Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Bellamy
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Despite the chaos swirling around me, everything slows down. Way down. It comes to a screeching halt on my neighbor’s doorstep as I stand with an empty Tupperware container in my hand.
Why didn’t I just text his mother first to see if she was home? Better yet, why did I think making no-bake cookies with Bree was a good idea in the first place?
This is why I don’t do domesticity.
I know not to look up at him. I know better.
Yet I do because I must hate myself more than I hate him.
My gaze locks with the golden-eyed, shirtless asshole in front of me, and I try to steady myself with a deep breath.
“Did I break his face?” Bree shouts from behind me, panic tinging her sweet little voice. “Why didn’t you catch the ball, Bellamy? You could’ve caught it!”
I should console her. My job is to give her my full, undivided attention. I should tell her that I got distracted by the sense something was amiss and turned at the exact wrong moment—the moment her throw whizzed right by me … and right into Coy’s face.
Hopefully, the nanny gods will understand my current predicament and give me a pass because my attention is most certainly divided.
I stand eye to eye with Coy Mason, the man I would give up my entire shoe collection to avoid—the man I would forgo Cheez-Its for the rest of eternity for as long as I didn’t have to reencounter him. The man with a face I want to sit on and pummel at the same freaking time.
The man who’s the bane of my existence.
My heart struggles to find an even rhythm as I let myself look at him for the first time in person in over a year.
He’s still irritatingly gorgeous with high cheekbones and full, pouty lips.
But his skin is sun-kissed thanks to the California sun, and the little lines around his eyes somehow make him even more attractive.
Even though his face is swelling, and his jaw is tinted the color of watered-down grape juice, the bastard dares to smirk. Even though my disdain for this man is a ten-for-ten, my stomach flip flops. It didn’t get the memo.
“Did I break him?” Bree shouts again.
“What do you say, Bells?” he asks cheekily. “Did she break me?”
His voice, warm and with arrogance-straddling confidence, shakes me out of the shock of seeing him. Reality blasts back in one swift, somewhat awkward moment.
“He was broken way before you hit him with the ball,” I tell Bree over my shoulder. “He’s going to be fine.”
Coy chuckles as he leans against the doorframe.
His hair is a wild disaster of a mess. There’s more than a hint of stubble dotting his stupid jawline.
His shoulders are strong and thick, reminiscent of his high school sports days, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if his neck still pops when he rolls his head around his shoulders.
But then I catch myself.
What the hell do I care?
He grins. “Did you come over here just to see me?”
“Hardly. I came for some sugar.”
As soon as I say it, I know it was a mistake. A mischievous shadow sneaks across Coy’s face.
“I can totally help you there,” he says, lowering his voice. “But preferably not in front of the kid.”
Bastard.
My stomach releases a kaleidoscope of butterflies, and I feel unable to stay strong and unaffected by him. Luckily, the rest of me manages to recall survival instincts.
I narrow my eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I can think of worse ways to spend the afternoon.”
My bottom lip tugs between my teeth. Logic cuts through the flurry of Coy-induced hormones, hitting my blood like a shot of heroin, and I recalibrate.
“You know what? Me too,” I say. “I can think of worse ways to spend the afternoon.”
I fire a grin his way. It’s a purposeful attempt to lure him in and play on his ego.
Not surprisingly, it works.
“Really?” he asks.
“No.” I pivot toward Bree. “Tell your mom I was here, please.”
“What? Where are you going?” Amusement plays in his tone. “Are you just going to leave now?”
I march down the walkway and toward the fence that separates my house from Coy’s parents’ house. Bree stands up from her perch on a planter as I approach. I ignore the commotion rioting inside me and reach for Bree’s hand.
“Bells,” Coy calls after me.
“Let’s go,” I tell Bree, grabbing her little palm.
“But the man is talking to you.” She stumbles alongside me. “Shouldn’t we say goodbye?”
“We don’t talk to strangers. Remember?” I say.
“But …” She looks over her shoulder as I nearly drag her toward the gate. “I’m sorry, Mister!”
My brain screams at me to get back on my side of the fence. And to forget Coy’s ripped jeans and washboard abs.
My body pleads for me to just hear him out. And to forget the things he can do if given time, a tie, and a bottle of honey.
My heart, however, wants me to find a way to erase this entire morning. And to lock the gate when I get to the other side.
“That’s a good arm you have there,” Coy says, cutting through the racket in my head. He’s much closer than I anticipate, and I wonder if it would look ridiculous if I picked Bree up and ran.
I don’t get to find out because Bree stops dead in her tracks. I nearly yank her arm out of the socket.
“Bree,” I insist, my words nearly a plea. “Let’s go, kiddo.”
“Thanks,” she tells Coy, ignoring me. She takes her ball from him. “I’m trying to decide whether to go into the major leagues or be a pianist. It’s a tough choice.”
I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sky. “I’ll help you decide your nine-year-old life’s choices at my house. Now let’s go.”
My teeth grit together. It’s as if I clench hard enough, it’ll keep Coy from coming closer.
It doesn’t.
I sense his proximity well before I see him. His cologne—a scent that reminds me of both cedar and pineapple—invades the air. The cells in my body lean toward him in the same ridiculous way they always do when he’s around.
“Did you know that I play the piano?” Coy asks from just behind me. “And I hold the record at St. James High School for the most strikeouts in a season?”
“What are you doing? Trying to charm children now?” I ask without looking at him.
“Why not? It’s more of a challenge than charming you.”
