Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
“Oh my God. You’re kidding me, Beefcake. Really ?”
Frankie turned to see Waylon rush to the doorway, cheeks red, alarmed expression on his face.
“It’s not what you think,” he stammered.
“Oh bullshit. It’s exactly what I think.” She grinned. “And I think it’s adorable.” Frankie reached for the old, stained, and scruffy World War I ace pilot Snoopy sitting on the dresser, back propped against the mirror. She picked him up and studied his scuffed-up leather jacket and the black pom-pom for a nose hanging by a single piece of yarn. “You still have your Snoopy from when you were a kid.”
Even more adorable than the Snoopy was the way Waylon defended himself.
“It’s not… I don’t… I just found him in a box the other day and thought I’d give him away.”
“Ooo, then can I have him?” she teased, clutching Snoopy to her chest.
“No.” He crossed his arms.
“I’m kidding. I’d never take your beloved childhood Snoopy away. ”
“He’s not my beloved childhood Snoopy. I just, you know, found him in a box again, that’s all.”
“Oh, stop lying. You did not just find him in a box. You don’t have boxes. You barely have anything here.”
Ooops. Why the hell did I just say that?
It wasn’t said out of maliciousness, and it wasn’t pity. Frankie had felt a strange kind of sorrow when she’d walked into Waylon’s apartment. It hung in the air, totally unexpected. When he let his guard down, Waylon struck her as carefree, someone who loved to have a good time. And this apartment was just…sad.
No art. No throw pillows. From what she’d seen of the kitchen, it looked bare, nothing on the countertops. The front room only had that tiny little beat-up couch with a folded-up TV tray propped against it, and a small breakfast table with two mismatched chairs off to the side. The TV hanging on the wall looked like an expensive one, the only thing he’d splurged on.
His bedroom was just as sparse. A plain wooden dresser, mirror, and a double bed without a headboard. Only a single bedside table with a lamp.
A bedroom designed for one.
No. A whole apartment—a whole life —designed for one.
And not much of a life. The only hint of a personality was his sentimental little Snoopy doll on the dresser.
It almost made her cry.
Looking at Waylon’s face after her snotty little comment, she did want to cry.
I’m as cold and thoughtless as my mother .
“Waylon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He held out his hand for the Snoopy and she gave it to him. He opened a drawer and stuffed him inside.
“You don’t have to…do…that…” She stopped. His expression might as well have been a closed door.
“It doesn’t matter, Frankie.” He gestured at the bathroom door. “ Go ahead and get ready for bed. I’ll change in the main bathroom.” He set her bag on the dresser.
She picked it up. “No, I’ll use that one. Your toothbrush and stuff are in this one, right?”
“As you wish.” He walked past her at the same time she scooted by him into the hall.
She felt sick to her stomach. One minute, she thought for sure they were going to kiss in his living room—or in his truck—or in her living room—and the next, she was insulting him.
God, I’m an asshole .
She turned on the light in the spotless bathroom and was not surprised to see it was empty except for a hand towel and a bottle of liquid soap next to the sink. Nothing, not so much as a travel-sized bottle of shampoo, graced the shower.
He doesn’t even expect to have guests here .
She turned and closed the door, then stood facing it.
What the hell happened to you, Beefcake?
She sighed and opened her overnight bag. She took out her nightshirt and glared at it, tightening her jaw. It was supposed to be funny when she packed it. Now, it just felt cruel. She undressed, slipped the nightshirt over her head, then stared at the screen-printed Snoopy in the mirror.
Frankie washed her face, brushed her teeth, and left her bag in the bathroom. She went into the kitchen with her mostly-dead phone and charger and found an outlet. She tried to think of something, anything, to delay her return to the bedroom. Maybe she could just curl up on the couch and pretend she was sleeping…
No. He’d come looking for her, pick her up, and carry her into the bedroom. Then he’d for sure sleep on the couch and that image just hurt her heart.
Frankie took a deep breath and walked down the hall to the bedroom. The overhead light was off, the single lamp on the bedside table casting a small circle of light on Waylon’s side of the bed. Waylon lay there on his back, arms at his sides, eyes closed. Frankie crept to the lamp, hoping to turn it off before he could see her nightshirt.
As she bent and reached for the lamp cord, Waylon’s eyelids snapped open. His gaze couldn’t help but go straight to her nightshirt since it was right there in his face. He stared for a moment, blinked, and looked up at her.
“Sorry, I thought you were asleep,” she said lamely.
“Get settled in bed. I’ll turn it off.”
