Chapter 9
Nine
Ally plastered on her brightest smile and stood before the couch, hovering like a weirdo above Chip’s sleeping face. In typical Minnesotan fashion, her parents had kept him from leaving last night, surprising him with the Star Trek board game they’d once reserved especially for his visits. Only last night’s rematch also included the pointy Vulcan ears and flight crew outfits they’d bought as his Christmas present that final year in Harlow but never had the chance to gift him.
Smile waning, she rolled her shoulders back and straightened the hem of her loose hot-pink t-shirt. Not that a wonky hem mattered all that much when teamed with the disarray of her t-shirt’s two fluffy, white kittens on the front, plus her bare feet, and her short gray pajama shorts.
“Still a fan of banana pancakes?” She startled a little at her own overly cheery tone just as Chip jolted, and his eyelids flung wide open.
He blinked at her awhile, like he needed a moment to remember where he was. “Ahh, yeah.”
He shuffled and groaned into a seated position, the green wool blanket at his chest slipping to reveal a strong set of shoulders and pecks. “I could do pancakes.”
A good few seconds passed before she noticed her attention still stuck on his far-too-appealing torso.
“Great.” Her voice shot up as fast as her gaze. “Just great.”
She spun away to hide the heat quick to engulf her face, although at least he couldn’t hear the panicked beat of her heart. “I’ll… ummm… get to cooking, then.”
Jeez Louise. That man. He’s just too beautiful…
Did I really kiss him last night?
My childhood best friend… also… a fudging amazing kisser!
Fearing her thoughts might somehow escape her mouth, she cleared her throat and went about disappearing behind the kitchen counter.
“Don’t you ever wear shoes?” Blankets rustled from Chip’s general direction, but she refused to look at him just yet. Not while her lips still tingled every time she recalled that kiss.
She glanced down at her watermelon colored toenails and shrugged. “Why would I? I’m in my own home.”
Forgetting her vow not to look at him, she peered up and was punished with a view of gently defined back muscles, her racing pulse forcing her next blurted rebuttal. “Don’t you ever wear a shirt?”
He pushed his feet into the brown plaid slippers borrowed from her dad and merely chuckled, the man far too comfortable in her home, much less his semi-nakedness.
She pressed her lips together and hid behind an open cupboard door, her stream of uncharacteristic shyness less about immaturity, more about the searing need still winding through her body. That need screamed at her to get way too comfortable right back at him. Perhaps in his lap. Just as he’d wanted her to do last night.
“Better?”
She startled at his voice and poked her head out from the cupboard door. Chip now stood in her kitchen, too close, albeit with his white t-shirt from yesterday now on.
Abandoning her attempt to hide, she pushed the cupboard shut, careful not to brush him as she squeezed past on her way to deposit a bag of flour onto the dove-gray counter.
“Here you go.” She reached into a drawer and passed a glass bowl to him before pointing to a small bunch of bananas in the nearby fruit basket. “You can help. Get mashing.”
His gaze shifted from the bowl, to the fruit basket, and then onto her, his attention holding for a beat too long. More a question about last night than the task she’d just lumped on him. He wanted to talk. She did too. But what to say exactly?
At least her parents had taken Whitney out early, first to the morning markets and then back to Laila’s house for lunch. No one would be around to witness the awkwardness of what would be said.
She had regrets over that kiss. Still, for once in her life, she’d choose the grown-up approach and put friendship over impulse. She loved having Chip back. Loved the plain and simple fun of having him near. But he’d be leaving soon, and she didn’t want to ruin this rare and close bond.
“Got many plans for today?” She opened another drawer and pulled out a masher for him, quick to dodge any more eye contact in favor of retrieving eggs and milk from the fridge.
“Just ironing out bugs in my current project.”
“Oh, yeah?” She retrieved her own bowl and got to work on the counter beside him. “What exactly does this program do, anyway?”
“Encryption.”
“Encryption?” She frowned down at the batter slowly thickening before her, the sweet-milky scent a nice diversion from the oaky, crisp peppermint that always tended to waft from his skin. “You mean like emails and stuff?”
“Yeah, protecting sensitive information.” He stepped closer and tipped the now pulpy bananas into her bowl, his long fingers seeming a contradiction of nimble and strong. “I’m starting with email encryption with room to expand.”
He took the spatula from her hand, and she stepped back, reclaiming some breathing room and accepting his silent offer to fold the remaining ingredients together.
“So, does your program have a name?” She lowered a pan to the stove and turned on the heat.
“Stonewall.” Again, he drew near, stealing her space, this time to offer the finished batter.
So, she covered her need for distance with humor. “You mean, like when someone is acting all cagy and weird?”
