Page 27

He poured two cups of black coffee, and we sat at the kitchen island while Cooper lay on the floor between us like a chaperone.

Marshall talked, telling me about growing up on a cattle ranch. He told me he shared a bedroom with his brother Chase until he was sixteen, and about learning to skate on frozen ponds. He told me that the nearest rink was an hour away from his house growing up and that his dad would drive him there three times a week.

"My cousin Dylan plays for the Vancouver Dominators. When I got drafted, I remember my parents and brother were in the green room at the arena with Dylan. My mom cried when they called my name. My father held himself together, silently high-fiving my cousin and brother."

"They must be really proud." I smiled.

"They are. Later I found out that my mom was more upset at the fact I was moving to Boston and didn't know anyone. I told her not to worry though, the guys would become like family."

"You really love hockey." I said, wrapping both my hands around my mug.

"I do. It's the only thing I've ever been good at. I mean, I'm handy, I can fix a fence, drive a tractor and make decent scrambled eggs, but hockey makes everything make sense. It's the one thing that I do where I don't feel like I'm pretending."

"That's exactly how I feel about design."

I looked at him, the man who'd shown up on my door, who'd spilled coffee all over me, and who'd thrown a party so loud it shook my walls and then kissed me. I still heard the sound he made during that kiss while trying to fall asleep.

He was nothing like Brett. Not even a little, and that realization settled inside me. Brett had every word calculated. Every gesture he made produced a specific response. Brett's charm had been a tool, something he'd used strategically. Marshall was the opposite; that much I already knew from this conversation. Half of the time he said exactly the wrong thing, but when he said the right thing, it landed and didn't feel like a strategy. Brett had never said the wrong thing.

"I'm sorry too, Marshall. At the coffee shop, I called you a cocky bastard under my breath, but still, I'm sorry."

"I heard it." He shrugged. "It's okay, I was being exactly that."

"You were." I said, smiling. "But I didn't need to say it."

"My father always said, sometimes we need to be reminded when we overstep a line. It's okay." He smiled back, and we both sat there quietly for a moment.

"So, your business, interior design. How is that going?"

"It's going." I said, tracing the rim of my mug with my finger. "Boston is competitive, and I am still working on building my client base and reputation. I'm good at what I do and work is slowly coming along."

"I can tell you are good at what you do. Your house looks like a magazine. Each time I look through my window…"

I frowned. "Every time you look through your window?"

"I notice things, that's all. I'm not spying." He winked.

"Good. You had me worried."

We talked for another hour. We talked about Cooper, and he asked me questions about design and my process. He listened as if he were genuinely interested in what I had to say and he refilled my mug when he noticed it was getting low. He got up while I spoke and poured me more coffee as if we'd done this a thousand times.

When I got up to leave, I noticed I'd been there for almost three hours. Cooper was sound asleep on Marshall's kitchen floor, his body stretched across the tile. He'd made himself at home and had decided that this place and this person were safe, which comforted me as well.

"Thanks for the coffee." I said as we got to the door.

"Thank you for joining me." He said, leaning against the doorframe. "Oh, and Lillah?"

I stopped outside his door and turned to look at him.

"The guy last night at the bar, he wasn't right for you."

I frowned, my chest tightening as I studied him.

"How would you know what is right for me?" I questioned.

He held my gaze, looking at me the same way he'd looked up at my bedroom window from his driveway yesterday evening.

"I don't. But I know what it looks like when someone is enduring a date instead of enjoying one. You were enduring."