12. Ian
TWELVE
IAN
The doorbell chimes, reminding me I never found that Keep out sign I wanted. Maybe wrapping my door in bright yellow Caution tape would do the trick.
Wishful thinking. I’m pretty sure nothing would make a difference. It’s got to be my sole visitor at the door, and I doubt she’d ever be scared away by any sign.
Amy isn’t even giving me twenty-four hours before showing up again to try to drag me out of my hibernation cave. Probably with a new list of job opportunities and a selection of overeager guys for me to make friends with. Next, she’ll be setting up playdates for me at the park.
I didn’t have the heart to leave Nathan Bridger’s card at Delish last night to be dumped in the trash. I swiped it up just before I left. Not sure why, since a job as an EMT isn’t on my horizon, and I haven’t been fit for hanging out with a friend in ages. But the card sits on my entry table anyway.
A light knock sounds at the front door, nudging me. I sigh and abandon my earbuds and latest Brandon Sanderson novel I was listening to on the couch. Hauling myself up, I swipe a hand in the air, encouraging Dutch to give me space. He’s sitting in front of the door, tail wagging and tongue out, ready to greet Amy.
“I told you to leave my pie alone,” I grumble as I open the door. But instead of my meddling aunt, Tess stands in front of me.
The air heaves out of my lungs. After yesterday, I didn’t expect to see her again unless the situation was totally unavoidable. Showing up at my door—looking soft and delectable, no less—is completely avoidable.
Her mouth quirks. “I promise not to touch your pie.”
My brief laugh doesn’t make a sound. Words fail me, which is probably a good thing at the rate my brain is spinning. At least I manage to stop Dutch from jumping up on her and send him back into the living room.
Tess’s smile fades a touch, probably because I let my silence go on too long.
I’ve become good at that.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” Our greetings sound more like questions. I get the feeling we’re both testing the waters here. I know what’s got me on edge, but I can’t quite compute what’s got her nervous.
Unless it’s me.
“Do you have a minute? I won’t take much of your time if you’re busy.”
“I’m not busy.” Understatement of the year. Then again, I’d probably drop most things if she asked.
Nodding, she swallows hard and wrings her hands, fingers trembling. Her shakiness sends my heart into the depths of the abyss. I don’t like that she’s this nervous about whatever it is she has to say. I hate even more that it’s well deserved—aside from the blip yesterday, she’s been nothing but friendly to me, and I haven’t given her the same kindness in return.
Why, exactly, again? So I can prove I’m mad at the world because my career’s over? The same reason I’ve pushed away my brothers, Amy—even Nathan Bridger last night. Seeing her this anxious about facing me has guilt churning through my stomach. Is this really the man I want to be? The one who scares everybody away?
I cross my arms, trying to relax my stance. But that just makes me look like I’m looming over her, so I uncross them again and slip my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants. Nice and casual. Or as close as I can get when she’s about to say whatever she has in mind.
“I wanted to apologize for how I acted yesterday.” Her words tumble out fast as if she’s rehearsed this once or twice. “I was thoughtless and…well, I shouldn’t have behaved like that or said those stupid things to you. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”
She’s sorry for making me uncomfortable? She’d been so quick to get out of my sight, I thought it’d been the other way around. My mouth drops open—not sure what I might even say—but she continues.
“I was caught off guard, and I shouldn’t have stared the way I did.” Her gaze dips, but it doesn’t go down to my leg. It snags on my chest and arms. In an instant, she snaps her eyes back to mine. “It was offensive, and I’m embarrassed by my behavior. I’m really sorry.”
“You don’t have to keep saying you’re sorry.” In the two years since my accident, loads of people have stared at my prosthetic leg. Said dumb things. Asked invasive questions. But the number of people who have apologized afterward is exactly zero. “I could have handled it better.”
Silently staring at her, expecting her to run off the way I’d wanted to, didn’t improve the situation.
She slashes a hand through the air. “That wasn’t your fault at all. I was completely in the wrong. I kept ogling you and spouting off at the mouth like a schoolgirl. That was all on me.”
“It wasn’t—” Wait. Wait . “You were ogling me?”
Are we having two different conversations right now? I thought she’d stared out of shock and maybe disgust, not any sort of appreciation. This news lights a spark of pride in me—probably worse than pride, if we’re being honest—that I haven’t felt in years.
Her cheeks flame a delightful rose right before my eyes, her gaze shifting to the side. This confirms it even better than her words.
“The point is, I was rude, and I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to have people point and stare, and I’m ashamed I did that to you.”
I want to go back to the ogling part, but a new question snares my attention. Why would anyone point and stare at Tess? Unless they’re saying, “Look at that gorgeous woman who makes cupcakes that taste like the nectar of the gods,” I can’t come up with a good reason. But now’s not the time to question her.
This is obviously taking a lot for her to admit. The fact that she’s being this vulnerable with me when I’ve been basically an ogre the entire time we’ve known each other means more than she can guess.
The pleading reflected in her eyes makes me want to meet her halfway, even if it feels like a vast chasm to cross. “I thought you were staring at my leg.”
It’s superficial and stupid, but a lot of people can’t get past it. They think a guy like me is damaged, or less than a man, or other in some essential way. Truthfully, on some days, that call’s coming from inside the house. I’d hated to put Tess in that category, too, but maybe I got it all wrong.