I flip my eyes open and turn around. Coy’s gaze snatches mine up before I even face him all the way.
It’s a tactic of his that I’m well acquainted with. He knows his strengths, and he plays them well.
His eyes fix on me. It’s a heady feeling whether you like him or not. Coy doesn’t just see you. He sees you. He makes you feel like the only person in the entire universe … when he wants to. Apparently, he wants to now.
His gaze issues a challenge—for what, I don’t know.
All I do know is that I’m not getting drawn into whatever it is.
“Oh, please,” I say, ignoring the way his abs flex in the sunlight. “There’s not one thing about you that I find charming.”
He rolls his tongue around his mouth, letting his lips smack together at the end. “I think you lie, Miss Davenport.”
Bree moves at my side, slapping my thigh with her softball mitt. The sound pops through the air and breaks the tension between us.
“Can you teach me to throw a curveball?” she asks Coy.
“I’ve been watching videos on YouTube, but I can’t figure it out.
And since the last one I tried ended up hitting you in the face, I think it’s safe to say I can’t do it.
” She looks at me disapprovingly. “But I do think it was catchable, Bellamy.”
Coy lets his gaze linger on me for a long, irritating second before looking down at Bree. He crouches down to her level.
I blow out a quiet breath and consider that mini-interaction a victory.
“I’m not sure of the best way to throw a softball,” he tells Bree.
“That’s fine. I don’t want to throw a softball. I want to throw a baseball,” Bree says with her hand on her hip. “My cousin, Michael, plays baseball, and I want to do that too. He says girls can’t do the same things as boys, and I think that’s a bunch of junk.”
Coy laughs. “Well, I think that’s a bunch of junk too. Let me see your ball again.”
Stop being nice to her.
“Bree,” I say, trying to figure a way out of this. “We really should talk to your mom before you play with boys. You know she’s not sold on you playing baseball.”
Bree looks up at me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “True. But he’s not a boy. He’s a man. I think Mom would be okay with it.”
Coy looks up at me with a twinkle in his eyes too. “Yeah, Bells. I’m a man.”
“Maybe anatomically,” I say, hoping that the only thing he sees in my eyes is a lack of entertainment with this whole thing. “Bree, since we don’t have any sugar, and it’s clear we aren’t going to get any, what if we go home and get out the glitter?”
She gasps. “I thought glitter was evil?”
Coy stands, his grin getting wider.
“Well, it’s the lesser of the two evils today. Lucky you,” I tell Bree, my eyes still fixed on Coy. “Why don’t you run back to my house and get it out, and I’ll be right there?”
“Yay!” Bree squeals as she runs through the open gate toward my house.
“Keep it on the table,” I shout after her, already regretting the idea.
But as my attention lands back on Coy, I realize I didn’t have a choice.
Seeing him on television and in magazines at the grocery store is one thing because I can turn the channel or look away. I scroll by online articles about him like it’s my damn job, and every time he’s on the radio, I change the station.
But in person, it’s different. And it’s definitely not that easy.
If I hate one thing in this world besides Coy, it’s feeling vulnerable. Standing in front of him makes my carefully constructed shields develop cracks the size of the Marianas trench.
“Glitter?” Coy laughs, either oblivious to my inner turmoil or unconcerned. “I’ve had a lot of bad things said about me, but never that I was worse than glitter.”
“That’s not the worst thing I’ve said about you.”
With a harsh, matter-of-fact tone, my words are short and chopped and to the point. I’m not entertained.
It’s also clear that he is.
He runs a hand through his bedhead and graces me with a simple grin that makes people feel as if they’re getting a side of him no one else gets. It’s a damn good thing I know that’s a lie.
“How ya been, Bells? It’s been a long time.”
“By design.”
He juts out his bottom lip. “That makes me sad.”
“Coy, shut up.”
He laughs as his hair flops to his forehead again. “I’m glad you still have your moxie. I was afraid you’d actually become the basic bitch you pretend to be.”
The laughter stops, but his smile stays put.
I don’t even know why I’m surprised at this point, but I am. Maybe I hoped if we ever did encounter each other again, it would be more civil. Friendly. Less … us. Perhaps I hoped that I’d see Coy and feel more compelled to forgive him. Move on. Be less … hurt.
Clearly, that’s not the case, so there’s no point in pretending to be nice.
“I hate you, Coy Mason.”
His grin grows wider. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”
I’m done.
My blood pounds through my vessels as I turn toward the gate. I contemplate whether to take the high road or just stoop into the gutter like him.
I could share a lot of truths with that asshole if I wanted to.
Beginning with how my basic bitch switch gets flipped when he’s around as a form of self-defense. I could jump right in with how we’re only friends when it’s convenient for him.
Or I could go really low.
I could tell him that he did become everything I feared.
That the boy who went to war with my dad when we were younger over the Winter Wonderland dance—getting himself grounded and unable to attend himself—had turned into a selfish, egotistical human being that doesn’t resemble the boy I used to know.
And love.
“Hey, Bells,” he calls after me.
I keep walking.
“Your ass looks great in those shorts.”
My first instinct is to tug them down. My second instinct is to flip him off.
I don’t do either and keep walking because if anything irritates Coy, it’s ignoring him.
He might be gorgeous. He may be so talented that every song he records hits the number-one spot. He may be the sweetest to his mother and a benefactor for all kinds of charities in greater Savannah—but he’s still the biggest jerk on the face of the planet.
He’s still the man who breaks promises, forgetting them in an instant. Forgetting me in an instant.
And I’m going to remember that this time.
Even if it kills me.