I bend down to take off my wet socks, I knock over the trash can. There’s only one thing in there: a pregnancy test. And it’s facing up, for me to read. And whether it’s my business or not, it’s obvious—Wren’s pregnant.
8
HONEY
“I haven’t beenin this cottage for years,” he says, toweling off his hair then running his hand through it. The T-shirt is way too small, but he’s wearing it anyway, owning it like a champ, and it’s hugging every gorgeous muscle.
“I forgot about these built-ins.” He runs a hand over the shelves running along one side of the wall.”