She shakes her head a little. “No. It was—” One hand comes up to gesture at my chest, but she tucks it away behind her back. “I wasn’t staring at your leg. I was surprised, but I don’t care about that.”
Her apparent interest in my body generally and my chest specifically is taking this apology in an unexpected direction.
To be clear, I very much like the direction.
Her eyes widen, and she presses her palms to her cheeks. “I don’t mean I don’t care , it’s just…that’s not the most important thing about you. You know?”
I’m tempted to ask what is the most important thing about me, but something else from that conversation hooks in my memory. “August said you’d told him I’m a pirate.”
In the moment, I’d assumed she’d made some kind of peg-leg crack to her kid. Now, it’s clear she’d genuinely had no idea. So where did that description come from?
I hadn’t imagined her face could get any pinker, but her skin is finding all new shades of red. The color washes from her cheeks to her temples and down her neck.
“Um, that was mostly about your hair.”
“Mostly?”
“And beard. It’s just so…” She reaches up almost as though she’s going to touch my hair. I still, wanting that small touch. Denying me, she stops herself at the last second and closes her hand into a fist, one finger out to point at my head. “I think it’s the man bun.”
My hair makes me look like a pirate? I might be discouraged by this news if she wasn’t so obviously embarrassed about admitting it. That blush is not the response of a disgusted woman. She’s not reeling back in horror. If anything, she’s leaning in.
“You don’t like the man bun?” I’ve resorted to it out of necessity, but even when my hair was shorter, I used to tuck it up like this sometimes. Now, I’m questioning that move.
Her gaze seems to warm as she glances my hair over.
“It’s definitely a rakish look for a man nearing forty.”
“Ouch. Kicking me when I’m down. I’m only thirty-six.” For a few more weeks. “I will take rakish , though.”
In an instant, her face is in her hands, a sweet little groan escaping her. “I’m doing this apology all wrong. I’m so sorry.”
“Please don’t keep apologizing.” I’m not sorry for a moment of this interaction. Pretty sure I’ll be revisiting it for the foreseeable future. But I am sorry for most of the rest of my behavior these past weeks. I haven’t tried to put my best foot forward with her. I haven’t tried at all. “I’m sorry, too.”
She opens her mouth, and I’ve got a good hunch she’s about to cut me off so she can apologize some more. I wave a hand in the air to stop her. “I haven’t acted like the man you?—”
Deserve almost fell out of my mouth. One sincere apology—and one allusion to rakish pirates—has my imagination running wild like Dutch in the back yard. I need to maintain at least a scrap of perspective about where we really are.
“I haven’t been a very good neighbor,” I tell her. “I’ll do better.”
The relieved smile spreading across her face makes me regret that promise immediately. My thoughts aren’t remotely neighborly when she looks at me this way. They’re fiercely possessive, as though I have any right to her.
Note to self: you do not.
“I’ll do better, too,” she says.
“Unnecessary. You haven’t lost any points in the good neighbor department.”
“I feel like I did. I’ll bring you more cupcakes tomorrow night to make up for—” She waves a hand in the air. “Yesterday.”
Declarations to do better aside, I can’t stop my grimace at the renewed offer of cupcakes of mercy. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Food is my love language.” She briefly closes her eyes, shaking her head. “I didn’t—that came out?—”
This apology has become my favorite thing ever.
When she opens her eyes again, her mouth takes on a stern slant. “I’m doing it because it’s the neighborly thing to do.”
But she cracks a smile like she just won a point over me in a battle I didn’t know we were waging. I do not hate it.
“If I must accept delicious cupcakes, I suppose I can live with it.”
“Do you think we can start fresh?” she asks.
Start over again to create a dynamic where I don’t growl at her and shut her out at every turn? Where I behave more like a man and less like a wounded animal? “I’d like that.”
She manages to grin even brighter. Dipping her head in a determined nod, she holds a hand out to me. “I’m Tess. Your new neighbor.”
I’m about to laugh at her eager introduction, but when my palm slides against hers so warm and perfect, my thoughts take a moment to reboot. Ten seconds ago, I would have said handshakes were nothing special, but this one changes my mind. The soft touch of her hand is like a vise grip on my ribcage. I gently press my thumb against the back of her hand, memorizing the feel of her.
“Tess.” It’s more caress than spoken word, but the best I can do under the circumstances.
If she notices the soft way I said her name, she doesn’t show it. She just keeps on watching me with those blue eyes I want to lose myself in. The handshake goes on a couple of beats past natural before she slips free. I let her go, even though my impulse is to hold tight.
She takes half a step back. “I should check on August and make sure he isn’t getting into the snacks cupboard. Or worse, Sharpies.”
“Probably a good idea.” It isn’t. It’s the worst idea. I want her to stay right here on this porch with me for hours.
Like an absolute lunatic. Calm down, son.
“I like his creativity to stay on paper and not the walls.” Her laughter trails off as she seems to shake herself. Her smile takes on a little more uncertainty, but the outright fear she’d had at the beginning of this conversation is gone.
That’s something. Not nearly enough, but it’s a start.
“Well…I’ll see you, Ian.”
I nod and watch her disappear into her half of the duplex. I stay on my porch longer than I care to admit, watching the breeze rustle leaves down the tree-lined lane. Breathing deep. Flexing my fingers as though I can recapture the feel of her hand in mine.
I’ve been in a lot of delicate situations where one wrong move meant disaster, but this line I’m walking with Tess might be the most dangerous of all.