Chapter Ten
Belle
I can usually admit when I’m wrong. Like the time I accused my mom’s dog of hitting the television remote and exiting out of a movie right when the killer was being revealed, only to realize it was my elbow that had done it after I made a big stink.
Or when I made dinner reservations for Frank’s sixtieth birthday at his favorite restaurant, only to get there and realize I’d called the wrong restaurant in a different state with the same name and there were no tables available when our party of ten arrived.
Honestly, the list of times I’ve been wrong is a little too long. The list of times I’ve been willing to admit it is vastly shorter, but it exists.
But I’ll add one more to it.
I was wrong to tell Jesse that we could sleep together and get it out of our systems. Did I tell him I was wrong?
That I instantly regretted the words as soon as they were out?
No. Absolutely not. Because then I’d have to admit that it’s been two days since he walked out of my room, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.
I’ve replayed every moment from the second he kissed me in the kitchen to when he coaxed me into an orgasm an unhealthy number of times. Forget drugs and alcohol. Jesse is undoubtedly my bad habit. And I knew instantly after what we’d done that there was no such thing as a one-time experience.
And thinking about all the complications that would come to openly admitting ‘hey, everyone, I really want to bang my stepbrother’ does not make me feel confident in what my pesky heart feels about the situation.
My phone buzzes beside me, breaking me out of the train of thought. Which is probably for the better because I’ve already chewed off some of the pastel pink nail polish that I’d gotten done at the spa.
I feel bad for frowning when I see the message, but my heart plummets the tiniest fraction at the name on the screen.
Dane: Hey Belle
He texted me when he’d gotten home the day of our date, which made me feel even worse that I’d forgotten to let him know I’d gotten back safely.
Then he texted me the next day saying to let him know what I decided to do about the bookshelves, and that he’d happily show me some of the other projects he’s done to help me decide if I wanted his help.
He’s nice. Respectful. Not overly flirty or clingy or expectant.
And he’s cute. Average, in an attractive way.
There’s nothing wrong with Dane, other than the fact he’s not Jesse.
I responded to both of his texts with short replies that made me feel a little guilty. But how could I entertain somebody who took me on a date when another man was in my bed an hour later?
I sit back in my crisscross chair and pick up my phone, residual guilt still clinging to me.
I’ve spent all day reading up on Fairbanks’s commercial use forms and policies, trying to figure out everything I need to do for this bookstore café to happen.
Rae gave me some helpful tips and links and told me I could call her anytime if I needed help being pointed in the right direction, and I may have to take her up on it.
There are some city meetings I’d need to attend to pitch the business and have a public hearing on the project in case any locals have concerns.
Rae doesn’t think I’ll meet any resistance, but she’s mentioned that some of the other owners tend to be “clique-y” when it comes to outsiders starting new businesses.
My mom always told me I could charm even the grouchiest people on the planet with a smile, so I’m hoping that’s true and not the same stuff that every parent tells their kid.
Me: Hi. Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. I’ve been distracted reading about local government policies. I’m sure you’re jealous
Dane: Don’t worry about it. I was wondering if you’d want to get a drink and discuss more about the shelves?
Those three bubbles dance at the bottom of the screen before I can even think of a reply.
Dane: Sounds like you need a break anyway
I do need a break, since the only one I’ve taken was to pee and stare into the fridge four different times like new food would magically grow inside it.
We haven’t been grocery shopping in over two weeks, which is a record for us.
Especially considering the pro athlete in the house can eat up to five-thousand calories a day during his season—sometimes more.
Nibbling my bottom lip between my top two teeth, I debate on how to respond.
There’s only one reason I’d tell him no, and that reason involves a six-foot-three hockey player whose been away for the past day and a half doing back-to-back photoshoots for People magazine and Sports Illustrated in New York City.
I’ve tried really hard not picturing him in underwear since he told me his agent got him a cover story for Sports Illustrated, but it’s an impossible task when I know all the contours of muscles carved under his clothing.
