Chapter 5
RONAN
I’m only stopping by Blissful Brews to get something for dinner.
After all, it’s easier than finding something in the house to cook.
And better tasting than whatever I’d end up making, since my typical dinner at home is either spaghetti with jarred sauce or a frozen pizza.
Healthier, too, since most of the soups from Blissful Brews include some kind of vegetable and far fewer preservatives.
And if Angel happens to be there?
Well, that would be convenient, actually.
If Angel’s still working, we can discuss our plans for the weekend in person instead of through texts.
Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I don’t like trying to decipher combinations of emojis and strange abbreviations and acronyms. Just come out and tell me what you mean.
I think she’s still working, though. It’s only half-past one, and Angel said she doesn’t usually leave until around three, giving her enough time to get home before Haley gets off the bus.
Unless it’s art club day, that is, or Haley’s going over to a friend’s after school.
Then Angel gets a little breather to do some cleaning or laundry or work on one of the many projects around the house.
How do I know all this? She told me while we were watching the end of Rudolph the other night; our voices pitched low so we didn’t wake up Haley, who, as Angel predicted, had hit the wall after the excitement of creating Mount Nilsson.
In the three days since, I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
Not just that conversation, but all of it—helping with the mini mountain, the hot chocolate topping buffet, the issue of ski club and the sad look Angel got when Haley brought it up, sitting next to Angel on the couch while we watched the movie, our legs brushing each other while we talked…
It’s been hard to stop thinking about Angel, period.
I forced myself to while I was meeting with the client in Maine—and yes, she’s officially our client now, based on the information she gave me.
Alec’s working up a plan for the investigation, and Knox and I are heading back to Maine next week to set up surveillance at the client’s house, just in case the half-sister gets it into her head to try anything funny.
So I managed to keep my head in the game long enough to do my job. But during the off times, Angel was never far from my mind.
I’d be sitting in my hotel room, idly flipping through the channels, and I’d wonder what she was doing. Was she watching another Christmas movie with Haley? Or were they watching the newest episode of The Great British Bake Off?
Did Angel still smell like cupcakes, just like she did the last two times I saw her?
Were the bruises from her fall from the ladder fading? Was she still sore? Was she pushing herself to do things around the house that were too much for her?
Had the helmet Angel said she was going to order arrived? Did Haley try going down mini Mount Nilsson yet? Did she like it?
Offering to teach Haley to ski was one of the last things I could have imagined when I decided to swing by Angel’s house that day.
But then again, I hadn’t planned on spending the evening with Angel and Haley, helping them build a mini mountain and drinking hot chocolate and watching Rudolph like I was a character in one of those Hallmark movies Winter and Lark love to watch around the holidays.
But, shit. How could I just stand there and not say something? I totally get why Haley would want to join the ski club, especially if all her friends are doing it.
And Angel. She just looked so sad. Like it was physically hurting her not to be able to give her daughter something she wanted.
That’s when it came to me. I could fix things.
I could take away the disappointed slump of Haley’s shoulders and the regret in Angel’s eyes.
It wouldn’t take much. And really, what else would I do on a day off?
Putter around my house, working on more projects no one but me ever sees?
Watch another show about people being dumped in the middle of nowhere and hear them complain about how hard it is instead of actually buckling down and doing something about it?
Anyway, it’s not like spending the day at Stowe with Angel and her daughter means we’re dating. I’m just helping out a friend.
Just friends, I repeat like a mantra as I drive through downtown Bliss, looking for a place to park. We’re just friends.
And then, as I hurry down the sidewalk, breath puffing out in billowing, silvery clouds and my eyes watering from the cold—just friends.
As the entrance for Blissful Brews comes into sight, marked by a colorful awning decorated with clouds in the shape of hops, I remind myself again, We’re just friends.
And friends help each other. Just like I’d help Enzo or Gage or any of my teammates.
Just like I would—and have—for any of their partners.
My jaw sets in determination.
I’m not looking for a relationship. Been there, done that, not interested in trying it again.
Anger flares hot at the unwelcome memory.
