Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Jaxon
I have a twenty-seven-step plan to win back Izzy’s friendship.
Well, “step” is likely the wrong word. I have twenty-seven different ideas, all of varying degrees of normalcy, written down on a sheet of paper, that I plan to work through until Izzy and I are friends again.
Earning her forgiveness is certainly the crucial phase one of the plan, but after yesterday, I want more. I want to be her friend.
After everything, I realize friendship might be asking a lot, but I want Izzy Harper in my life.
And, shit, after the way my body reacted to seeing her in that little pink golf skirt yesterday—and that’s to say nothing of the golf cart incident—I might want more than that.
But earning her friendship is priority one, which requires earning her forgiveness.
Priority two is finishing the song that I now have two lines of for the Lupus Foundation.
Priority three requires me to write and record an entire album before my label decides to give me the boot, taking my entire life’s work with them as they go. So, we’ve got a ways to go on that one.
But as for earning Izzy’s forgiveness, attempt one is nice and simple—coffee. I have no delusions that Izzy’s forgiveness can be won with one cup of joe, but it feels like a good foot in the door. A way to prove I’m serious about being there for her.
“I’ll have a…vanilla latte?” I say, and the barista at Wild Brews raises her eyebrow when it comes out as a question.
“Are you sure?” she asks, and I’m surprised by the lack of fangirling. It’s sort of nice, though it’s strange someone in her twenties from Wild Bluffs wouldn’t know who I am. Does she know who I am?
Nash snickers behind me, and I regret once again letting Carter assign a security team to me while I’m here.
I am, in fact, not sure. I sent Kelsey a text to ask what kind of coffee Izzy likes, and her response was “you’re an idiot.” It was not as helpful as I was hoping, though undeniably accurate.
Fifteen years ago, Izzy loved sweet things, so vanilla latte feels like a safe bet. Though, a lot has changed in fifteen years…
“Um, maybe add on a”—I scan the menu in front of me—“black coffee, a chai tea, and an iced coffee with cream.”
Nash snickers again.
“Also a muffin, a croissant, and a bagel.”
The barista’s eyes are wide as she types it all in.
“Anything else, Mr. Steele?” she asks.
I guess that answers my question. It’s weird that she…actually, now that I think of it, it’s strange that no one has acknowledged my existence in town—in the restaurant the other night or in the coffee shop this morning.
It’s nice, in a way. Like I’m normal.
I shake my head in answer as I pull my wallet out of my back pocket to access my stalker-proof form of payment—cash. “No. I think that should do it.”
Five minutes later, the barista hands me a bag full of breakfast treats and a drink carrier with what, in my mind, are the four most diverse yet popular drink options.
“Anything else you need?” she asks.
“Just a lot of luck that one of these is Izzy’s favorite drink,” I mumble, mostly to myself.
She lets out a snort. “You should be fine. She tends to drink iced vanilla lattes in the summer, but the hot one will likely do…if she’ll let you close enough to give it to her,” she adds with a smirk.
Right. Small towns—everyone knows everything. For better or worse.
“Ah, well, thanks,” I say, turning to leave the coffee shop.
As we step out onto the sidewalk, I offer the other drinks to Nash. “Want one?”
Nash shakes his head, his eyes dancing with amusement. “No way am I letting the outcome of your quest rest on the words of a barista. Show up with all of them. Make it seem like you’re trying.”
“I am trying,” I say as I climb into the passenger seat of the SUV.
Nash insisted on driving today, and I let him.
Mostly because he was so mad at me for not letting him do his job, but also because it’s nice to have company.
“To Izzy’s house, James,” I say in my best haughty, Twelfth Duke of York voice.
Nash chuckles before easily navigating to Izzy’s house. I tell myself his knowledge of where she lives is because he followed me there yesterday after I convinced Carter to give me her address, not because he’s been here before. Which would be fine. Maybe they’re friends.
I hop out of the car, ignoring Nash’s wishes for good luck.
I’m pretty sure he finds this whole situation a lot funnier than I do.
I would probably find it amusing if I weren’t the one who was sucker punched with the realization that I was a complete and utter asshole of a friend, possibly of a person.
It’s been a pretty shitty thirty-six hours full of a lot of self-loathing. There is a not-zero percent chance I will develop an ulcer from the way my stomach has been churning with shame.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I knock.