Frankie went around the foot of the bed, pulled back the dark-gray comforter, and slipped between light-gray sheets. She laid her head down on her pillow—surprised he even had two pillows—and pulled the comforter up.
“Good?” Waylon asked.
She nodded. “Good.”
He turned off the light.
Waylon kept his body stiff and still, lying on his back. Frankie closed her eyes, trying to ignore the ache in her chest. Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged.
“I’m sorry I made you come over here. I was being over the top.” His voice was low, almost strained.
The knot in Frankie’s stomach eased a little. She rolled over on her side to face Waylon.
“No you weren’t. It was sweet.”
“It was too much.”
“It’s fine , Waylon. Really.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry I said what I said. About the boxes.”
“Don’t be. It’s just the truth.” His tone was perfectly flat.
Eventually, Frankie shifted and turned over, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “Goodnight, Waylon.”
“Goodnight, Frankie.”
Frankie. Not Pixie .
Frankie eventually drifted off on a cloud of guilt. Her dreams were scary and awful—she was late for her chemo appointment but it didn’t matter because her insurance was canceled anyway. They gave her too much chemo by accident, she had only an hour to live, and she raced from one medical person to another but no one would do anything.
Until someone finally wrapped their arms around her from behind and pulled her to their chest. She struggled, thinking she was about to be hauled out of the clinic for making a fuss, but a man’s voice calmed her instead.
“It’s okay. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.”
She stopped struggling and her scary dream melted into softness and warmth. She wanted to stay there in a protective cocoon forever, but eventually, she couldn’t stop herself from floating back up to consciousness. Strange thing was, she brought the cocoon with her. Frankie still felt arms around her, felt safe and warm and happy.
And then she remembered where she was.
Her back was pressed up against Waylon’s chest. Knees bent, the backs of her thighs were against the front of his. They were spooned together perfectly. She felt Waylon’s deep, steady breaths and realized he was sound asleep. Had she cried out from her dream, and Waylon instinctively pulled her close without even waking up?
Er…well, there’s one part of him that’s awake . Either that, or he’d shoved a steel rod into his sweats. She felt the length of his hardness pressed against her ass.
I should be mortified. Why am I not mortified?
What if he wakes up and he’s mortified?
He’d made it crystal clear he wasn’t interested in anything romantic. What if he woke up with a hard on? Would he freak out? Would he never want to see her again?
Would he kiss her? Would they do more than spoon?
Did she want to do more than spoon?
Waylon shifted, made an incredibly sexy sound in his sleep, and pressed against her even harder .
Hoo yeah, I want to do more than spoon .
Waylon moved his arm up from around her waist toward her chest. With a sharp intake of breath, she grabbed his arm and stopped him.
Scars are a turn-off . Her mother had reminded her of that only a few hours ago, mortified that her scarred-up daughter didn’t cover herself in public.
Waylon made a frustrated sound. Which meant she should scoot her ass out of bed and move to the couch right now before he woke up.
But oh, man did she feel good right where she was. The bed was soft and warm, Waylon was holding her just right, and how long had it been since she’d slept beside someone?
Not that long ago .
She flinched at the pain the memory brought.
Waylon mumbled, “‘S okay,” stroked her arm, and that’s when her heart melted into a confusion of feelings. Here she was, cuddling in bed with a man she was deeply attracted to, who was friend-zoning her at best and hated her at worst—at least when he was awake—while thinking about her soulmate.
Frankie bit her knuckles, trying not to sob. She couldn’t stay and risk waking Waylon with her sobs. He’d ask her why she was crying, and that was the last thing she wanted to talk about. Slowly, carefully, she inched his arm off of her and scooted to the edge of the bed.
“Camille. Don’ go. Stay wi’ me.” Waylon reached out and brushed her back.
Camille .
He was dreaming of someone else. Of course he was.
Frankie froze until he settled again. She slipped out of bed with her pillow and tiptoed to the living room. The couch fit her if she bent her knees, but she felt exposed without a blanket. She got back up and opened the front closet door, hoping Waylon might have a blanket stashed away. No luck, but he did have a winter coat that would work just fine. She slipped it off its hanger.
Oh, man, it smells like him .
Instead of taking it to the couch, Frankie slipped the coat on. Now she was completely surrounded by Waylon’s scent—a clean soap smell like cedar or sandalwood, a hint of pine, and the barest trace of eucalyptus, along with a deeper smell that was simply…him.
Before she settled onto the couch, she decided to hit the bathroom. As she started down the hall, Frankie slipped her hands into the coat’s pockets and absently jangled the spare change in them. Something that wasn’t a coin bumped against the back of her right hand.
