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“He’s not allergic.” This comes from Mr. Allemand, who steps away from the grill and pries the jar out of his son’s hand. “Thank you, Summer. That was kind of you.”
My cheeks heat with embarrassed pleasure at the compliment.
“Why don’t you get the young lady a drink?” Mr. Allemand phrases this like a question, but it lands like a pointed command when he stares at his son.
“Yeah…a drink.” Cole seems off balance, and I can’t help worrying there is something wrong with my gift.
Did he have some mysterious problem in his past with cookies?
But then a strong set of arms snakes around my waist, pulling me into a hard warm chest. A second later, lips brush against my hair as Cole leans down to ask, “What sounds good? Beer? Wine?”
“Oh, if there’s wine I’d love some. If not, beer is fine.” Too late I realize I’ve yet again left myself open to being offered a glass of something sickly sweet. My problem is that whenever I hear the word wine, I automatically assume it’s going to be a dry rich liquid.
“Your grandma told me to buy a bottle of red. Check on top of the fridge.” Cole’s dad waves us away, returning to whatever he’s grilling for dinner.
With a hand on the small of my back, Cole turns me toward the house.
And only once we’ve stepped away from the older man do I fully acknowledge the tightness of my nerves. Normally, I’m great at one-on-ones. But hell, I wanted Cole’s dad to like me. The reasoning behind that longing is something else I don’t want to dwell on.
Still, for the last ten minutes, I was extremely nervous.
“Can I use the bathroom?”
Cole points me down a hall once we step through the sliding glass door.
Locking myself in the small room, I take stock of myself.
When I get nervous, I sweat. Luckily, I tucked an emergency stick of deodorant into my purse. I need a second to reapply. And maybe swipe a bit under my boobs for good measure.
Overall, not a disaster. Let’s see if I can keep it that way.
COLE
“You have to have a wine opener somewhere,” I mutter, searching through all the drawers in his kitchen. Different kitchen implements rattle around, but nothing that looks like it could remove a cork from a bottle.
“Stop that, Cole.” My dad comes into the kitchen, a scowl on his face, just as I pull out the drawer under the microwave.
This one doesn’t have any cooking utensils. What it is filled with are envelopes. A decent stack of them. All with thick red letters stamped on them.
Bill enclosed.
Final Notice.
Overdue.
“What the fuck are these?”
“Language.”
I ignore his chastising, reaching for one of the pieces of mail. They don’t even look as if they’ve been opened.
But Dad almost snaps one of my fingers off when he crosses the kitchen to slam the drawer shut.
“It’s not your concern.”
“Are those medical bills?”
“We’re not talking about this.”
