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His cheeks turned the slightest shade of red. “Just can’t. Sometimes a man’s got other plans, okay?”
I turned slowly. “Wade, do you have a date?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I do.”
“No shit,” I breathed. “Who is it?”
“Like I’m telling you. The second anyone gets laid around here, shit like this happens.” Then he gestured at me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look at you,” he barked. “You can’t even keep your head on straight. What’d she do to you?”
I frowned. “How about you get back to work?”
“No problem,” he muttered, then ambled off.
Ian popped his head back into the house. “What time do you want to get those drinks?”
For a long moment, I just glared at him. Then I exhaled slowly. I was getting too old for any of this shit.
“Eight?” I said on a sigh.
He nodded. “Sounds good.”
The younger guys on the crew were still watching me. “Get back to work,” I told them. “Nothing to see here.”
Chapter 21
Ivy
With a slow, deep breath, I reached over to the passenger seat of my car and unbuckled the seat belt. The glass dish had remained unmoved on the short drive to Tim and Sheila’s cabin, and even though I knew it would be fine, I gave a warning glare to that perfectly layered chocolate mousse as I picked it up and transferred it carefully into my lap.
“If you move so much as a centimeter, I’ll never forgive you,” I whispered.
The stripes of white cream and deep chocolate were perfectly even, and the neatly sliced strawberries between them looked amazing against the glass, if I did say so myself. YouTube, as it turned out, had videos for quite literally everything. Even how to make a good mousse for beginners.
I watched it seven times before making this third and final attempt—my peace offering to Tim and Sheila for yet again bailing on their generous offer for a meal. The sticky coat of embarrassment had clung to me all morning until I decided it was stupid to sit in that feeling when I could do something very clear about it.
So I put that damn apron back on and conquered the fucking mousse.
I didn’t tell them I was coming over, and no small part of me prayed for an empty house, so I could leave the mousse on the porch along with a handwritten note of apology.
But when I eased myself carefully out of the car, mousse clutched against my chest, I locked eyes with a smiling Tim Wilder, sitting contentedly in one of the rocking chairs, his small oxygen tank on the porch next to him.
“Well now,” he said, “my wife is going to be very upset when she hears about this.”
My heart stalled in my chest, hands tightening on the glass dish. “She will?”
His eyes were kind, though, and warm, and he nodded as I took the steps up onto the porch. “She’s running a few errands in town, and when she finds out you were here with chocolate, it just might break her heart to know she missed you.”
A quick, relieved exhale slipped out of my mouth. “Oh.”
Tim chuckled, nodding his head toward the rocking chair next to him. “You’ll join me, though, won’t you?”
“I don’t want to interrupt if you’re enjoying the solitude.”
He studied my face for a moment. “I’d be happy if you did, Ivy.”
