Chapter 16
sixteen
“In the heart of the blaze, truth reveals itself naked and without mercy.” - Unknown
The nerves bounced around inside Cole, sparking up all the energy he’d worked out of his body earlier that day.
After the unresolved exchange with Jocelyn, he’d spent several hours out at his property getting two new walls framed on the house.
Once he’d cooled down with an icy shower, he’d stopped by the Nail to check in—earning Terra’s wrath for showing up on his night off.
None of it had burned off the jitters in his gut anyway, and he walked the second-floor hallway of the Hollow Inn toward Jocelyn’s door feeling like that damn woodpecker out on his land had taken up residence in his stomach, hammering at his insides.
For all he knew, their interaction earlier had turned her opinion of him and his folks, and she had no intention of going to supper at all. He’d have to face his mama’s disappointment for screwing that one up.
He hesitated before knocking, the metallic numbers on her door glinting like they knew exactly how foolish he felt. His palm scraped along his jaw, then he forced his knuckles to the wood. His gut clenched, braced for whatever came next.
Her footsteps were soft, but he heard them. He was strung so tight he probably could’ve caught the sound of her breath. The lock clicked; the door swung open.
Well, shit. No smile. Not even the ghost of one. Surprise, maybe, that he was standing there.
“Cole.” She sighed, shutting her eyes for half a second. “Right. Dinner. I’m sorry; I lost track of time. Come in.”
She turned, leaving the door wide for him, and he stepped inside.
Small room, but it carried a farmhouse charm no chain hotel could imitate.
Gingham curtains framed the window, a wrought-iron headboard stood against a ship-lapped wall, and a picture of a hen presided over a bed littered with papers spread like lost feathers.
The closet door hung open, suitcase tucked in the corner, half-empty hangers on the rack. If it were him staying there, the floor would be buried in clothes spilling out of the bag like it had puked them up.
Except for the chaos of whatever she’d been working on, everything else was neat.
He nodded toward the papers spread all over the bed. “Looks like somebody lost a fight with a paper mill."
She gave him a wry look. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those neat freaks who folds their socks in pairs. I’ll have to rethink dinner.”
He laughed, the tension loosening just a bit. "Helps to have socks that all look the same."
The flash of a smile was brief. “Sorry about the mess," she said, scrambling to collect the papers.
She shoved them into a folder then into the oversized purse in the corner. Her hair—undone for once, dark waves falling down her back—slipped forward, sliding over her shoulder. With it loose, she looked freer, almost earthy, and he felt that deep. He shouldn’t have, but he did.
She bent for her sandals then grabbed a flimsy cover-up that draped over her tank top. The regret hit hard when she twisted her hair back up into a bun. Consolation came in the stray tendrils she didn’t catch and left loose.
Almost against his will, he murmured, “Should've left it like that.”
She looked over at him, puzzled. Then she caught his line of sight and touched her hair. "What, messy?”
He grinned. “Nah. Free.”
A smile tugged at her mouth, but she dipped her chin to hide the color in her cheeks. "Maybe next time."
He jammed his hands into his pockets with a shrug, held tight enough by that blush that he didn't even mind she wasn't taking his suggestion.
The drive to his parents’ place was quiet.
Something sat on Jocelyn’s mind, plain as the finger moving back and forth along her bottom lip.
It took all of seven minutes to get there, but the weight of her silence made it feel harder than an hour would’ve.
Whatever storm brewed in her head, she wasn’t voicing it, and he couldn’t let it stand.
“You’re awful quiet over there," he commented. “That bad of company?”
She smirked but didn't glance over. “I figure you need the practice.”
“Practice?”
She raised a brow, finally looking at him. “Being around somebody without arguing.”
Cole let out a surprised chuckle, planting his hand on his chest. “Oh, Darlin', you wound me.”
Her laugh was soft and quick, but it hit him like a shot of whiskey—smooth and warm going down.
Then she faced forward again, and little by little, that silence slipped back in.
It didn’t feel as heavy as before, and considering the way they’d left things earlier, Cole let the silence stand.
His mother’s relentless social streak would drag Jocelyn into conversation soon enough.
Still, his humor didn’t fully shake her tension, and it stirred in his mind.
Might’ve been about the dinner, since the last time they’d been to his folks’ place, it hadn’t ended well.
