Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
AMbrOSE
Catalina asks, “Are we heading down to the river?”
“Yep. Perfect spot for stargazing and peace and quiet.” I park the car and hop out, striding fast towards the passenger door.
Electricity zings as I offer her my hand, her soft fingers melting against my rough, work-hardened ones.
I snag both bags in one hand, steadying her forearm as she balances the shakes. We make our way down to the coolness of the water’s edge. I coach her on where to step so she doesn’t get her strappy sandals muddy.
“I don’t know what it is about you,” I say gruffly. “But every time we touch …” I nod towards a log for her to sit down. “It’s the best feeling. Don’t mean to get mushy or anything.”
Emotion swirls in her unreadable eyes. “Strange to think we only just met. Somehow, it feels like we’ve known each other longer.”
I sit next to her, jaw tight, fighting the urge to close the space between us.
She swaps a shake for a bag, and we sit still for a long moment, enjoying the feel of the air, the rush of the water, and the rare tranquility of this place.
“Sorry to vent earlier in the truck. It’s the last thing we should be talking about.”
“What should we be talking about?” she whispers.
I force a lopsided grin. “How about planning that ten-thousand-dollar date I owe you? What would be a good night—or better yet, weekend—to go?”
“But isn’t this it?” she counters huskily, brows furrowed.
“It? What do you mean?”
“Our date.”
Removing my cowboy hat, I set it on the log next to me, stabbing my fingers through my hair. “This is no ten-thousand-dollar date,” I say, grim-faced.
“Oh,” she says, munching on a curly fry as an uncomfortable quiet presses down on us.
“I mean, unless you’re not enjoying being with me?”
“It’s not that,” she rasps. “I just—umm …”
I wait patiently, desperate for her to open up to me. Each unspoken moment feels like a gulf widening between us that I’m not sure how to cross.
Finally, she says, words measured and slow, “I’ve already bothered you enough. Between rescuing me from the tree and all this auction mess tonight. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Huh.” I don’t know what else to say. On the one hand, her words sound like a very nice, ultra-polite way to let someone down. A clever twist on the “it’s not you, it’s me” schtick.
On the other hand, if she means what she says, truly believing she could be a bother to anyone? Well, that would fuck with my heart something fierce because she’s an amazing woman. Fiery, alive, passionate. How could I not want to be with her?
“Mind if I be blunt?” I ask.
“Not at all.” Her apprehensive face says otherwise.
“Either you don’t want to see me again, or you think I don’t want to see you again. Which is it?”
She knits her forehead. “It’s neither, Ambrose.”
The way she pronounces those two syllables gets me every time. Why, oh why, do I have to like the one woman immune to my charm and good looks? For the first time in my life, I wish I could impress this girl. Bowl her over with my celebrity. Whatever it takes.
“Then, what is it?”
She shrugs, “We’re way too different for each other …”
“But what about the stuff we have in common?” I ask, chuckling in disbelief.
“What do you mean? I’m a bookish, boring, DMV employee. And you’re …” She shakes her head.
“I grew up playing ice hockey like you. I adore a double-double with curly sweet potato fries and a large vanilla caramel shake from the diner. I volunteer my time and resources to help rescue animals, and I have a Tbr I’d stack against yours any day.”
“Not possible,” she counters, though her cheeks glow like she wants to believe me.
“Completely possible. I read space operas.”
“Oh.”
“We’re both country born and bred, like homegrown music, and last time I checked, your pussy’s head over heels for me.”
Her eyes bug out, and I fight hard to suppress the laugh that grips me. I may be a generally decent guy and all, but I’ve still got a little bad boy in me, especially when I can mask it with a pun.
She squirms on the log, crossing her legs and shifting uncomfortably. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Dumpling, of course.”
“Oh,” she exclaims.
Chuckling, I hold up a hand. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.”
She giggles. “You had me there for a second.”
“You’ve got a dirty mind, Sparky.”
“Sparky?”
I nod firmly, ready to die on this hill.
“That’s a weird nickname.”
“Why? You light me up every which way when we’re together. Sparky’s the best way to describe it.”
“The only nickname I’ve ever had is Cat,” she says, licking her thick bottom lip and unraveling me with excruciating slowness. God, I need a first taste of her like I need air.
I ask, “And what’s your middle name?”
“Cynthia. ”
“Catalina Cynthia Dupont. It has a nice ring to it.” I’d say it every damn day like a prayer… if she were mine.
“How about yours?”
“Lincoln.”
“Ambrose Lincoln Dutch.” My body hums at her pronunciation. This damn woman was made for me. Question is, how do I convince her of it? “Sounds like a cowboy name.”
“A cowboy name? Is that even a thing?”
“Yeah, specific names are more evocative of the West. Like John Wayne, for example. You don’t hear that and think of businessmen and billionaires.”
“Honestly? I think of Genghis Khan.”
Catalina snorts. “Did you really have to go there?”
“Somebody had to.”
“You’re a funny guy, Ambrose,”
“Then, give me that ten-thousand-dollar date your Grandma so kindly bid on. I promise to make it a gift you’ll never forget.”
“That’s what worries me,” she says, looking at her hands.
“That you’ll like hanging out with me?”
