Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Frankie had obviously touched a big honking nerve when she asked about the furniture. She’d outright stomped on one with her question about ever living with someone.
Camille. It had to be connected to her.
Frankie didn’t ask out of jealousy—who cared if Waylon had been in previous relationships? So had she. She just wanted to know what the hell had hurt him so much that he lived like a monk. It obviously wasn’t a happy lifestyle choice or he wouldn’t have pushed her away when she asked. She was disappointed that he didn’t trust her, and it hurt. She’d been ready to walk away.
Except she knew what it was like to be poked and prodded and hurt by someone who was only trying to help.
Not just during my cancer treatments. I pushed Waylon away at the beginning out of my own pain and fear of being reminded or held back.
Even when I pushed, he caught me anyway.
Now she found herself on the other side. She was the one doing the prodding.
Frankie smiled to herself as she drove home. Waylon could push all he wanted but he wasn’t fooling her. The look on his face this morning when he thought she had a different partner said everything. Then he’d had the chance to tell her goodbye forever tonight.
You still coming over?
And didn’t take it.
Frankie pulled into the alley behind her house then parked in her detached garage. She hadn’t picked up her mail, so she cut through the side yard to the front. As she approached her front porch, she noticed she had a package. She ordered things all the time, God knew what it was. It weighed next to nothing when she picked it up and unlocked her door. The burglar alarm chirped, but when she went to punch in the code, she saw the same damn error message on the screen.
“No time for it now,” she mumbled to herself, thankful that at least it didn’t go off this time. Besides, she wasn’t spending the night in the house, and as she’d told Waylon, the neighborhood was a safe one. She set the mail and the package down on a table and went to pack an overnight bag. Her phone buzzed with a text from Waylon.
Let me know when you get here, Pixie.
Three dots bounced as he typed another message before she could respond.
Snoopy misses you already.
Then:
I’m sorry about earlier. Really sorry.
Her chest warmed .
Fifteen minutes later, she was back in her car and driving to Waylon’s.
Frankie parked beside Waylon’s Dodge Ram. She took out her phone to text him, then saw a man walking toward her car from the apartment. She recognized Waylon’s silhouette and realized he’d been waiting outside for her. She stepped out of the car.
“Hey, Beefcake. Thought you were going to wait for my text.”
He shrugged. “Figured you’d be along.” He looked up at the sky. “It’s a nice night, probably one of the last warmish ones we’ll have this year. I didn’t mind waiting.”
“Ah, of course. Just out enjoying the weather.” She grinned as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “You’re forgiven, by the way. I’m sorry I pushed.”
He shook his head. “No. It’s all right. Is your bag in the back?”
“Yeah. Thank you.” She opened the back passenger door on her side. He reached in and picked it up. She closed the door, and when she started walking, he placed his hand on the small of her back. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“Snoopy settling in okay?” she asked.
“Just fine. He ate some more, I took him for a quick walk outside, and he settled right into his crate.” He swiped his keycard and opened the door for her. They walked to the stairs.
“Aw, well, he doesn’t even need me here then,” she teased as they climbed the steps.
Waylon laughed softly. “I told you, he missed you.” Then when they reached the landing, he dropped a kiss on top of her head like it was nothing. He didn’t even slow his step. Meanwhile, Frankie had to concentrate on keeping her knees from buckling.
“ He did, huh?” Her voice barely quivered—a minor miracle.
“Sure did, Buddy.”
Buddy .
Okay, fine. Sure. We can keep up the ‘Buddy’ thing. Sure .
Waylon opened his apartment door. The first thing Frankie saw was the little table with the mismatched chairs. Only now, it was covered with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. An unlit tapered candle waited in its candlestick holder between two sets of dishes and silverware.
“Oh my.” She sniffed the air. “Something smells delicious.”
“You still owe me a dinner,” Waylon said. “But I thought I’d treat you first.”
“Wow, fine by me.” She spotted Snoopy’s crate and walked over to it. The puppy was curled in a little ball in the corner on a nest of blankets, his back to her. As soon as she opened the crate door, he lifted his head, then stood up, tail wagging. She reached in to pet him, listening to Waylon flick a lighter behind her. Snoopy yawned and curled back up. She gave his adorable head one last scratch and closed the crate door. The candle was lit.
“So, what’s for dinner?”
“A real treat.” Waylon grinned at her from the kitchen. “Sit down and I’ll bring it out.”
Frankie took a seat. Waylon came up behind her and set a rectangular brown bag on her plate. He sat down across from her with his own bag and a bottle of water.
