Chapter 9
Lance and I turn to find Jake looming in the stairwell like an unwelcome guest, his expression darkening faster than storm clouds over the Ouachita Mountains. The box in my arms suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
“I’m moving to the second floor,” I say, forcing my voice into something light, casual, as if my heart isn’t thudding and his sudden appearances aren’t starting to feel like a curse.
Jake’s brow furrows. “Why?” Then he starts down the stairs after us, and I can feel him breathing down my neck.
Needing a breather at the second-floor landing, I drop the box with a decisive thud. “Because I can’t live next to you, Jake,” I say, the words blunt, stripped of all softness. “It’s bad enough that we’re in the same building.”
Lance comes forward to lift the box I put down, and Jake scoffs at him as he carries it to my new unit.
“We’re still going to see each other at work,” he says. “So what’s the point of this again?”
“The point,” I say, walking away from him, “is that I’d rather not live next to a thief.”
His hand catches mine, and I spin to face him, heat coursing through my veins.
“You didn’t think I’d notice your name on the wall of achievement on the executive floor?
” I say, the words trembling with fury. “You stole my work on your uncle’s RainSafe campaign and claimed it as your own to get ahead. ”
Something flickers across his face, raw and fast, pain, regret, maybe even shame, and for a heartbeat I think he might actually explain himself.
Then his eyes cut to Lance stepping out of my apartment, and Jake lets go of my hand.
He steps back slowly, like he’s retreating from a line he doesn’t want to cross.
He follows us up to the third floor, footsteps steady behind mine. “Since you’re so eager to get rid of me,” he says, voice casual, almost amused, “I can help you move.” But the tightness in his jaw tells a different story.
I shift the weight of another box in my arms. “No, thank you.”
Jake ignores me completely and proceeds to lift the nightstand from my bedroom.
Lance comes out of the kitchen with another one of my boxes. “I’ve got it covered,” he tells Jake.
“Two sets of hands are better than one,” Jake counters, not backing down.
The two of them stare each other down like they’re about to compete in who can lift heavier loads.
I have no time for this, so I say, “Come on, let’s just get this done.”
For twenty excruciating minutes, I just watch them haul my life from one apartment to another in a bizarre little performance of masculine one-upmanship.
Jake goes straight for the heaviest box he can find.
Lance lifts two at once, effortless, smiling as if this is fun.
Jake knows exactly where my color-coded books go, the way I keep them organized as he arranges them in the precise order I would do it.
Lance pauses to compliment my throw pillows like he’s auditioning for the role of Perfect Neighbor.
It’s ridiculous. It’s like watching two peacocks strut and flare, only with less plumage and more thinly veiled hostility.
When Jake bumps Lance with a box, causing him to stumble backward into a wall, I’ve had enough.
“Okay. Stop.” I step between them and plant a hand on each of their chests, cutting off whatever silent contest they’ve decided to stage in my living room. Jake’s heart pounds beneath my fingers, strong and too fast, and I snatch my hand back, pretending I don’t feel my own pulse answering.
“If you’re going to be difficult,” I tell him, “maybe you should just leave us be.”
His eyes darken. “Fine.”
As Jake turns to leave, Lance calls out, “So, we’re still on for Friday?”
Jake freezes mid-step, his shoulders going rigid.
I didn’t want him to find out like this, under fluorescent light and petty tension, but I lift my chin anyway. “Yes.” The word is sharp, defiant, and it costs me more than I want to admit. I hate that it still matters, that some traitorous part of me still cares what he thinks.
Lance smiles, all charm and perfect teeth. “Great. I know this coffee place close by—Brewed Awakening. Ever been?”
“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never visited,” I admit.
Jake turns slowly. “You’re going on a date?”
I meet his gaze directly. “What’s it to you? It’s not like I’m in a relationship with anyone.”
He holds my stare for one beat, then another. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then he turns and walks out without a word. A moment later, his door shuts forcefully.
I glare at Lance, who denies stirring him up on purpose. But I know better. The last thing I need is two knuckleheads competing because of me.
That Friday, my brain ricochets between potential taglines and nervous anticipation while Wendy scribbles furiously in her notebook, completely absorbed in the étoile campaign.
Client deadlines loom, but all I can focus on is the fact that in exactly four hours, I’ll be sitting across from Lance at a café that isn’t the break room.
“What about ‘Timeless as Memory, Elegant as Dreams’?” Wendy suggests, interrupting my mental rumination.
I blink back to the present. “That’s...actually really good.”
“Thanks!” She beams, then narrows her eyes at me. “You’re thinking about your date, aren’t you?”
I feel my cheeks turning rosy. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone with functioning eyeballs.” She laughs, not unkindly, and it softens something in my chest. “It’s cute. You deserve some fun after…” Her gaze flicks toward Jake’s office, and her voice drops. “You know.”
By five o’clock, the office clears out in a rush of laptop lids snapping shut and weekend plans tossed over shoulders, and somehow, too quickly, I’m back in my second-floor apartment.
I stand in front of my closet and stare like it’s a portal to another dimension, one where I actually know how to dress for a first date after four years of emotional hibernation.
First attempt: a denim skirt paired with a silk fuchsia top, complete with a bow at the collar that suddenly looks like something my mother would have dressed me in for Easter Sunday circa 2003.