Kinda like I am now…
“More like a nod to the limestone fortresses used in centuries past to keep the enemy out, but sure, caginess works too.” Again, his easy chuckle blanketed her with a soft and tingly sensation all over.
He leaned back against the section of counter next to her, his fingers curling into the stone edge.
The stance highlighted his long torso, igniting her desire to draw closer and press her body against his, maybe because she sensed he wouldn’t reject her if she did.
She pried her focus off him and onto dropping batter into the hot pan. Though she could have asked more questions on his work, she figured he’d just end up saying a bunch of things she didn’t understand, so silence seemed the better option.
Last night, he’d brought up her old crush on Gerry Gibbons. Truth was, as part of Harlow’s salt-of-the-earth population, she did have more in common with jocks like him. Uncomplicated. Average in most every way. Her people.
Chip on the other hand. His quick wit and super intelligence labeled him as too much. Too talented. Too clever. Way above her understanding.
How in heavens did we ever get along as friends?
She peered over to him, his current position drawing her focus to his powerful looking biceps, his physicality still a shock, and yet another thing that was too much .
Brains and that body.
Then there was the shiny future ahead of him while she was little more than a scatterbrained artist, who failed to make an actual living out of her art, whilst harboring pipe dreams of leaving her smaller-than-usual town, even though she knew really could.
“Plates?”
She snapped her gaze up to his, not aware she’d been staring, all while her brain scrambled to filter his question on where her mom stored the plates.
“Just over there.” She turned from the soft crackle of butter in the pan and stabbed a finger toward an overhead cupboard. “I’ll have these done soon.”
Though she spoke of the pancakes and pointed in another direction altogether, his gaze stayed on her, gliding down her body, as though returning the favor of her earlier stare.
Her skin warmed in protest at her decision to stubbornly maintain the normal by wearing her usual tiny pajamas. Maybe full-length winter flannels would have served better?
Her eyes inexplicably prickled because, as usual, she had no freaking idea what to do. In the past, she would have thrown herself at him. At anyone, really. But disappointment had a way of birthing caution, and her old patterns just didn’t add up anymore. Especially not with Chip.
So, breaking the stare-off and opting to let him drive the conversation, she turned back to the pan.
“What happened between you and Sarah?”
She slammed her eyes shut and held back a need to swear.
“Nothing.” Though what had happened with Sarah was yet another warning on Ally’s old patterns of behavior. How invested she tended to get with any man of interest. How easily she was hurt. Why Chip should remain off-limits. “Just your typical case of two squabbling women.”
She flipped pancakes and withdrew her attention.
“Really?” His voice, of course, still found her. “You’re playing the ‘two squabbling women’ defense?”
The flat disbelief in his tone spoke of the cheapness of using that tired stereotype, the one that said women in close proximity were doomed to episodes of jealousy and cattiness.
“Chocolate spread still your favorite?” She directed an oblivious smile his way, but his analytical stare didn’t budge, so she used his failure to gather tableware and turned for the plate cupboard in lieu of answering his question.
“Ally?”
She kept busy again, this time with shifting cooked pancakes to a plate and then dropping more batter into the pan. “Yep.”
“What happened between you and Sarah?”
She shut her eyes again and shook her head. “Can we just enjoy breakfast, please?”
“Sure, we can.” Despite the casual term, his tense voice suggested he wouldn’t let her escape this topic so easily. “But Sarah is my sister, and your squabble kind of makes a difference to what happened last night.”
“Our squabble makes no difference to last night.” Ferrying the plate to the table, she strode past him but steeled her focus ahead. “Last night isn’t happening again.”
Even with her back to him, the stare she imagined he leveled her way burned the space between her shoulder blades. “It makes no difference, huh?”
Her heart squeezed, and she peered at the sheer curtains opposite the table, the yard outside seeping through on a hazy impression. Her evasion hurt him, and still, she gave a small nod. Her problems with Sarah had nothing to do with him.
“You have a thing for Dean Holloway.”
Cold shock ran through her, and she spun around, instantly regretting how the move revealed Chip’s still expression, that stillness somehow more painful than the prospect of fielding his anger. “And you’re hurt that Sarah got there first.”
Her heart sank, and she wanted to be sick. “Wow… is that what Sarah told you?”
He shook his head, his earlier tension eased, while hers soared higher. “I inferred.”
“Well”—she stormed over and flipped more pancakes, once again making sure to avoid eye contact—“you inferred wrong.”
A quiet few beats passed, before Chip spoke again. “So you do have it bad for Dean Holloway?”
A small twist in his question denoted humor and filled her chest with a soft flutter, one that threatened to evolve into a giggle.
