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Blanket, sunscreen, bug spray, and the chocolate chip cookies I baked, all tucked into a large tote. I head for the door just as the ringing of my phone in the kitchen halts me.
Clearly, I forgot that. I run back and nab it, and seeing it’s Ann Marie, I answer with an apology. “I’m running late. I’m sorry.”
“No worries. I’ve got us a place all picked out.”
“Perfect. See you soon.”
“Don’t forget a hat,” she reminds me.
“Good call,” I laugh and hang up. I tuck my phone in the rear pocket of my shorts, drop the tote, and rush to my bedroom. In my closet, I rummage through crap stuffed onto shelves until I find my straw cowboy hat.
Rearranging my ponytail to sit lower, I shove the hat down on my head and hurry into the living room. With the tote over my shoulder, I snag my keys and purse from the table by the door.
When I step out, I’m brought up short by a hulking figure standing there. I squeak in fear and stumble backward before I realize it’s just Coen.
And then my heart beats double time, because that’s the effect this man has on me.
I’m so stunned to see him, I blurt out, “What are you doing here?”
And mentally wince because it sounds all breathy and happy.
I shouldn’t be, but I am. Every night when the sun has set, I’ve turned off my porch light, giving myself a pep talk that it’s for the best. Coen might dole out the best sex I’ve ever had, and I’m sure nothing will ever compare, but he’s an entanglement that will only cause pain.
As he said, he’s not a nice man, and that spells broken heart down the road.
“Is this a bad time?” he asks.
“I was just on my way to the music festival over at Cherry Springs. Is there something you want?”
Coen’s eyes flash and his lips curve slightly. An unspoken answer, but I know what that expression means, so before he can voice it, I shake my head. “You’re not getting that.”
He smiles and holds out his hand, in it is a bottle of red wine. I glance at it suspiciously. “If you think I’m going to drink that with you, get tipsy, and let you into my panties, the answer is no thank you.”
Coen actually rolls his eyes. “First off, I don’t need you to be tipsy to get in your panties. I can do that well enough on my own because you want me as much as I want you.”
Now I’m the one who rolls my eyes. “I kept my porch light off this week, or did you even come by to check?”
“Oh, I came by,” he assures me. “But I’m a patient man.”
My eyes go back to the wine.
“It’s a peace offering,” he says, pushing it at me so I’m forced to accept it.
I glance at the label, but it’s lost on me. I like wine but know nothing about it. “So you went to buy a bottle of wine as a peace offering?”
“Actually, a teammate came to visit yesterday and brought it as a housewarming gift. I don’t drink wine, so I thought I’d pass it on to you. You just recently moved in, too, right?”
“Yes, and thank you.” I’m not sure what he’s doing, but I’m discombobulated. I lean inside my house and set the bottle on the table.
I wait for him to speak, but the conversation falls dead. And I can see it’s painfully awkward for him to be standing here with nothing to say.
I take the initiative as I step out onto the porch, pull the door shut behind me, and turn to lock it. “Again, thank you for the wine, but I’m running late as it is, so I’ve got to get going.”
“I want to be able to call you Tillie,” he says.
My body locks in stunned surprise as I look at him over my shoulder. It might be the most genuine thing I’ve ever heard a person say. He could call me Tillie any time he wants, not because we’re friends, but because there’s no law against doing so. He could call me Carol for all the say I’d have in it.
But he’s refrained for the most part since he knows that name is reserved for my friends, and he knows we’re not friends.