Hmm. What’s that?
She shut the bathroom door behind her before turning on the light. Frankie closed her fingers around the mystery object and then she recognized the shape. She pulled it out.
As soon as she laid eyes on it, her whole world shrank down to the single earbud.
It can’t be .
Frankie set the earbud on the vanity. She shoved her hand back into the right-hand pocket and felt around for an earbud case while her left hand rummaged the other pocket for a second earbud. He’d probably taken them out one day and shoved them in his pockets, then forgot to put them back in their case.
Nothing but spare change.
Frankie stared at the earbud.
She’d forgotten that day on the bus. No, more like actively tried to make herself forget and was mostly successful. She was listening to a hilarious podcast about a woman traveling the world alone and finding herself in a penis museum in Iceland of all places. Frankie wasn’t listening to the podcast alone. She’d tossed an earbud to an incredibly hot guy who wanted to know what she was listening to. They never spoke a word to each other, but she could hear his laughter despite all the annoyed people standing between them.
She’d tried to forget that day because it was her last day of normalcy .
Frankie had been tempted the entire bus ride to keep on keeping it a normal day, and here she had the perfect excuse. She could skip her stop, stay on the bus, make her way back to him, and see if he wanted to go for coffee. She could pretend nothing was wrong, nothing at all, and never show up to her surgery.
Frankie started to push past the crowd to get to him. Just as she got to the middle door, the bus stopped. She forced herself to get off right then and there, wherever it left her. She was two stops ahead of the hospital, and standing right in front of a church just as the freezing cold day decided to turn its snow loose. A song went through her head, ‘California Dreamin’’ but she didn’t have time to stop into the church and get down on her knees to pray, let alone talk to a preacher about the cold. She had a double mastectomy to get to.
Frankie watched the bus continue down the road, carrying both the hot guy and her right earbud away. Everything that was normal was on that bus and she was standing in the falling snow watching it grow smaller until it disappeared.
She stopped the podcast and put her lone earbud into its case and put the case into her coat pocket. She tucked her long, dark hair into her coat and lifted the hood over her head. Then she started walking in the direction of the hospital, the surgery, the chemo, the life after cancer. If she lived.
In Waylon’s bathroom, Frankie’s eyes filled with tears. She’d rubbed her thumb against the earbud case like a worry stone the entire way to the hospital, thinking more about her lost earbud than the guy, if she was being honest. The earbud was still in the normal life—the BC life—and she was not.
It wasn’t until her first day of chemo, where she met her ridiculously optimistic soulmate, that the idea of her earbud being lost to her in the normal world became instead her anchor back to it.
And here it was in her hand, fished out of her Adventure Buddy’s pocket by pure chance.
If this was the same earbud.
It couldn’t be. No way .
She closed her eyes and tried to bring up Hot Bus Guy’s face. It had become a blur, an abstract idea of what she could never have again. The chemo brain fog didn’t do her any favors either. Frankie pictured the bus, pictured the guy, watched as his face came into focus…
It was Waylon.
Or was her imagination only trying to fill in the blanks, show her what she wanted to see?
But the first time I heard Waylon laugh. It sounded so familiar. Didn’t it?
Welcoming.
But if it was Waylon on the bus, wouldn’t he have said something by now? Unless he didn’t recognize her. Or, he’d forgotten about her entirely.
Frankie opened her eyes and examined the earbud. She turned it this way and that, studying every little nick and scratch.
No. It might be the same brand—a common one, she had to admit—but no way was this her wayward earbud. Hers had been brand new and this one was all scratched up. Besides, why would a guy keep an earbud from a rando he met on the bus who ghosted him?
This is crazy. This is just my stupid little brain reacting to a stressful situation. One more story to make Dan laugh .
Frankie put the earbud back into the pocket and took off Waylon’s coat. She used the bathroom and washed her hands on autopilot, contemplating the earbud.
I should get dressed, call a rideshare and go. The sooner I leave, the better . If she stayed much longer she’d probably end up comparing their horoscopes and claiming they were soulmates. Frankie already had one of those; she didn’t have to make up another one.
She looked at her bag. It would be easy to take off her ridiculous Snoopy nightshirt and shove it down into the bottom of her bag, then get dressed, brush her teeth, summon a rideshare, and slip out.
And Waylon would think what ?
His mumbled words came back to her. It’s okay. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you .
He would assume that she was afraid of him and decided to sneak out in the middle of the night and take her chances in a house without an alarm.
I can’t do that to a guy whose only possession that shows any personality is a Snoopy doll from his childhood .
