Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cade
The moment she opens her door, I ask, “How many times have you thought about canceling?”
“How did you know where I live?” she counters with her own question.
“Easy. Everyone in Cooper Town knows where everyone lives.” I make no move to step toward her as she stands in the middle of her doorway, holding open the screen door.
She stares at me, waiting.
“Charli,” I confess, holding up my hands. “But in my defense, it was casual conversation. She didn’t come to me specifically with the details, nor did I ask. I overheard her and Lizzie talking about you renting from Sommer’s parents and it just came out.”
It takes her a few seconds before she nods. “I’m not used to this small-town thing.”
“I understand. It’s a lifestyle, and if you’re not used to it, it can seem like a lot.”
She snorts. “No kidding.”
We both stand here for several more seconds before I finally hold up the bottle of tequila with one hand and a bag containing dessert. “So, am I leaving this with you, or…”
She glances at the bag. “What’d you bring?”
“Well, I didn’t see any fresh cookies in their bakery that looked good, so I grabbed some edible cookie dough and fudge swirl ice cream. I even bought a bottle of chocolate syrup.”
Her eyes brighten with excitement as she glances up at me. “You brought cookie dough?”
I shrug, hoping I did the right thing. “Charli says ice cream and cookie dough heals a broken heart, so I took a shot that it works for all women.”
Oaklee grabs the bag of sweets and looks inside. “I’ve never had the edible cookie dough like this.”
“We can bake it too, but the package says it’s okay to eat raw.”
She steps back, granting me entrance. “All cookie dough is okay to eat raw.”
“It is?” I ask, stepping inside her space.
“Well, probably not, but I’ve never had an issue. It’s like drinking hot coffee or taking medicine. In this society, you have to put warning labels on everything now.”
“True,” I state, glancing around the living space. It’s an open floor concept with the living room taking up the majority of the space, along with the kitchen and small dining area between them. “Nice place.”
“It is,” she confirms. “Brenda painted the living room, bedroom, and hallway before I moved in. She said the previous tenant must have hung a thousand pictures on the walls.”
I step back and think. “Huh. I think I have two.”
“Two pictures in each room?”
“No, two pictures total.”
“Seriously? How is that possible?”
I lift my shoulders and return my gaze to her.
“Easy. One picture is of my entire family on the day I returned home from my first tour overseas, and the other is of me and Collin last summer when we were camping and four-wheeling at a big park in Indiana. We’re both covered in mud and wearing matching smiles. ”
She’s grinning. “That sounds fun.”
“Ever been on a four-wheeler?” I ask.
“Come on, let’s go in the kitchen so I can finish prepping the nachos,” she answers.
I follow behind, casually stealing a glimpse of her ass. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized T-shirt now, having changed from her work scrubs. “Can I start the margaritas?”
She glances over her shoulder, her long hair making my hand itch to touch. “I thought we were doing shots?” she jokes.
“That’s still an option,” I inform her, setting the bottle on the counter beside the strawberry mix, blender, and salt container. “You have ice?”
She nods. “In the freezer.”
I get to work on a batch of margaritas. I might add a splash more tequila than I should, but I figure it’ll help her relax. Since I’m driving, I’ll only have one and then switch to water.
“So, you never answered my question,” I say, adding the ice.
“Which question?”
“Four-wheeling. Ever been?”
“Nope, but I love being outdoors. Maybe someday,” she responds casually, cutting up the jalapenos.
I’m ready to open my mouth, to invite her to go with me sometime soon, but quickly think better of it.
The last thing I’d want is for her to feel like I’m pushing my way into her life, especially after what sounds like a very recent breakup.
I don’t mind being a rebound guy, but usually that involves just sex.
Asking her to go do one of my favorite pastimes isn’t exactly keeping it casual, if you know what I mean.
I turn on the blender, watching as the liquids blend together and the ice is devoured, making a pretty great mixture of alcohol and taste. “Glasses?” I ask, not wanting to open up all the cabinets in search of what I need.
“To your right, by the sink,” she tells me, just as she moves toward said sink to rinse the spicy peppers. We’re standing directly beside each other, a fruit scent ebbing from her body.
Is it the margarita mix?
Is it her?
There’s only one way to find out.
I bend down, practically shoving my nose into her neck, and inhale.
“What are you doing?” she whispers without moving.