“That I’ll love it. You know, a man is the last thing I need right now. Between work, caretaking for Gran, volunteering, and keeping up on my reading, I’ve got my hands full.”
“That’s because you’re thinking about men like babies you have to take care of.
An added responsibility. But what if the right man is everything you need?
To lend an extra hand with your Grandma and other familial obligations?
To take some of the pressure off having to be a solely sufficient career woman?
To be there for you day in and day out … ”
She stares at me for a long moment. It’s not a scrutinizing gaze like she’s dissecting or judging me. It goes so much deeper. A look of knowing that makes me feel seen for the first time in years.
“Everything you just said sounds great. In a book or a movie. But real life? I know too much to think things work that way. Men and women fall in and out of love all the time. But apart from my grandparents, who I’ve decided were an anomaly, I have trouble believing in the fairytale of relationships. ”
“Says the woman who immerses herself in romance reads.”
“Real life could never compare.”
I grumble, “Oh, I know it could.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because if you were mine, Sparky, I’d spoil the hell out of you. Every. Damn. Day.”
Catalina jumps to her feet, pacing away from me towards the water. Have I said too much?
Glancing at her watch, her shoulders tense. “It’s already past ten. I better get back home to relieve Tilly and Tom.”
I rub my hand over my face, regretting the way I just shared myself. I thought she’d appreciate my vulnerability. Not slam the door hard in my face.
“So, that’s it? Will I ever see you again?”
“Of course,” she says, picking up a smooth stone and skipping it across the river. It bounces two times. “I’m only ever one DMV away.”
I stand up, heading towards her and repeating the gesture. My rock skips three times before it sinks.
“You know,” I say. “You surprised the hell out of me today.”
Her brows lift. “Because I nearly mooned half the neighborhood?”
A grin tugs at my mouth. “That, too. But I meant the hockey thing. Growing up with brothers, pushing yourself to keep up. That takes grit.”
Her scarlet lips curve, then falter. “Or stupidity. They always said I didn’t know when to quit. That I was stubborn enough to break myself just to prove a point.”
I shake my head, heat flickering low in my chest. “That’s not weakness. That’s strength. You kept standing. Even when it hurt.”
She studies me like she’s not sure if I mean it. Hell, half the time I’m not sure anyone believes me. But I do mean it. I see her. Every ounce of that stubborn fire.
“My crew thinks I’m a joke,” I admit, voice low. “Hollywood. Pretty boy. Like I’m playing at being a firefighter instead of earning it.” I glance at her, waiting for the flinch, the smirk, the I knew it.
But she doesn’t. She just nods, slow and deliberate. “Then I guess we’ve both been underestimated.”
The words hit like a clean shot of air after smoke. Recognition. Respect. More than that. Something steady and dangerous all at once.
Her hand brushes mine, light as a whisper. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I have to prove a damn thing.
Until she turns back towards the river, sending her rock skittering four times across its surface.
“Damn, Sparky, I’m not sure if I can repeat that.” I try, but I only get two measly hops out of mine.
She chuckles, shrugging. “Growing up in this small town, I’ve had plenty of time to perfect the art. It’s all in the wrist.”
I question, “Who taught you this? Your parents?”
“My dad was out of the picture when I was pretty young. I don’t remember much about him. And my mom? She had to work two, sometimes three, jobs to keep us financially treading water. She didn’t have much time for me.”
“Who raised you, then?”
“Gran and Grandpa.”
“In other words, you learned young not to count on men, thanks to your dad, and to make your identity and your life work, thanks to your mom.”
She smiles sadly. “Maybe you should be a psychiatrist, not a firefighter.”
“But your grandpa was a good guy, right? Always there for you.” I feel like I’m grasping at straws now.
“Until he died last year. After that, Gran’s life and mine were upended. We have yet to settle back into a routine. On top of that, she’s starting to show the early signs of dementia.”
“How so?”
Catalina sighs heavily. “The biggest thing is she keeps forgetting Grandpa’s dead.
It’s so hard some days. As much as they represented couple goals for me, I could never become that dependent on someone …
To the point where I literally can’t live without them …
Or remember when they’re gone. How scary. ”
“It is scary, but I can’t think of anything more gratifying, either.”
She shrugs.
“Wasn’t the love and happiness you witnessed between your Grandma and Grandpa worth the risk? I mean, you wouldn’t technically be here without it.”
“Yes, but the thought of not being enough for myself. Of needing something only someone else can give.” She shivers.
“I want you to promise me something, Catalina. That you’ll really think through …”
“Okay,” she agrees reluctantly.
“If you were willing to climb a tree and risk your life for a crotchety, grumpy, spoiled tabby, how much more should you risk for a chance at something bigger than yourself?” I really want to say for a chance at love. But the look on her face warns me away from that word.
She’s not ready. Not sure I am, either. Nevertheless, what she does to me is unreal. It has me thinking about all sorts of things I’ve never thought about before.
“It’s the answer to that question that scares me the most,” she confesses, grabbing her shake and bag of leftovers. Moving towards the door, she makes it clear the night’s over. My heart sinks.
She apologizes, “Sorry to cut things short, but I really do need to get home.”
“And we need to stop by my place to do the Dumpling exchange.”
“That, too,” she agrees, face so fucking breathtaking I can’t look away and so unreadable it’s pure torture.