A bitter taste comes to my mouth.
It’s nearly enough to make me turn back around. To go home and have my frozen pizza in front of the TV while trying to come up with an excuse not to go through with this whole ski lesson idea.
The urge to flee is so powerful, I actually freeze with my hand on the handle of the door.
A small, cowardly part of me whispers, Go home.
Text Angel later and tell her you’re sick.
The flu or food poisoning or something. Arrange for lessons with one of the instructors at the mountain so Haley isn’t disappointed.
Make up something about a scholarship or some shit, so Angel doesn’t have to pay for them.
And then extricate yourself from Angel’s life before you’re in too deep.
Before she gets a chance to screw you over, just like Gwen did.
I’m ashamed to admit I almost do it.
During the seconds I hesitate in front of the door, the memories I’ve shoved down deep resurface. And with them, the anger. The hurt. The betrayal. The vow afterwards of never giving my heart to anyone again.
Then a raucous burst of laughter from inside the pub brings me back to the present.
Wrenching control of the memories, I shove them back into the steel-trap box I’ve stored them in and lock it securely shut.
Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I push the door open and walk inside.
The first thing I notice upon entering is how busy it is.
I’m not often in for lunch, but whenever I have, it’s been relatively quiet, with half the tables empty.
Today, nearly all the tables are taken, either by singles, couples, or groups of four.
There are even a couple of tables with six chairs crammed around them and as many glasses of beer to match.
As I stand just inside the entrance, a few customers notice me and give a cheerful wave. Behind the bar, the daytime bartender, Jeff, catches my eye and lifts his chin. Maria, one of the other lunch servers, goes rushing past with a loaded tray of drinks.
In the far left corner, closest to the vintage jukebox, one of the crowded six-tops has some faces that put me on alert.
None of them have a violent criminal record—Phil Harris has a few DUIs, Bryan Winston has been arrested on drug possession, and Geoff Marten pled out on a vandalism charge a couple of years ago—but I’m not exactly thrilled to see them here.
Especially not if Angel’s working.
And speaking of Angel…
Almost as if I summoned her, she comes bursting through the swinging kitchen doors with a large tray balanced on one shoulder.
Her hair bounces around her face, shining gold and platinum as the light hits it.
Her jeans mold to the curves of her legs, and her Blissful Brews T-shirt stretches across her breasts; the logo perfectly placed to draw my attention to them.
She’s pink-cheeked from exertion, but her smile doesn’t falter.
As I watch her hurry over to a four-top, she puffs at a stray tendril of hair that escaped her ponytail, but it falls back into her face again.
And shit. She’s even prettier than I remember.
Dimly aware that I’m still standing by the entrance instead of coming all the way inside, like a normal person, I tear my gaze from Angel and make my way to the bar.
But there’s something magnetic about Angel that draws my attention right back to her.
And this time, when I look in her direction, she’s looking right back at me.
When she smiles at me, my heart actually skips a beat.
But we’re just friends.
Just. Friends.
Except I don’t feel like this when I see my other friends.
My pulse doesn’t race when any of my other friends head in my direction, their smile as bright as the sun and their eyes bright with pleasure at seeing me.
At least, I think she’s happy to see me. Unless there’s someone else at the bar, and she’s smiling at them. Unless she smiles like that at all her customers, and I’m making—
“Ronan.” Angel sounds almost breathless as she greets me. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t know you were coming in—” She blushes. “Forget I said that. It’s not like you’re going to text to tell me you’re coming into Blissful Brews. That would be silly. But it’s nice to see you.”
Well, shit. Now I wish I had texted her.
If I’d known it was this busy, I could have come later.
Maybe even at the end of her shift, so we could talk while she’s rolling up silverware.
Then I could walk her to her car, and possibly swing by Decadent Delights to buy her some cookies to thank her for all the ones she gave to me.
But what about the whole just friends thing? What about figuring out a way to put distance between us?
“How was your trip?” Angel asks. She leans a little closer to me, bringing with her the sweet scent of cupcakes. “I hope everything went well.”