“Smelling you. I caught a whiff of something fruity, and I was seeing if it was you,” I tell her casually, though what’s happening in my pants is anything but.
“Umm, you’re making strawberry margaritas.”
“It’s not exactly strawberry I smell. It’s sweet and fruity, yes, but with hints of vanilla.”
I watch as she swallows hard and turns her head to meet my gaze. “That’s my lotion.” She’s trying to be casual, but it’s not working.
Desperately needing to put a bit of distance between us, I step back to the left and grab the two glasses I was retrieving before I was distracted. “Huh. Well, it smells nice.”
She clears her throat, eyes focused on the peppers. “Thanks.”
I hum an old Hank Williams tune as I coat the rim of the glasses in the salt and pour two perfect margaritas.
I take a quick sip of the one I’ll keep, savoring the sweet strawberry mixed with the punch of tequila.
We’re talking high-quality presentation and superior taste, if I do say so myself. “Damn, I’m good.”
She chuckles and puts the chopped jalapenos into a bowl. “I think this is ready too,” she says, moving to the fridge to grab the container of sour cream.
I take our glasses to the table and join her at the counter. “You did all this, plus changed and freshened up before I got here?”
She shrugs her delicate shoulders and blushes. “Well, this is pretty simple. The meat takes like two minutes to heat up, and the cheese dip is just microwaved until melted. Cutting the peppers took the longest,” she says with a chuckle.
“It looks delicious.”
“It’s not authentic or gourmet,” she counters.
“It’s perfect. I usually just throw some meat on the grill or cook some vegetables. I’m pretty simple when it comes to food,” I tell her, taking the plate she offers. “No, you go first.”
“But you’re my guest.”
“Ladies first, Oaklee. Always.” I give her a wink and step back, allowing her to make a plate first.
I don’t miss the way she blushes, obviously picking up on the innuendo I wasn’t even trying to aim her way. But now that the comment is out there, I won’t take it back. She would always come first, in every way that matters, including in the bedroom.
She piles a mound of chips on her plate, followed by a healthy scoop of barbecued pulled pork, queso cheese, some jalapenos, and a dollop of sour cream.
“Spicy doesn’t bother you?” I ask, reaching for the chips and forming the base on my plate.
“I love things a touch spicy, but jalapenos are the hottest I go. A friend of mine used to use ghost peppers on her tacos and I almost died just by smelling them,” she says, taking her plate over to the table. “My eyes would water through the whole meal.”
I chuckle, scooping my first chip in the barbecue pork and cheese mixture, making sure to grab one of the jalapeno slices and a touch of sour cream as I do. “Damn,” I mutter, chewing and savoring the spicy, tangy taste. “This is good.”
“I could eat this kind of food every day. Dips too. I don’t need meat and potatoes, though I do appreciate a good steak too. Usually, if I have time, I make this Velveeta and RO-TEL dip that’s amazing.”
If my mouth wasn’t watering before, it would be now. “That sounds delicious.”
She shrugs, scooping a chip in the topping and popping it into her mouth.
“It is. Easy too. I’ve even made it before where I’ll add a pound of sausage or ground beef and call it a meal.
I think it all stems from nursing school.
My roommate and I would have to eat on the fly around classes and work, so you just do what you have to do. ”
“Makes sense,” I interject. “I’m so used to eating on the fly during the day because of my job and being in the military, so I try to make better meals at night.”
“I know you are a heavy equipment operator, but what exactly do you do?”
“I work on roads and bridges mostly. It’s pretty cool.”
She grins. “You were a Matchbox Car kid, weren’t you.” It’s not a question, and her comment makes me laugh.
“Absolutely. I was a messy kid, always playing in the grass and dirt.”
“I can see that.” She shifts in her seat, looking up and meeting my gaze. “And…thank you for your service.”
I nod, never really knowing what to say when someone thanks me for my service.
I remember early on in my career, a man walked up to me in the airport when I was catching a flight home and thanked me.
I just nodded and shook his outstretched hand.
But that show of appreciation went a long way for me.
I never say you’re welcome, I always just nod.
Why? Because it’s what I do—or did—and I’d do it again a thousand times over.
I was only one small piece of the massive puzzle that is our armed services, and I was proud to do what I did. Still am.
I’m a proud U.S. Marine Veteran.