Sighing, I scrub a hand down my face. I technically do need to talk to Dane about the designs I want for the store, not that I can hire him right away until my plans are approved by the city.
I’ve never read more confusing city restrictions than they have here.
Apparently, it’s to persevere the historical aesthetic.
I’d like to think a cute bookstore is perfectly safe.
It isn’t like I’m trying to open a strip club.
But you never know what local governments will say about outsiders coming in.
If what Rae said is true, I know I’ll have to present myself with confidence when I finally get all my forms signed and turned in and get put on the meeting minutes.
Me: Are you in town tonight?
The second I type out the question, my chest feels heavy. It isn’t like I’m cheating on anybody. There aren’t any rules I’m breaking, or boundaries being crossed. I’ll meet with Dane, have a drink, and talk about bookshelves.
Simple.
So why the hell does my heart hammer in a chaotic beat like anxiety grips it?
Ugh.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Eyes starting to hurt from the how long I’ve stared at my computer screen, I close my laptop and rub them. There’s the slightest ache settling into my right eyeball that could be anything. The light from the screen getting to me. Dryness. Maybe even allergies.
To be on the safe side, I pop an ibuprofen with what’s left of the same water I’ve been nursing all day (so I can tell Jesse I did drink water, even if it was only twelve ounces), and hope that simmers the dull throb in my skull before it’s too late.
Dane: I can be there to pick you up at six?
Years ago, because I had no sense of survival instincts, I used to think it was romantic that men wanted to pick me up at my house. It’s what every girl saw in movies, so I thought it was cute.
When I moved in with Jesse, I decided to start meeting people out in case they were fans.
I’d rather not give out the address of one of the league’s top-paid athletes if I can help it.
Plus, Jesse used to scold me for not being safer about strangers knowing where I lived.
Then he’d google horror stories about dates gone wrong or make me watch true crimes on it.
So what I tell him next has nothing to do with that coiled ball of guilt crammed into my chest. It’s simply because I haven’t left the house all day and need the excuse to drive and get fresh air.
Me: I’ll meet you! Have a few errands to run before. There’s a place I think you’ll like if you’re okay with a rec
I send him the link to the bar that’s built to resemble a cabin.
I discovered it a few months after moving here, when I was googling unique places to get food.
According to the internet, they have the best chicken wings and homemade blue cheese sauce in the tri-county area.
After having gone a few times, I can attest that they’re pretty dang good.
When Dane agrees on the location, it motivates me to take a quick shower and change out of the sweatpants I’ve been rocking all day.
Since this isn’t a date, I don’t let myself overthink the outfit.
It’s cold, I want to be warm, and that’s that.
If my sweater is a little form-fitting, it’s only because my stomach isn’t flat, and I may have gained a pound or two after the holidays. It happens.
I have to remind myself that I’m not doing anything wrong when I leave a note for Jesse letting him know I’ll be gone for a few hours and be back tonight.
Then I have remind myself again on the fifteen-minute drive to the bar.
And a third time when I park and see Dane standing by the front door looking…
cute. Not hot. Not H-A-W-T hot. But cute. And cute is good.
Wetting my lips, I hype myself up to get out of my car. It’s not easy, mostly because it’s only twenty-degrees Fahrenheit today and the nippy air hurts my face. When I finally walk over to him, he smiles and holds out his hand.
To shake.
He doesn’t go in for a hug like I think he will, and the surprise must be evident on my face because he chuckles when I take his hand.
“It’s good seeing you,” he greets, gesturing toward the bar. “Let’s get inside. You look cold.”
He opens the door for me and hovers a hand over the small of my back to guide me in, careful not to actually touch me.
He’s the kind of gentleman that books get written about.
He is the Keanu Reeves of the fictional romance industry, never crossing lines and always respecting boundaries until he’s invited to do something about them.
When he pulls a stool out for me at the bar, I’m suddenly giving him another once-over like I’m trying to figure out why I don’t find him hotter. Maybe I do? He’s got more hair on his jaw than he did the last time I saw him, and I could get behind a beard. Maybe he just has to grow on me once—