Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
If you’d told me when I woke up this morning that I’d be sitting opposite a gorgeous, taciturn man in one of the Peach Tree Grille’s red vinyl booths, barefoot and wearing his hoodie, I would’ve said you were crazy. But here I am, swallowed up by Donovan Frost’s vanilla-and-cedar-smelling sweatshirt, perched crisscross-applesauce on my seat. Donovan himself is cautiously sipping the chocolate-caramel milkshake I insisted he order. It’s vegan, made with coconut milk, because apparently the Ice Man is lactose intolerant.
In a day of strange developments, this little rendezvous might be the weirdest one yet.
“Well?” I ask, hands wrapped around my own milkshake—mint chocolate chip, because even though the chocolate-caramel one is clearly the best, I make it a rule to never get two of the same flavor. Otherwise, how are you going to share?
Not that I usually have anyone to share with, other than Charlotte and her girls, but it’s the principle that counts.
Donovan spent the time while we waited for our milkshakes to arrive aligning the salt and pepper shakers perfectly with the ketchup bottle, then sorting the little jam packets by flavor, presumably to avoid making conversation with me. Now he leans back in his seat, stretching out his long legs. “Well, what?” he says, the two syllables clipped.
“Is your milkshake good?”
He eyes me, looking incredulous. Gone is the sympathetic guy who asked me if I was all right and then handed me his sweatshirt when I sobbed that I was cold. “ That’s what you want to talk about?” he says, arching a dark brow. “Not whatever the hell was going on with you before we crashed, or the crash itself, or why Cooper was on top of you , yet the two of you seem to hate each other’s guts?”
Talk about the pot and the kettle. “My blood sugar’s not high enough to deal with any of those things.” It’s an evasion, sure, but it’s also the truth. “So…”
Those eyes—sapphire, maybe?—narrow at me in what I’m fast realizing is his signature look. “The milkshake is fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Delicious. Delectable. Hyperglycemia-inducing.” He waves an impatient hand at me. “Drink up, though why you wanted something cold when you’re apparently freezing is beyond me. Then talk.”
“Has anyone ever told you that your manners are deplorable?” I mutter, closing my lips around my straw and taking a long pull of my milkshake nonetheless. The bite of the mint and the smooth sweetness of the chocolate are intoxicating, and I let out a moan of happiness.
Donovan’s gaze falls to my mouth, and he shifts in his seat. When he looks up, his expression is appalled. “Seriously? Do you have to make those…noises?”
“Oh, knock it off. It’s not like I’m going for the full When Harry Met Sally reenactment. Also, this place is empty.” I take another drag of my milkshake, giving a pointed glance around. Other than Mrs. Grant behind the counter, who’s worked here as long as I can remember and is half-deaf, we’re the only people here. “If you’re so insistent that I drink my milkshake, then you answer a question for me . Why does your sweatshirt have a picture of my cat on the front?”
“Your…?” For the second time today, Donovan Frost is staring at my chest. The weight of those jewel-blue eyes of his, regarding me with singular, intense focus, is unnerving.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’s gotten to me. “My cat. Valentine,” I clarify. “That’s who I was talking about, by the way. Not Officer Asshat.”
He sputters, spraying vegan ice cream across the table. “ What did you call him?”
“If the shoe fits…” I push my spare napkin in his direction. “Anyway, that’s Valentine on the front of your hoodie, for sure. She’s got that little white heart on her forehead and the white ace of spades on her chest. Did you hack into my phone and steal a photo of her, or what?”
His jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“I’m joking. Sort of.” My gaze drifts away from him, toward Mrs. Grant. She’s typing away on the iPhone her granddaughter got her for her birthday, lips pursed. As I watch, she glances toward me and Donovan, who’s fastidiously dabbing the table clean, then types faster.
“It’s from the animal rescue shelter,” he says, folding his damp napkin into…is that a parallelogram? “A fundraising item that didn’t work out. Why would you insinuate that I hacked into your phone? Do you think that’s what I do with my spare time? Besides, we just met today!”
My brow knits in puzzlement. Valentine was rescued from the shelter, true, but… “Who knows what you do when you’re not trying to reprogram the world. Break into people’s houses and organize their things? Neglect to hold elevator doors for desperate women? Anyway, explain why you have?—”
Donovan unfolds another napkin to use as a coaster for his milkshake. The dude has some serious issues. “I answered your question. Your turn to answer mine.”