As I wait at Izzy’s door, hands full of caffeinated beverages and treats, my nerves are slowly fraying. Is she not home? Is she in there and just doesn’t want to deal with me? Is she being held hostage by a crazed fan who wants to create a magic love potion out of her hair?
No. Izzy is normal—not inundated by stalkers.
I knock again.
“She’s already at work,” a deep voice calls from across the street.
“What?” I ask, turning to face the middle-aged man poking his head out of the pickup idling on the driveway across the street.
“Izzy Harper,” he says, waving a hand at her house. “She goes to work early.”
“Oh, thank you,” I reply, heading back to Nash and the car.
I stop, throwing a hand in the air to catch the guy’s attention as he starts to pull away from his house.
“Wait! Where does she work?”
“Main Street. You should be able to see her through the window as you walk by.”
“Thanks!” I yell, shuffling my peace offerings to one hand so I can climb in next to Nash.
“Izzy should be concerned with how willing people in town are to give away her location,” Nash says as he puts the car in reverse to back out of the driveway. “Especially considering they know how mad she is at you.”
“How much she hates me, you mean,” I reply.
Nash considers it. “I’m not sure if she hates you or not.
Everyone goes out of their way not to mention you to her, but I’m not sure how much of that is her trying to avoid the bad memories of everything that happened, or how much of it is just an old habit from when she was eighteen and her family and friends were trying to protect her.
” He shrugs. “But as I didn’t grow up here, this is all just hearsay.
“Here we are,” Nash says as we pull up to a building on the opposite side of Main Street as the coffee shop.
“Wait, you knew where she worked the whole time?” I ask, staring at the brick building in front of me. Sure enough, if you know where to look, you can see Izzy working through the large windows in front.
“Yes.”
I wait, assuming Nash has more to say, but apparently that’s all I’m getting.
“Did you know she was here when we went to her house?” I ask.
“I thought it might be possible. I do live here when I’m not on assignment, you know. I’ve seen her in early a few times before.”
I bite back my annoyance. “You couldn’t have told me that before we drove all the way to her house?” I ask. “I could’ve just walked across the street with hot coffees ten minutes ago.”
He shrugs. “Nope. I will certainly jump in front of a bullet for you, but in case there is any confusion, I’m Team Izzy.”
Well, I can’t fault him for that. I’m Team Izzy too.
And with that thought, I take a deep breath, trying to ease the tension coiling in my body as my nerves start to get the best of me.
No time like the present.
“Knock, knock,” I say as I pull open the glass doors into Flatroads Consulting, according to the sign hanging above the door.
“Hey!” Izzy says, her voice the warm hug that I remember from our youth. “Oh, it’s you,” she says, the warmth draining from her tone when she sees me.
I hold up the drinks and pastry bag like the sacrificial offering they are. “I brought you coffee. Or chai. And a variety of snacks.”
Izzy tucks the corner of her lower lip between her teeth in contemplation, and I feel a sliver of hope that she might take me up on my offer.
“Oh, well, that was…nice of you,” she says. It’s like she’s unsure how to act around me. “I’ve already got coffee, though,” she says, holding up a light pink travel mug.
“Sure,” I say, setting everything down on the desk in front of hers.
Maybe I need to treat this like a barn cat situation, just leave the offering there and slowly back away.
“I got them for you, though, so I’m just going to leave them here.
You can choose to drink them or eat them or not, but I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you this morning. ”
She taps at her keyboard like she’s not paying attention to me, so I turn to leave. It’s fine. This was just attempt one.
“Coffee isn’t going to make me forgive you,” she says as I reach the door.
I pause, turning to look into her deep brown eyes. “I know, Iz…zy. I didn’t expect it to. But, well, maybe when I bring it by tomorrow, I’ll get to talk to you for a few minutes. Maybe not, but that’s okay. I’ve got twenty-six other ideas to try.”
“Jaxon—” she starts, as if exasperated.
“I’m not giving up this easily. I heard everything you said to me the other night, and you were right.
I completely lost your trust and your friendship, and while I don’t deserve to ever earn either back, I’m going to try.
At the very least, I’m going to try to be worthy of your forgiveness should you ever decide to give it to me.
And, in the meantime, you deserve every nice thing I’m about to throw at you.
But I am sorry.” I send her a wink, a subconscious movement that I couldn’t have stopped if I tried.
“Don’t fucking wink at me, Jaxon,” she yells. But I’m already out the door, walking toward Nash and the waiting vehicle.