She rolled her eyes and put on a bored tone. “I did have it bad for Dean Holloway. He’s a handsome guy and was new in town. Heck, in the single most embarrassing moment of my life, I even tried to corner him at his home.” She switched off the stove and flicked her gaze to Chip, the rising heat in her cheeks prompting her to the fridge for condiments. “But I am capable of knowing when I’m not wanted.”
She lowered the jars and tubs nestled in her arms to the table and then plonked herself into a seat.
Soon, he pinned her with a hard-to-read expression, and a dull ache grew in her tummy. Seeking relief, she stabbed a fork toward the chair next to her, gesturing for him to sit too, but he drew the silence out, perhaps still grappling with her brief crush on Dean.
“Ally…”
What was with the low hurt and huskiness in his voice?
She shot him a direct stare, frustrated she even had to justify her past crushes simply because Chip Overton waltzed into town with plans to stick his annoyingly proficient tongue in her mouth. “Does the story you insisted on hearing not match your mental image of me?”
Truth be told, back in day, the months before his interstate move, there’d come a point when she suspected he liked her, that all the school yard teasing about their friendship edged on truth.
Perhaps old emotions influenced last night’s kiss. Like he had a need to see her as the same innocent Ally Egan he once knew. The same bubbly and undemanding woman everyone else in town seemed to want too.
And maybe Sarah had shared stories about Ally’s dating failures over the years, and Chip returned to Harlow with delusions of Ally just waiting around for him to claim her.
“Sarah, was supposed to be my friend.” She let out a weary sigh and reached for the strawberry spread. “She hid an entire relationship. Let me, and everyone else in town, believe she and Dean were enemies. To think back on the chats we’d had about him. I’m so sick of people thinking I don’t notice their condescension. So, no matter how you dress up Sarah’s actions, she lied, and I don’t have to forgive her.”
“Hmm…” His gaze dropped to the table. “I want to say it would be nice for you two to make up, but I see your point.”
She shrugged, nudging the jar of chocolate spread—once his favorite—toward him, his quick acceptance confirming that was still the case.
“I’m not ready to make nice with her yet.” She sawed into her pancake, the action pairing well with her mood. “So as immature and ridiculous as it probably sounds to you, this is where I’m at. I’m not the one who should be breaking the ice, and we both know Sarah well enough to know she won’t do it either. ”
He maintained more silence, a silence that signaled his disappointment at the situation more than her, while he cut into his breakfast. At least he didn’t try to persuade her to heal the rift.
And because he didn’t try to persuade her, her trust in him as a confidant grew, and she spoke again. “About last night. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Say our kiss shouldn’t have happened?” He lowered his fork, his narrow stare boring into and then raking over her. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not sorry at all.”
For all her years of thinking him a harmless friend, he didn’t seem so harmless right now. Not that she felt threatened, only his even tone stated his thoughts on the kiss as being simple and unrepentant—so contrary to her own raging emotions when she’d always been the free-spirited one.
She peered down at the table’s wood grain. “We’re friends, we always have been…”
A frown pulled at her lips. Maybe he didn’t have regrets, but she still had boundaries to assert here. “What happened last night was… weird.”
“Wow.” He lowered his utensils and leaned back in his chair. “Of all the girls I’ve ever kissed, not one called the experience weird.”
She lowered her own fork and shelved a perplexing desire to ask just how many girls he’d kissed. “You and I grew up together, and then we see each other again, and we’re suddenly kissing? That’s the weird bit. The kiss itself was great. Amazing even...”
And because he still scowled at her, she reached out and gave him a congratulatory clap on the back.
Good for you. Amazing at math. Crazy smart. Good looking… and OF COURSE you’re a perfect kisser.
Chip, a man born with a glint in his eye. Someone destined to do good and great things. Whereas she, everything about her screamed literal mediocrity, with a smattering of chaos that followed wherever she went.
“I distinctly remember you making moon eyes at me.” He leaned into the table, his unnerving stillness taking over once more. “And then you told me you wanted me to kiss you .”
“Moon eyes?” Her voice pitched up, and she shook her head, momentarily pretending she didn’t know what he talked about. “Okay, maybe I did.”
He let out a sigh, his stare still burning into her, demanding something she either couldn’t or didn’t want to decipher. Like he wanted her to dig deeper to unearth what really held her back.
She slumped in her chair, allowing her shoulders to sag, forgoing her will to pretend any longer. “You’re returning to Boston in a few weeks.”
His brow crinkled, and his softened gaze roamed her face, as though he sought to gauge her thoughts. “Yeah, I am.”
And there it was. The other reason that kiss would be a one-time thing.
“Chip”—she swallowed at the thickness in her throat, a thickness that delayed her ability to explain why she held back—“I don’t want to fall for someone who won’t be around.”