There’s no way I’m getting into the whole premonition thing with him , of all people. It’s not like he’d believe me. “I told you. I hadn’t eaten. It makes me weird. As for the crash, it sucked, end of story. A perfect fit with the rest of my day.”
“And Cooper?” He crumples napkin #3 into a ball. “Did he do something to you? Is that why you got so freaked out when he tried to wake you up? How do you know him, anyhow?”
I sigh, looking at Mrs. Grant. She’s shifted so I can see her screen, which clearly displays our town’s Facebook group, Sapphire Springs Shenanigans. On it is a photo of yours truly, splayed in the puddle, with Donovan looming over me. She scrolls again, and it’s a blurry image of me, Donovan, and Officer Asshat. D’Andre must’ve taken it when he was biking away. Again, and it’s a video of me and Cooper tussling on the asphalt, the bus half-visible in the frame.
“Are you going to answer me?” Donovan demands.
I throw my hands up. That damn cedar-and-vanilla smell wafts everywhere, and I hate myself for liking it so much. “I don’t know why you care so much about me and Officer You-Know-What. But you want an answer? Look right there.” I point at Mrs. Grant and her three-models-newer-than-mine phone.
His gaze tracks, following my finger. His eyes widen. And then he runs a hand through his hair, so roughly the dark strands stand on end. “What the— Why are the two of you rolling around in the street?”
My head sinks onto my folded arms. “I was trying to save him from being hit by a bus,” I mutter to the Formica. “So naturally, he arrested me. This morning. Are you happy now?”
There’s a long, weighted pause, during which I don’t bother to look up. I’m too exhausted to move, let alone to deal with whatever insult he lobs my way. “Go ahead, Frost. Gloat.”
Silence. And then a peculiar sound emanates from the other side of the table. It’s low and throaty, and also a little rusty, like whoever’s making it is out of practice.
I lift my head and peer at him, just to make sure. But, yup. The imperturbable Donovan Frost is laughing.
“Knock it off!” I snatch up his napkin parallelogram and hurl it at him, but he dodges and it lands on the table behind him. Mrs. Grant gives me a disapproving glare, right before she types something else. I swear to sweet purple ponies, if she takes a picture of us and posts it on Sapphire Springs Shenanigans, I’m going to lose it.
“You…you tackled him?” Donovan chokes out. “And he actually arrested you? Why aren’t you in jail right now?”
“Like he said, I have a good lawyer.”
Donovan sobers, as if it’s just dawned on him that I heard everything he and Cooper said when I was out of it. Leave it to him to be pissed off about being caught acting decent. “You invite chaos wherever you go,” he says, realigning the salt and pepper shakers like he’s trying to cleanse himself of my bad influence. “And I don’t do chaos, Rune.”
After the day I’ve had, this final indignity is too much. “I’m not suggesting that you do me!” I snap. “We just need to work together, to make Ethan happy. That’s it. Get over yourself!”
Too late, I wish I could take the words back. Donovan blushes fire-engine red, the color of the booth we’re sitting in. If Mrs. Grant were a dog, her ears would be pricked—no pun intended. She’s definitely put something on the Facebook page, because through the plate-glass window behind Donovan, I see the members of her seniors’ book club, the Sinning Spinsters (otherwise known as the Sinsters), traipsing down the street, straight for the Grille. And every single one of them is holding their phone.
Damn, damn, damn.
“I—” Donovan stutters, staring at the table. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t implying?—”
I need to smooth this over, and fast. The very last thing I need is for it to get back to Ethan that his senior data engineer and the graphic designer who’s supposed to be collaborating with him on Smashbox’s prize project are in the midst of a sexual harassment debacle in the middle of the Peach Tree Grille. “Forget it.” I drain my milkshake, preparing to make a quick getaway. “Let’s just go.”
He shakes his head, gaze still fixed on the Formica. “I’m terrible at…people. Obviously. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I mean, yeah, you did knock a cop into the street, get arrested, have your car break down, fall in a puddle in front of the biggest gossips in town, and then get in a car wreck all in one day, but?—”
“Not. Helping.” The Sinsters are getting closer by the moment. I consider faking my death, but that would probably just get plastered all over the Facebook page too.
“Sorry! It’s no excuse, but Cooper gets under my skin. Brings out the worst in me.”
“I see that.” All hope of escape is gone; the Sinsters are assembling outside the door. Might as well ask what I want to know. “Why do you have such a problem with him, anyhow?”
“Because,” he says, dragging his gaze away from the table and meeting my eyes at last. “Officer Asshat is my brother.”