I twirl before my full-length mirror, cringing at my reflection.
The bow makes me look like a gift-wrapped disappointment.
Back to the drawing board.
Flare jeans and a sparkly black crop top?
My hands smooth the fabric against my stomach, and I attempt what I imagine is a model walk—one foot directly in front of the other, hips swaying.
The effect is less runway ready, more strutting with a clumsy motion, like a penguin’s waddle. Not exactly the vibe I’m going for.
I dig deeper into my closet, pushing past sensible blouses and professional slacks. It’s been so long since I dressed to impress anyone other than a potential employer that I’ve forgotten how to be desirable. The realization lands heavy in my chest. Another thing Jake broke when he left.
My fingers catch on something silky, and when I pull it free, a red mini dress slides into my hands, the one I bought in a post-breakup retail-therapy haze and never dared to wear. I inhale, deep and steady, then slip it on. The dress clings to my curves.
The red heels I dig out from under my bed complete the transformation. I wobble slightly as I walk—it’s been a while—but the effect is worth it.
I curl my hair with quick, practiced twists of the wand, coaxing loose waves that fall around my face.
Bronze eyeshadow. Mascara that turns my lashes into something commercial-worthy.
Lipstick the exact shade of my dress. Then I spritz Lanc?me La Vie Est Belle Rose, and vanilla and rose bloom around me, feminine without desperation, sweet without trying too hard.
The doorbell chimes just as I’m giving myself one final critical assessment. My heart hammers against my ribs as I open the door.
Lance stands in the hallway, and for the first time since I met him, his casual confidence slips. His gaze drifts from my face to my dress and back again, slow like he’s taking inventory. His mouth parts slightly.
“Wow,” he breathes, the single word more than enough of a complement.
“Thanks.” I fight the urge to fidget under his stare. He’s not looking bad himself—navy button-down beneath a charcoal blazer, dark jeans, and dress shoes polished to a shine. But it’s his cologne that makes me bite my lower lip—I love it when a man smells this good.
“Ready to go?” He offers his arm.
“Just a sec.” I grab my clutch, check for keys and lipstick, then step out into the hallway, forcing myself to breathe through the nervous flutter in my stomach. It’s just dinner and coffee. No big deal.
My heels click against the pavement, punctuated by the occasional scrape as we head down the block.
I’ve gotten so used to sensible flats that these stilettos feel like balancing on sharpened pencils.
Halfway to the café, my right ankle wobbles, and my arms fling out, grasping at nothing, but Lance’s hands are there, steady and sure, catching me before I can introduce my face to the sidewalk.
“I got you,” he says, his grip gentle but firm on my waist.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Sorry—these shoes and I haven’t spent much time together lately.”
“No complaints here.” His smile is warm, reassuring. “Though I’m happy to carry you the rest of the way if needed.”
I’m glad the café is only two blocks down because I need to sit down. I already know my feet will be killing me tomorrow. The things we do to impress a member of the opposite sex…
Brewed Awakening wraps around us the moment we step inside, warmth and the scent of gingerbread and vanilla coffee sinking into my lungs.
Edison bulbs dangle from exposed beams, casting a honeyed glow over wooden tables.
The waitress leads us to a corner spot near the window, and Lance pulls out my chair with such earnest gallantry I nearly laugh. Nearly.
It’s nice. The thoughtfulness. The feeling of being cared for without having to ask. I could get used to this princess treatment.
I settle into my seat, crossing my legs carefully.
His gaze meets mine across the table, and he smiles—the kind that reaches his eyes and creates little creases at the corners.
“So, what brought you to Maplewood Springs?” Lance asks while sipping his Americano.
“I actually grew up here,” I tell him, curling my hands around my mug of vanilla latte and letting the warmth seep into my fingers. “I went to New York for school and work. Then received a job offer I couldn’t pass up.”
He tilts his head. “And you took it.”
“I did—it’s my dream job.” I don’t elaborate on what it’s like to have my ex-boyfriend as my boss, because I’m not here to drag Jake into this, not tonight. “And my parents are thrilled,” I add, lifting my shoulders slightly. “They love that I’m not thousands of miles away anymore.”
“I’m glad you came back.” His confidence is striking, unforced. “It’s a nice town. You must know all the good spots—I might need a tour guide, if you’re up for it.”
I feel my lips curve into a genuine smile. “I’m sure I can find someone available.”
“Is that so?” His eyes glint with humor. “I’m looking for this specific guide—blonde hair, beautiful eyes, marketing expert.”
“She might be able to pencil you in,” I reply. “I’d have to check her schedule.”
“She better text me.” His grin is infectious.
“Hey, we should make a bet,” Lance suggests, leaning forward. “Whoever picks the best tasting dessert gets to choose our next date.”
“You’re on!” The word ‘next’ sends a pleasant tingle through me.
I lift the dessert menu and scan the options, each one more mouthwatering than the last. Chocolate lava cake.
Strawberry shortcake. Apple pie with bourbon caramel.
I’m halfway to deciding on all three when a shadow falls across our table, and a voice that could belong to only one person makes my eyes flare.
“Hey guys. What a surprise to run into you here.”
My head snaps up to find Jake hovering over us.