“Um. Is this an MRE?” She picked up the bag by its corner.
“One of the best,” Waylon said, tearing his open.
“Menu twenty-one.” She read the meal description. “Oh, God. Lemon pepper tuna?”
Waylon nodded.
“I’m not really a fan of tuna.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Waylon tore open a little packet of what looked like salt and cracked open the bottle of water. He poured both into another bag, then plopped a smaller bag inside and closed it up.
“What are you doing?”
“Cooking my chili mac. ”
Her eyebrows rose. “Seriously? You have a microwave right over there.”
“It doesn’t have the same Jenny Sayqwah.” He butchered the French words and she snort-laughed. He nodded his chin at her MRE.
Frankie tore her bag open, dreading the idea of cooking tuna from an MRE. How old was it, anyway? She took out each package.
“Okay, the tuna is in a camouflaged bag. Cute. Is that in case you need to hide it so that you don’t have to eat it?”
Waylon laughed. “You’ll love it.”
“Uh-huh.” The other packages contained mayonnaise, crackers, tortillas, cheese spread that felt like it might be the bright-orange fake stuff.
“Lemon-lime powdered drink.”
“It pairs well with the lemon pepper tuna.”
“I bet. Oh, hey, candy.” She shook a bag of yellow and orange peanut butter candies.
“That’s for dessert, along with the pound cake.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” She opened a clear plastic package and took out a spoon, a packet of salt, some breath mints, and another little brown package. “What’s this? Oh. Toilet paper. Is this a horrible warning?” She shook the package of TP at him while he chuckled.
“Let me pour you a drink.” He reached across the table and grabbed the lemon-lime packet, dumped the powder into her wine glass, then filled it with the rest of the water from his bottle. Then he picked up the bag heating his chili mac and opened it. “Mmm. Dinner’s ready.”
Frankie eyed the camo bag o’ tuna. “Is there any chance I could trade with you?”
Waylon tilted his head, considering. “I’ll only give you a bite of mine, because this is the best one.”
“You are a sadist. I don’t think I can let our…I mean, your dog stay here.”
Waylon meanwhile dunked his spoon into the bag and scooped out some chili mac. He stretched his arm across the table. The spoon inched dangerously close to her mouth.
“You know, the adventures I want are fun, not, um…this.”
He smirked. “Try it.”
“Fine.” She opened her mouth and took the food off the spoon. She chewed.
“Actually, it’s not half bad.”
“See?”
“It’s not half good, either.”
“Food snob.”
“Maybe.” She poked at the unopened package of tuna on her plate. “Do I really ?”
Waylon burst out laughing. “No, of course not.” He put all the bags on his plate and stood up. He grabbed Frankie’s plate with everything on it, dumped it onto the other one, and tucked her plate under his. He carried it all into the kitchen.
“Actually, this is our dinner.” He held up a big paper tote bag with a receipt stapled to it. “There’s a French restaurant down the street that does carry out.”
“ That’s what I smelled! Oh thank God. You are evil .” Frankie laughed as Waylon plated up their food. “French food in honor of a certain World War One ace pilot?”
“But of course,” Waylon answered in a cheesy French accent. He set the plates on the table. “I borrowed the tablecloth and candle from the restaurant, too.”
Frankie rested her elbow on the table and put her chin in her hand. “I had a feeling.”
Waylon went back to the kitchen for a bottle of wine and a new glass for Frankie.
“They couldn’t sell me a bottle of wine, but suggested this one so I picked it up from the liquor store across the street from them.” He popped the cork and filled her glass, then his.
Frankie lifted her glass and waited for Waylon to lift his.
“To Snoopy,” she said .
“To adventurous women,” Waylon added, making her laugh again as they clinked glasses.
Frankie stood in the main bathroom staring at her reflection just as she had the week before. Dinner had been incredible, and not just the food. She and Waylon talked throughout as if they’d known each other forever. No strain, no stress, no awkward pauses.
No landmines either. The conversation was kept to the present, except when he asked her about growing up on the ranch. It was cute the way he avoided eye contact, as if he were simply curious. Feeling slightly evil herself, she kept the details to a minimum and blatantly steered the conversation to other topics. She helped with the dishes even though he insisted that he would do them himself. Frankie tried to tell herself it was just her imagination when sparks flew every time their hands brushed accidentally.