Was it pity she felt? Hell no. But she wasn’t ready to name the feeling that made her heart swell and beat faster whenever she even thought about Waylon. Ram. Beefcake the Adventure Buddy.
Because that’s all he wanted. To be a Buddy to her. He’d made it abundantly clear, and it would be best for her to continue reminding herself of that at every opportunity.
She slipped the coat back on. She turned off the bathroom light and opened the door. The couch was to the right, Waylon’s bedroom to the left.
She turned right.
Frankie drifted off, this time, without nightmares.
Frankie woke to the sound of movement somewhere close by, then a faint whistle that was quickly cut off. She heard water pouring, then the scrape of metal against metal. It sounded like Waylon was putzing around in the kitchen.
She slipped her arms into his coat and sat up. With only a peninsula separating the kitchen from the living room, she could see he had his back to her, doing something on the opposite counter. He was in the same tee and sweatpants he’d worn to bed the night before. Frankie bit her lip at the memory of how his cock had felt pressed up against her backside.
Waylon turned to take something out of the refrigerator and saw her. She registered a look of annoyance on his face before his features smoothed into something neutral .
“Sorry I woke you.”
“It’s all right. What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty. There’s coffee here in a minute if you want some.”
Funny, she didn’t smell coffee now and she didn’t see a coffeemaker the night before.
“You’re going out to get some?”
He smirked. “God no. Most of it is burned or so full of sugar it’s no longer coffee. I make my own.”
Frankie stood up and wrapped Waylon’s coat around her like a robe. She zipped it up partway before walking toward the kitchen until she got to the peninsula. Ah, that’s why she couldn’t smell coffee—a metal French press sat on the opposite counter, capped and waiting for Waylon to press the plunger down.
She nodded toward it. “Good man.” She tried out a smile on him to see how he would react. Waylon turned away and opened the fridge. She didn’t think the sudden cold that hit her was from the appliance.
“It’s got a couple minutes to go.” He set a carton of eggs on the counter along with a gallon of milk.
“French press is always worth the wait. And yes, I will have some. I might even fight you for it,” she added, hoping for a smile.
He rewarded her with the barest grin, so quick she wasn’t sure she’d actually seen it between scowls, and turned the burner on.
“Sorry I grabbed your coat. I’ll go get dressed.”
He shook his head. “I told you last night coming in you could use it. Sorry it wasn’t warm enough in here for you.”
“Oh, no it was fine. I was just?—”
“You like fried eggs?”
“You don’t need to make me breakfast.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
Frankie sighed. “Yes, I like fried eggs.”
“One or two?”
“Just one, thanks. ”
He grunted. Frankie didn’t know if she should go get dressed or stay right where she was. There was probably no right answer, except to leave as soon as possible.
Waylon poured milk into a skillet and plunged the French press. He opened a top cabinet and took down a mug—Frankie was afraid it might be his only one—and poured the coffee.
“Milk and sugar?” His voice was brusque.
“Both, please.” God, the tension in the air was about to kill her.
He set the coffee in front of her with the milk. He opened a drawer and took out some raw sugar packets. He gave her two and kept two. He opened another cabinet and took down a second mug—much to Frankie’s relief. She fixed her coffee while Waylon cracked three eggs into the skillet.
She took a sip of coffee and tried not to moan. “This is the best cup of coffee I think I’ve ever had.”
Another small smile, quickly hidden again.
“And I’ve never seen anyone cook eggs in milk before.”
“I picked it up from working out of a fire station. Best method I’ve found.”
“I’ve always heard firefighters are the best cooks.”
Waylon set two plates on the counter beside the stove and slid the eggs onto them. He grabbed some silverware from a drawer, turned and set everything down on the peninsula.
“You tell me,” he said, watching her take the first bite. Frankie noticed the barest sparkle in his eye. She took a bite.
“Oh my God. These are incredible.”
Finally, a true smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re spoiling me with this. I should have asked for two.”
“I can make another.”
She held up her hand. “No, it’s all right. If you make me a second one, I’ll end up asking for a whole dozen.”
“You could use a whole dozen.” Waylon’s eyes widened.
Too late, his words already stung. Ironic, how BC, she was constantly trying one diet or another to slim down. Now, she’d give anything to have those pre-cancer curves back. To be perfectly healthy.
To be back in her normal world with a body that wouldn’t betray her this time. One that Waylon would never criticize.
Red rose up his neck. “I mean, you’re fine, Frankie, but it’s just that you need protein, you know?”