Might've been something else entirely, but he had to tamp down the urge to reach for her hand, to anchor her to the moment. Most innocent impulse he’d had toward her, but even that wasn’t his right. He wasn’t her comfort. Not yet, anyway.
It should’ve shocked him to know he wanted to be, but he’d already started the descent into surrender. About time he stopped fighting it.
When they drove up, his mama was on the porch with her watering can in hand, the one with the daisies painted on its side. Like clockwork, she came out when the sun slid past the front of the house to water her plants. She waved as soon as she saw them.
Jocelyn’s smile didn’t smooth the little crease between her brows as they climbed out of the truck. At first Cole pegged it for nerves, but she wasn’t fidgeting. No, the set of her shoulders, the line between her brows looked more like she was turning something over in her head.
So maybe whatever weighed on her had nothing to do with his folks. Maybe not even him, though they’d chewed each other up plenty of times already.
His mama’s smile bloomed as they came up the walk.
“My, you two look like a dream.” The watering can swung low in her hand, and her expression was soft and wistful.
There was that look in her eye—the one southern mothers in their twilight years got when their only child was past thirty and still hadn’t given them grand babies.
“That’s only ‘cause Jocelyn’s prettier than a picture,” Cole drawled, letting his gaze flick her way.
Jocelyn's mouth curved, half humor, half suspicion. “Smooth, Hauser. You use that line often?”
He winked. “Only when it’s true."
“And it is true,” Ellen agreed with a smile, tugging Jocelyn into a hug.
Cole got the quick version of the embrace—Ma saw him near every day—and then she was already ushering them toward the house. The scent of meatloaf hit him as soon as the door opened, cinnamon riding the air, too. Must’ve been the pie she’d promised.
“Hey, there, kids.” John lumbered out from the back den, yanking his cheaters off and stuffing them into his pocket.
Jocelyn gave a shy wave.
“None of that, here, Jossie.” John wrapped her up against his barrel chest, and Cole leaned against the wall, watching. “You’re family.”
“Proof would be that we got into a disagreement in the living room,” Cole said when Jocelyn was freed.
“Just one in a long line,” Ellen added with a pat on his cheek.
Jocelyn glanced his way, wry understanding in the twist of her lips.
“Yes, Darlin’,” Cole said with a smirk. “It was mostly me doing the disagreein'.”
“To put it mildly,” John put in.
The spike of irritation hit Cole fast, and his jaw tightened before he tamped it down. His daddy missed it, of course. No one else did. Story of his life.
“That was just a warm-up," Jocelyn said, attempting to lighten the mood again. "I’ll win the next round.”
Cole's laugh was low and only a little forced. “You are welcome to try.”
Her half-smile kicked the rest of his mood, and he let himself relax again.
Ellen beamed at the exchange, then gestured for them to file into the dining room while she went to the kitchen. The table was set with her good china, a vase of flowers in the center—the whole spread. Felt unnecessarily fussy when the standard fare had sufficed last time.
But Jocelyn noticed the effort, her soft gasp pulling his attention to her. He saw how it affected her in the delighted smile that slid across her face as she took it in. Made the whole production worth it, and he filed the image away like a squirrel hoarding acorns for the long winter.
He pulled her chair out, and she smiled at him for it—genuine, easy—and that was another thing he stored up. Could live off one of those smiles a week if he had to. Maybe they’d be alright after their talk earlier. Things felt lighter just then, anyway.
Cole took the spot opposite Jocelyn, leaving the ends for his folks, as was standard.
“Sweet tea!” Ellen sang as she swept in with a pitcher.
John followed with the meatloaf and a salad bowl.
“So much for sugar intake,” Cole said with a look at his mama.
“Special occasions, remember?”
He turned to his daddy. “How many of those this week, Pop?”
John made a show of counting on his fingers. “Three or four.”
“Uh-huh.”
Ellen spun on her husband as he moved to sit. “John Hauser! You said you’d watch it so I wouldn’t have to worry about this dinner.”
“El.” He let out a sigh, and that was the whole of his defense.
Her glare stayed sharp, her chair angled at Cole’s right like she was ready to pounce.
Cole slid a glance at Jocelyn, sharing the joke in the middle of it, and damn if her sly grin didn’t almost undo him.
Too much flirting that evening getting to his head.
In mixed company, he kept his reaction locked down, but inside he was groaning under the weight of what that smile—and everything before it—did to him.