3. Lila #2
He moves the basket again and they flex. Veins run down his forearms before disappearing into strong, capable hands and long fingers that look like they belong wrapped around tools instead of gift baskets.
I bet his fingertips are rough and the calluses on his palms goosebump inducing.
The man looks like he could carry a refrigerator up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat.
And, at this point, I’d risk getting my own murder podcast episode for the chance to accidentally-on-purpose brush against him while carrying this cake.
Sweet merciful sunshine. What is wrong with me?
Maybe I’m dehydrated. That’s it. The sun is cooking my brain. Or I’ve inhaled too much sugar, and it’s somehow altered my hormones.
Hold the phone. Am I ovulating?
“Lila!” Candi chirps. “I’d be happy to carry the cake in for you. I’m sure you have lots of other things to take care of.”
Translation: I’d be happy to insert myself directly between you and this god of a man.
“Things can wait,” Max says before I can answer. Turning toward the front porch, he crouches beside a fake rock, lifting it and shaking out a key.
“That hide-a-key is adorable,” Candi says with a giggle.
His eyes drop to the key in his hand, and another faint blush creeps across his cheeks. “I wasn’t sure how safe it actually is around here.”
I shrug. “I once left my front door wide open for almost four hours when I went to run errands in the city. Rushed out of the house and completely forgot to close it. When I got home, Mr. Biscuits was asleep on the couch.”
Brows lifting, Max slides the key into the lock. “Mr. Biscuits?”
“Lila’s a cat lady,” Candi offers, whispering the last two words like a curse.
“Why is that a bad thing?” I wrinkle my nose. “And I only have one cat. Not that it would matter if I had more.”
Candi’s lips purse into a smile so tight I’m worried it’ll crack. “One extremely rotund cat.”
I cock my head. “Are you fat shaming my cat?”
She clicks her tongue and lifts one elegant shoulder. “I was simply making an observation.”
“So am I. You’re being weird,” I say, shaking my head as I shift the cake to my hip.
A faint crease appears between her sculpted brows. “Mr. Biscuits is…” She wiggles her fingers in the air as she searches for the politest possible insult. “…prone to accidents.”
I snort. “He fell into the community pool one time, and you’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
“He left a dead toad on my doorstep.”
“Well try being less of a witch.”
Max hides his laugh with a cough and clears his throat. “I’ve always wanted a cat.”
My cheeks flush. “You have?”
Okay, I know I don’t actually know him, but I’m confident when I say Max Lark is the man of my dreams.
“My parents were in the Airforce, and we moved around a lot growing up.” His thumb strokes the charm at his neck.
“Still do, I guess. It never seemed fair to bring a pet into that. They deserve stability. A home.” He gives me a crooked little smile.
“Didn’t seem right to keep uprooting one over and over again. ”
All I can think about is a little blond boy packing away his bedroom, saying goodbye before he’d had the chance to settle in, learning that home was wherever the moving truck happened to stop.
He shouldn’t have had to be uprooted over and over again either.
I look at the key in his hand. Like it does in so many small towns, word already spread that Max had convinced Jolene to give him a month-to-month lease option instead of the standard six months.
A strange ache blooms beneath my ribs.
What would it take to convince a man like Max Lark to stay?
The question slips into my mind before I can stop it. Worse, a not so tiny part of me wants to be the answer.
I clear my throat and with it any fanciful notions of this being the first act of my Netflix insta-love romance story. “Well, Mr. Biscuits is the absolute best. Anyone with sense can’t help but fall in love with the furball.”
Candi snorts.
“I don’t know.” His mouth curves into another smile. “He sounds like he doesn’t take his job very seriously.”
“Now that, I can agree with.” Candi crosses her arms, and even I can’t help but glance at her perky cleavage.
“He did abandon his post,” Max concurs with a wink. “No sense of duty. He should be ashamed.”
“He wasn’t.” I grin. “He looked genuinely offended when I came home and interrupted his nap to accuse him of neglecting his security responsibilities.”
Max’s laugh makes my heart squeeze.
“Well then.” Candi huffs, the sound light and airy, though I can practically hear steam hissing out of her ears. “Shall we?”
Max pushes the key into the lock and swings the front door open.
“It’s not much to look at,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just moved in. Still getting…settled.”
My gaze slips past him into the cottage.
The walls are painted a safe shade of move in ready gray.
The furniture looks like it came with the rental.
It’s all functional and clean and completely devoid of personality.
Unopened moving boxes occupy the center of the living room.
Blank walls wait for photographs or art or a paint color that reflects something about the resident’s personality.
Shelves sit empty. There isn’t a single plant, colorful throw pillow, or quirky knickknack in sight.
I catch the quick glance Max throws toward the boxes before he looks away again.
“I’m a little jealous,” I say, adjusting my grip on the cake stand.
Candi wrinkles her nose as she surveys the space.
“It’s certainly…” She pauses long enough to make the hesitation noticeable. “…a wonderful opportunity.” Her smile snaps back into place. “I would be more than happy to help you decorate. I do hate seeing newcomers live in such temporary conditions.”
Translation: Your house is a wasteland. Both you and it need saving. By my magickal vagina. (Okay, that last part was unnecessary.)
Max, bless his oblivious little fox heart, doesn’t seem to notice. He steps into the entryway and gestures vaguely to the open concept living room. “You should be jealous. I have a couch that looks like it survived the seventies and a pretty impressive collection of unopened cardboard.”
A laugh bubbles out of me.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m jealous of the blank slate.
The chance to start over. You moved somewhere completely new.
Nobody here knows who you used to be. They don’t know if you used to eat your lunch in the janitor’s closet in high school or got a black eye when you tried to put your cat in a pet K’tan. ”
Grinning, he adjusts the gift basket and leans one shoulder against the doorframe. “I’ve never done either of those things.”
“No,” Candi says with a syrupy smile. “Those experiences are exclusive to our Lila.”
I grin, refusing to take the bait.
“See?” I say, pretending neither of us remembers why I’d been eating ham sandwiches beside a mop bucket instead of in the cafeteria.
“Fresh start. Nobody even knows if you’re lying.
You get to decide who Max Lark is in Crescent Cove.
You get to fill these walls with whatever makes you happy. Start traditions. Make friends.”
My gaze drifts back to the unopened boxes stacked in the middle of the living room.
“You get to decide what home looks like.”
The teasing smile leaves his face. His eyes hold mine, quiet and searching.
“I…” he starts, fingers once again finding the silver fox charm. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”
Candi clears her throat, slicing clean through the moment. Her dazzling, flawless smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “We shouldn’t keep Max waiting here with his front door wide open.”
She steps aside with an elegant little flourish. Her other hand remains at her hip, her fingers curling against her skirt before relaxing again.
“After you, Lila,” she says sweetly as a faint shimmer of pink light slips between her fingertips.