“Yeah, I get it.” She took the last bite of egg, then downed the rest of her coffee. “Great breakfast. I should call about the alarm and get out of your hair.”
Waylon rubbed the back of his neck. “Frankie, I’m sorry.”
“About what?” She shrugged. “It’s just the truth.”
Which was exactly what he’d said the night before after her snide comment.
Shit. He’s going to think I’m mocking him .
Mortified, she turned and headed for the bathroom where she’d left her things. She absently put her hand into the coat pockets and rediscovered the earbud.
What would it hurt to casually tell him you found a stray earbud in his pocket? Just to see his reaction?
Frankie shook the thought out of her head. It wouldn’t matter at all. She got dressed, brushed her teeth, packed her things, and carried her bag to the living room. Waylon had changed into a pair of cargo pants, a fresh thermal, and a flannel shirt—the typical Colorado male’s winter uniform. As soon as he saw her, his expression went from sad to perfectly neutral to scowling in the space of a moment.
Waylon lifted his chin toward the kitchen. “Call the alarm company and I’ll get you back home ASAP.”
It’s not the same earbud. It’s not.
Frankie nodded and headed for the kitchen, which was once again bare except for her phone on its charger. She found the alarm company’s number in her contacts and called. The man who answered looked up her account and listened to her story. He said someone would be over in the next hour .
Waylon in the meantime had turned on the TV and sat down on the loveseat to watch some sports show talking about the Broncos’ odds of making it to the Super Bowl. When she finished her call, he clicked off the TV and stood. Frankie started toward the closet to hang Waylon’s coat up.
“You’ll want to wear that. It’s snowing outside,” he said without looking at her.
She blinked hard against the memory of walking to the hospital in the snow. Then she put the coat on, aching to shove her hand into the pocket and find the earbud.
It doesn’t matter if it’s mine or not. And last night doesn’t matter, either. He’s back to wanting as little to do with me as possible.
And who can blame him? her mother’s voice added, oh so helpfully.
They spent the ride to Frankie’s house in silence. Not once did she put her hand back into the pocket. When they pulled up in front of her house, Waylon killed the engine.
“I’m coming in with you to wait for the alarm tech.”
That took her by surprise. “I’m sure you have better things to do today. It’ll be fine, I’m sure.”
He shook his head. “I want to make sure he actually fixes it.”
Frankie tried to ignore the excited little tingle at the back of her neck. She shrugged. “It’s your morning.”
Waylon nodded. He got out, went around the truck and opened her door. He carried her bag as he walked her to the front porch and she let them in. He looked around the front room as if he were expecting someone to jump out at them.
“I’m sure no one broke in while I was gone.”
Waylon nodded absently. “It just…bothers me. The timing with Derek.”
Frankie scoffed. “Really, it’s just a coincidence.” She took his coat off and set it on the couch. “You can look around again if you want. You’ve already seen the place.”
So he did just that. Waylon went from room to room, Frankie trailing behind. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel about all this attention to her safety, but she liked it. When they got to her office, she remembered she’d left her map and list of adventures spread out on her desk.
“I only got a quick look at this last night,” Waylon said.
“It’s nothing. Well, not nothing. It’s all the things I want to do. Eventually.”
He nodded without saying a word as he studied it.
The doorbell rang. Frankie turned but Waylon moved past her and got to the door first. He looked out through the window before answering it.
“Frankie Whitmore?” the guy asked Waylon. He looked confused.
“That’s me, actually,” Frankie said as she peered out from behind Waylon. “Come on in, the alarm’s right next to the door.”
Waylon stepped back to let the guy in, who smiled and nodded at him, then turned his attention to Frankie. She explained what happened the night before and he got to work. He tinkered with the alarm for a few minutes, then tested it. Waylon watched him like a hawk the entire time.
“You should be good to go,” the guy told her. “The repair’s free, it’s under warranty.”
Waylon crossed his arms. “What happened to it?”
“It’s an old glitch that sometimes goes off when the software is patched. It should be all right now.”
“Thank you,” Frankie said as she opened the door for the tech.
“Let us know if you have any other issues. Have a great day.” He gave Frankie a smile, nodded at Waylon, and left.
“Thanks for sticking around,” Frankie told Waylon. “Would you like?—”
“Now that it’s fixed, I should go.”
Frankie’s heart stuttered. “Yeah.” She picked up his coat and handed it to him. He took it without a word and she let him out .
Frankie watched him walk back to his truck. He tossed the coat into the passenger side before getting in. He sat for a moment, then pulled away.
She took out her phone and called the rec center, hoping Stephanie was there.