Now she was in her nightshirt—the Snoopy one, what else?—rustling up the courage to share a bed with him again. She took a deep breath, opened the bathroom door, and flicked off the light. His bedroom was only a few steps away.
We’re just Buddies. Keep reminding yourself of that .
Smiling ruefully to herself, she started back down the hall to the bedroom.
Waylon was facing away from her side of the bed, eyes closed. Frankie slipped under the covers and he turned out the bedside light.
They both lay there perfectly still. Frankie was wide awake and judging by Waylon’s breathing, he was, too.
Finally, he said, “You took a while in the bathroom. I thought you’d headed for the couch.” A question lingered in his voice.
I’ll remind myself we’re Buddies.
Starting tomorrow .
In no universe could Waylon be called the little spoon, especially when compared to Frankie. She damn near giggled at the idea as she slipped her arm over his waist and snuggled into him.
“Nope.” She snuggled closer. “You insisted. Just two good Adventure Buddies sharing a bed.”
“You have your arm around me.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Frankie.” His voice was low, guttural.
“Can’t a Buddy side-hug another Buddy?”
Waylon’s body shook and she hoped it was because he was suppressing a laugh.
“This isn’t a side-hug, Pixie.”
Yay, we’re back to Pixie!
“Sure it is. I only have one arm around you. Side-hug.”
He shook again. “We’re lying down in bed. What you’re doing is called spooning.”
“Hush now, Little Spoon.”
Now his shaking was accompanied by a snort. “I’ve never been anyone’s little spoon.”
“You know, I was just thinking that myself, that you’re much too big for a little spoon.” She paused. “So, should we change spoons?”
Please?
“Frankie.”
“Come on. Think of it as a mini-adventure with your Adventure Buddy.”
He snorted again.
“Well, maybe not mini ,” she teased.
Waylon went perfectly still. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, well, you started it after all.”
“I…did?”
“Mmm-hmm. You did. Last week.”
“I thought I was only dreaming,” he said, dragging out the words.
“Well, technically you were dreaming, but you were also doing.”
Waylon’s body stiffened. “Doing…what?”
“Nothing bad. You were talking in your sleep.”
He jerked. “What did I say?”
Frankie wondered if he remembered dreaming about Camille. “Nothing important.”
Waylon slumped as much as a person lying down could. “You said I did something. Did I…scare you?”
“No. Not at all.” She gave him a squeeze. “You were reacting to a nightmare I’d just had. You told me I was safe. Then you spooned me.” She fought the impulse to plant a kiss between his shoulder blades. Buddies hugged but they didn’t kiss, did they? Wait, yes they did, as of tonight on the stairs. “The spooning was nice, Waylon. I enjoyed it.”
“It was? You did?”
“Absolutely. Not scary at all,” she added. “So how about it? Wanna be the big spoon?”
She waited.
“It…might be best if you stay the big spoon.”
“Why?” Oh . “You afraid I’ll feel your spoon handle?”
That did it. Waylon couldn’t hold back his laughter—music to her ears. Just like on the bus.
No, that’s just your imagination playing tricks on you .
“Yeah, Pix, you might feel my handle.”
Frankie shivered at the thought, half-desire, half-worry now that she had poked the bear—or rather, the Ram. She ignored the voice in her head telling her she needed to stop now; that if she didn’t, he’d see her naked and think she was ugly.
Desire won out.
“You want the truth?” she asked.
Waylon groaned. “Oh, no. Let me guess.”
“Yeah, I, um. Might-have-already-felt-it.” She ran the words together as fast as she could then pressed her face against his back.
“Oh, shit.”
She eased her head back. “No, not shit at all. Actually, pretty impressive. Thus the ‘not mini’ comment.”
“Please tell me you’re joking right now. ”
“Not joking. You have an impressive spoon handle. I’m gonna stop calling you Waylon and start calling you Way- long .”
Waylon shook with laughter. “You’re something else, Pix.”
She lifted her head until her mouth was close to his ear. “So, you gonna be my big spoon? Or am I?—”
Waylon turned so quickly, he took Frankie entirely by surprise. One second she was behind him, whispering in his ear, and the next, she was flat on her back under him. Their faces were inches apart, close enough that all she had to do was lift her head the tiniest amount to touch his lips with hers. Her heart pounded as her entire body shuddered with need. How long had it been since she’d been pinned under a lover?
Since way back in the BC days . Back when her body was worth making love to.
“Damn, Pixie,” Waylon breathed. “You are impossible, you know that?”
“I do my best.”
He closed the gap between them when his lips met hers.