3. Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
CAROLINE
I always imagined Austin as a preppy kind of guy. Not that I spend a lot of time thinking about him. I think it’s just because he’s always dressed to the nines whenever I see him.
So, color me surprised when he pulls up to my house in a beat-up pickup truck that I assumed would be a Mercedes or a Volvo. And when he jumps out to get the door for me, his flannel and jean-clad body has me reframing all my wardrobe beliefs because he’s dressed to the tens. Now, I know that’s not a thing, but I’m making it one because this look…it’s a perfect ten. It’s boots, a ski cap, and…dear heavens, he’s wearing glasses too.
I unzip my puffer vest because the weather lady was clearly wrong about there being slightly above-average temps today. I’m about to run inside and throw on some shorts for how warm I’m feeling all of a sudden.
“Well, hey there,” he says as he bends to pet Biscuit, who for a hot minute—literally—I forgot was even next to me. And is it just me or is Austin’s accent a little thicker than normal?
“You’re not from here, right?”
Austin rises from his crouch, wearing an expression that he says he’s surprised by the random question. Join the club, buddy.
“No. I lived in South Carolina until junior high. Went away to college in Boston, stayed there for a bit, and then came back home.”
I nod because that sounds vaguely familiar. “That’s right. Your parents moved here to build some resorts in the area.”
“So, you’ve been learning about me.” I don’t like the way his eyes twinkle or the dancey-dance his brows do.
“Word travels in small towns.”
“Which is how I learned all about you .”
He rounds the truck before I have a chance to ask what he’s learned about me. Or even why he wants to know anything at all. Everyone knows the Macks—filthy rich, a son who plays professional football, a daughter who could be a super model.
A son who gets on my last nerve.
But as we hop in the truck, I wonder if that’s still true.
It’s hard to hold a grudge with a man whose puppy is propped in a sherpa-lined dog seat, harnessed in for safety. Even harder when the man reaches into the back and drapes a blanket over your lap because the heater has seen better days …and then pulls out a smaller one to wrap around your dog.
“Biscuit loves blankets,” I say because I can’t admit how this thing feels like a hug from Austin in fleece form. I don’t want Austin to hug me.
“Blankets are Pirate’s love language. I take one with me whenever I visit Mrs. Nesbitt. I figure maybe it helps him stay calm if it smells like her.”
And now I’m imagining this man taking time out of his busy life to visit his elderly next-door neighbor in the nursing home, walking in with a plush blanket so her puppy, the one he so graciously adopted so it wouldn’t go to a shelter, might rest a little more peacefully at night. Forget the warmth from earlier; I’m straight up melting now. But fat chance of me giving up this cozy blanket anytime soon. And not because it has the same spicy scent as the man sitting next to me. Not at all.
“Well, that’s…” There’s a whole list of words I could fill in the blank with. Sweet, adorable, incredibly thoughtful. A week ago, I would have needed the antonyms for all these words to describe Austin. Was I really that wrong about him? “You’re a good guy,” I say, and I don’t even choke a little bit.
His eyes widen as he takes them off the road for the briefest moment. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
I shake my head—not that he can see it. His eyes are glued to the road, his hands at the perfect ten-and-two o’clock position. “I haven’t always been the nicest to you. And I feel like maybe I should apologize for that.”
“Nah.” We stop at the intersection, and he uses the pause to look at me. “Sometimes when we’re in dark places, it’s easy to cast the darkness into other areas of our lives.” He turns back to the road even though the light is still red. “I think I always saw the light in your eyes.”
He takes his foot off the brake as the old truck rumbles forward. The vibration of the leather bench seat has nothing on the quivering in my chest, my stomach, and anywhere else I could possibly jiggle because…what was that? The most we’ve ever done is exchange barbs, but then he just goes and says something like that ?
“Your grandma would be proud of you, ya know?” His words are a whisper, a sound I barely hear over the roar of the engine, like he’s not sure if he should say the words, so he wants to make sure there is only half a chance I even hear them.
“Did you…know her?”
He shakes his head. “Not well enough. My grandma watched me after school at her house a lot since my parents were always traveling. Your gram was usually there, sipping coffee, cracking jokes about anything and everything, and telling stories about the famous Carolina Hurricane.”
At the mention of my nickname—a name my gram used probably more than my actual name—I sniff. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard it.
We sit in silence, like he knows I need a moment to absorb what he’s said. And then it hits me—Austin and I never crossed paths until recently, seeing as I grew up about six hours from Pine Grove and only visited periodically. And by the time I moved here, he wasn’t around.
And then I wonder…if Austin knows that detail, what else does he know? And why would he remember? Why would he care?
Before I can ask any of this, the truck comes to a stop in the middle of a gravel lot. He throws it into park and turns to me, his smile as real as I’ve ever seen it.
“Well, Caroline…let’s get you that Christmas tree.”