Page 34 of Fall Love

“Traitor,” I grumble.

Lumi swings around the door and walks out backward, pausing to hold up ten fingers behind Tate. She’s giving him a plus ten for something, but I don’t know what. The Henley is certainly in the yes column on my scorecard.

Tate glances over his shoulder, and Lumi gives him a little salute, then shuts the door, closing Tate and me both inside.

He sniffs, then scrunches his nose, but he doesn’t comment.

“How did you find out where I live?”

“Small town. And a coffee.” He holds up the bakery box.

“Who am I adding to my unfriend list?” I ask, swiping at the spilled cinnamon with the edge of my hand, smearing it around the butcher-block more than clearing it.

“I can’t reveal my source.” He gives me a lopsided grin, and I kind of hate how cute he is.

He’s gone from racecar-driver-rugged to business-suit-professional to casual Mainer. I like this look the best.

“What’s in the box?” I tip up my chin.

“I noticed you mentioned pumpkin creamer the other day at the garage. Thought you might be a pumpkin spice girl, so I bought you a few pumpkin items. One muffin. One donut. I didn’t know if you had a preference.”

Because he doesn’t know me, but he did notice my enthusiasm for pumpkin flavoring.

“That was . . . sweet of you.” I choke around the words. Not because it wasn’t kind, but because I’m not used to someone doing something so thoughtful for me. I’m not used to someone paying attention to the fine details.

He sets the box on the low table in front of my couch and slips his hands into his back pockets. “So.” He hums. “How are you today?”

“Really? You came all this way to ask me how I am?” I don’t live in a neighborhood, but near a cliff in an old guest house that once belonged to a larger property. Now, this sliver of land is mine and slightly secluded.

“I don’t have your number . . . which we should exchange.” He pulls out his phone and steps closer to the island table.

“Why?” I hold my ground, not moving for my phone on the opposite counter.

“Because I want to check in on you. I want to be available to you.” He pauses, lowering his phone. “I want to be included.”

His brown eyes are so hopeful, so eager.

I should ask, for how long? I should ask when he’s leaving. But I don’t have any fight in me today. I just wanted to try to make an apple pie for some reason.

His gentle desire to be included hits a nerve. I’ve never been included. Growing up, the girls I went to school with all loved different things than I did. As an adult, I’d hoped to make new friends, but one small community is similar to another, and most women I met didn’t want to talk about transmission or washer fluid. They want to talk about books and babies, or husbands and recipes. And I didn’t have any of those things.

I had me. And the shop.

Sighing, I hang my head as I lean against the butcher table again. “I’m due in a few weeks, so I go to the doctor every week now.” Slowly, I lift my head. “What are you doing next Wednesday?”

I expect him to say he has an appointment or he’ll be back in New York by then, but he doesn’t even blink.

“I’ll be with you.”

“Don’t you need to check a calendar or something? Ask your assistant?” The thought of him having a cute little assistant in a slim-fitting skirt and sharp blouse unbuttoned one button more than necessary pops into my head. She’s probably blond, efficient, and intelligent.

I hate her.

He reaches for his hair, then slips his hand into his back pocket again. Interesting.

“I don’t have an assistant. And my calendar is clear.”

I tip my head, uncertain if he’s lying or just appeasing me, but again, I don’t have the energy to argue with him.