Chapter 39
STEPHANIE
My entire body thrums with nervous energy while I wait for Cooper to respond.
“What do you think needs fixing?” His voice is steady, but my nerves are completely shot.
“Us. Can we fix us?” I sit straight up when I realize how that sounds.
“I mean, not that there’s an us, per se .
. . I meant the us that are friends. Because last night you said we were friends.
And you were my friend this morning when you rescued me from Chase—although, I’ve never had such a passionate rescue.
Oh wait! That’s awkward to say out loud.
” The pulse in my throat pounds so loud that I can barely hear my own voice.
The only response he gives is a slight twitch in the corner of his lips.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.
I was only making an observation”—I’m digging myself into a hole here but can’t seem to rip my stare from his—“but after . . . you rescued me, things got in my head.” I stand up, hoping it will help me sort out my thoughts.
“I blurted out questions that weren’t meant to be blurted out, and now .
. .” I search his face for answers but find none.
“I think it’s all been too much. Maybe I’m too much.
Because I am for some people. But I hope I’m not for you, because .
. . I want to be your friend . . .” I search my thoughts for anything still left unsaid.
“And that reminds me—I’d like a copy of that picture you took.
It was a good picture.” I’m officially mortified at my ramblings, and I plop down in the seat farthest from him in our small grouping of seats, because I need as much distance as possible.
Is eight feet enough? Or should I immediately move to Spain?
I down the rest of my water in several large gulps and set the empty bottle on the table.
I wait for his response with bated breath, heart hammering in my ears.
Dead silence.
That’s what greets me.
Dead. Silence.
His lack of reaction is more than a little alarming. I suddenly feel parched and need more water.
He calmly pulls out his phone—his phone!—and starts scrolling.
Is he ignoring me?
Is this how badly I’ve messed up?
Has he resorted to ghosting me while I’m sitting right here?
He holds his phone out for me to take.
“What’s this for?” I carefully reach across the table and take his phone like it will bite me if I move too quickly.
“I don’t have your phone number, and you wanted a copy of the photo.”
I look down and see my name on his contacts app: Stephanie James. And the cursor is waiting for my phone number. I’m dumbfounded as I glance up at him.
“Stephanie, we’re fine.” He signals with his eyes to the phone in my hand, reminding me to enter in my number. I numbly obey and return the phone. He types and swipes a few more times, then puts it back in his pocket. “There. Just sent the photo to you.”
“And that’s it? You don’t have anything to say?”
“I have things to say. But first, are you going to let me give you these shoes?” He gestures to the horrid box on the table between us, bringing it back into the conversation.
I panic. “What happens if I say no?” Impulsively I stand up, take a few steps, and choose a different chair.
His smiles, his lopsided, dimple-flashing one, and it does something to settle my nerves. “That’s a great question, and one I will answer, but can I show you something first?” I slowly nod, and he begins unbuttoning his shirt.
I’m immediately on my feet again. “Wh—what are you doing?”
He stops unbuttoning. “I want to show you my tattoo.” His eyebrows are raised, waiting for my response.
“You can’t take your shirt off and then expect me to have a conversation with you.
You’re very distracting when your shirt’s off!
” I sit back down. “Oh, that was embarrassing.” Then his words connect, and my humiliation takes a back seat.
“You want to show me your tattoo?” I’m unsure of the drastic turn this conversation has taken.
“I promise there’s a good reason—just let me explain. And, if you remember, we had a conversation right over there when my shirt was off, and you seemed to manage fine.” The curve of his mouth tells me that he’s enjoying this.
“I mean, I guess. Sure.” I scoot back in my seat and draw in a quiet breath, bracing myself for the coming distraction. “But put your shirt on when you’re done.”
He smiles at my response, while I cringe. I have no amount of cool right now.
Why his tattoo? Why right now? A jolt of adrenaline hits me, but it’s fueled more by my curiosity than the fact that he’s taking his shirt off.
He keeps his eyes on me as he continues slowly unbuttoning his shirt, as if he’s waiting for me to protest again. Really? Slower? Pfff. As if that’s going to make it any easier. Now it’s just sexier.
He mumbles under his breath. “I usually don’t like it when women get flustered by my body, but I’m actually enjoying this.”
“I heard that.” I fold my arms defiantly across my chest.
All I get is a chuckle in return, and then both dimples appear, completely unapologetic. He finally slides his shirt off and continues—in all his bare-chested glory. “When I was in high school, I played all the big sports: football, basketball, and baseball. You name it, I played it.”
“You couldn’t have said that with your shirt on?”
He freezes in contemplation. “Well, yes, I could have said that part, but—” he moves to collect his shirt.
“It’s too late now. Keep going.” This absurd exchange seems to lift so much of the heavy curtain that has been hanging down on us since leaving The Whitmore.
It’s refreshing to try and hide a smile or, once again, be embarrassed because I have no filter.
I’m very ready to listen to Cooper and focus on something other than myself.
“So, I played all the sports and was very good at them. I was usually the captain, and along the way, we got a few state championships, which is a pretty big deal in Texas. It’s common for athletes to come out of high school having had amazing coaches who made positive impacts in their lives—but not me.
Mine had the opposite effect. They never valued or cared about me as a person.
I was a commodity to them. They cared that I made them look good and that we won.
I could have been on drugs and flunking out of school, and they would have gotten me back on track, but only to ensure the team kept winning.
So I learned to hate it. As a result, I turned down all my division-one scholarship offers—for both football and baseball.
Athletically I would have done well in college, but I had no interest."
I don’t know where he’s going with this, but I’ve moved to the edge of my seat and am hanging on his every word.
“College presented a different set of challenges when . . .” He shifts very uncomfortably in his seat and rubs the back of his neck.
“Oh. I didn’t think through how awkward it would be to tell this part.
” He studies me, and I see a blush start to cover his cheeks.
“Hmm. So, I was . . . very . . . um . . .”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Mallory! Spit it out!”
This earns me a small chuckle. “Fine.” He takes a deep breath and rushes through his next words like he’s running across hot coals. “In college I was aware that women appreciated my physical appearance.” He blows out a huge breath. “There. I said it. Happy?”
“Yes. Very. Continue.”
“My experience became dating girls who fixated on my looks and had no interest in getting to know me—in seeing how compatible we were. It’s like they only wanted to show me off to their friends, as if having the best-looking boyfriend was a competition.”
“You must have been crushed when you always came in last.” I give him the saddest face I can muster up.
His surprised expression melts into something closer to pride. “Did you just throw a zinger at my expense?”
“I did.” I can’t help but glow at his reaction. I’m usually terrible at those kinds of barbs. Well, any kind, actually.
He laughs, and we both relax even more. “That really was good—you had me going for a second. My sisters would be proud.” He seems to have lost his train of thought and takes a cleansing breath.
“Thank you.” I settle back into my chair with mock benevolence. “Continue. You were talking about how much of a disappointment you were to all your girlfriends who wanted to have the most-handsome boyfriend.”
He throws me another cheeky smile. “Needless to say, dating wasn’t what I hoped for in college.
I had one mildly serious girlfriend for about nine months, but other than that, I hated it.
I was a couple of months away from graduating when my dad died.
Brain aneurysm, totally unexpected. He was my best friend, and I idolized him.
Devastated doesn’t even cover it.” Cooper leans forward.
“I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I shoved my emotions down and kept going.
After college graduation, I still struggled, and the unwanted attention I got from women didn’t help. I pulled away from anything social.”
“What did you do?” I’m mesmerized by his story. “Because that’s nothing like the Cooper Mallory I’ve seen.”