Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Scottie
“I’m fine, Mom. I promise.”
I’m sitting on my bed, robe wrapped tight around me, staring out the window with one AirPod in. I keep my voice bright and my tone easy.
“You don’t sound fine,” my mom says. “You sound like you’re pretending you’re fine.”
I exhale a laugh. No matter how much I wish my mom would drop everything for me, for once, I can’t say she’s not perceptive.
“I’m a workaholic with the flu,” I say in a teasing voice. “What else would you expect?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line before she answers. She doesn’t sound suspicious as much as … sad.
“I wish I were there,” she says. “I could make you soup. Or sit with you. You wouldn’t have to do anything.”
The word anything lands wrong in my chest. That’s the kind of promise she saves for someone else. Not because she doesn’t love me—but because I’m never the one in need.
“I don’t need that,” I say quickly, not letting the offer sit long enough to feel real. If I do, I might want it. And wanting it would mean I have to ask. “I’m okay. I promise. I’ll be good as new after some rest.”
Her next pause is even longer, almost like she’s processing something. “You never need anything,” she says softly.
“That’s not true.” I pause, closing my eyes. I could be honest. I could tell her …
“I need coffee through an IV,” I say.
“You are your mother’s daughter,” she chuckles. “Oh, and I meant to tell you. I finally tried salted caramel syrup like you told me to last week. It was delicious!”
“Isn’t it amazing?” I say, letting the conversation move on like we weren’t on the verge of something real. “Did you try it with the dark espresso—like a double shot? It’s smoother, not bitter, I swear.”
She tsks. “No, they were out of dark roast. How can a coffee shop just be out of dark roast?”
“Oh, Mom. You’ve gotta try it.” I pull up my phone and find coffee shops within ten miles of the school where Mom teaches. “Try Commonwealth Coffee on Chestnut Street. They’ve got great reviews.”
“Are you mothering me from South Carolina when it’s my job to mother you?” she asks, amused. “Sweetie. Don’t put me out of a job.”
I smile. “I’m not, Mom. I just—”
The doorbell rings.
“Sorry, hold on,” I tell her. “Someone’s at the door.”
“Are you expecting someone?” she asks.
“No,” I say, already standing. “I don’t think so.”
I hold the phone lower without hanging up and walk out of my room and toward the front door, my slippers scuffing against the floor.
Lucas is already there.
He’s standing in the open doorway, one hand holding a cardboard drink carrier, the other signing something on a phone the delivery guy is holding out to him. He’s too focused on the task at hand to look back at me. I doubt he heard me at all.
He’s just casually solving a problem I never even asked him to notice.
Like he always does.
“Thanks,” he says to the driver. “Have a good one.”
The door closes, and he turns and almost jumps when he sees me.
I just stare at him.
“What is that?” I ask.
“What is what, sweetie?” Mom asks, making me jump this time.
I put the phone up to my ear.
“Oh, sorry, Mom. Uh, I have a delivery I forgot about. I need to go.”
Lucas looks relaxed holding the drink carrier, his expression easy. Natural. But his bright blue eyes see too much.
Mom makes a heavy exhale. “Okay. Just call me if you need me. I have a hundred sick days banked over the last ten years.”
She’s trying so hard, but looking at Lucas, I can't care the way I should that I'm shutting her down.
“Save them for when you have another grandbaby, Mom. Snotty babies are cuter than snotty grown-ups,” I say with a smile I hope she can hear. “I gotta run. Love you.”
“Okay. I’ll check back in soon. Love you, Scottie girl.”
I hang up before she can say anything else.
The quiet that follows feels heavy. Loaded.
Lucas takes the drink carrier into the kitchen and sets it down on the counter like the smell of coffee isn’t replacing all the air in my condo.
He pulls one cup out and slides it toward me.
My fingers wrap around the cup automatically. The heat sinks into my palms, slow and steady.
I inhale.
It smells so good.
So right.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I say, even as I lift it closer.
“Do you ever?” he asks archly.
I take a sip.
The warmth hits before the caffeine. Then—unexpectedly—the tightness in my shoulders loosens, just a fraction.
I exhale.
Lucas doesn’t watch me drink. He shoos Pinto off the counter, grabs a cloth from the sink, and wipes the countertops down, as if Pinto won’t just dirty them up again in two minutes. The black cat walks around his feet, brushing against him and meowing.
I take another sip. I don’t say thank you. I’m too busy drinking liquid comfort.
“What’s this one called?”
“Depends,” he says, although it clearly doesn’t. “Does it fit your mood?”
I stop and let the taste linger on my tongue, only swallowing once I can pinpoint caramel and toasted sugar. “Yeah. I think it does. Why?”
“Just a theory I’ve had that you confirmed when you were high on pain meds. You don’t have a favorite drink.”
“I admitted that under duress.” I hold the cup in front of my face, the last layer of my defense. “And you shouldn’t have asked.”
“I didn’t know you were awake when I asked why you were dating Jake. I had no idea I was extracting a confession.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay, I knew you were awake for the follow-up questions. How about … I didn’t know that you didn’t know what you were admitting. Is that better?”
I take a long, slow drink, shivering when the steam hits my face. “Probably not.”
“Probably?”
“I’m not ready to commit to an opinion.”
An easy smile spreads across his face. “Huh. How about that?”
“What? I didn’t say anything. I said I’m not saying anything.”
“Sure. I get it.” He winks.
“Why are you winking?”
“No reason,” he says, folding an arm across his chest and sipping what smells like an herbal tea with his free hand.
“Nothing just happened.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Of course.” He winks again, bigger.
And in spite of myself, I laugh. We stand there drinking and smiling—or trying not to—at each other until both our cups are empty. And when we’re done, Lucas takes my empty cup from me, bags it all up, and takes my trash outside to the curb just in time for the garbage truck to reach it.
I watch from the window in awe.
I didn’t ask for any of this.
He did it all anyway.
I don’t want to look like a lovesick idiot, but frankly, I’m too exhausted not to. So I exit the kitchen and head over to the couch, where I pull a blanket over me and turn on The Bourne Identity.
“What happened to the Taken trilogy?” Lucas asks when he gets back in the house. He washes his hands in the kitchen and then joins me on the couch. “Did you already finish the third?”
I scoff. “I don’t watch the third.”
“You don’t watch the entire trilogy?” He looks at me like I just told him I slap old people for fun.
“I only like the first two. Why would I watch a movie I don’t like?”
He’s shaking his head. “You sound just like Cooper. You know he came to our house last—no, two Christmases ago, now, and he didn’t think we should watch every Home Alone movie?”
“You watch every one at Christmas? But the first two are—”
“The best, obviously. But we watch all of them. It’s what you do.”
“No. I reject that completely.”
“How can you say that?”
“The rest of them suck! You don’t have to suffer through something you don’t like just to … oh my gosh, are you trying to get me to admit that I shouldn’t have to suffer dating Jake when I don’t like it?”
He smirks and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. “No, actually, but it sounds like you’re dying to, anyway.”
I fume in silence.
He shrugs and watches the movie while I watch him. My head can’t focus on Jason Bourne at all. I don’t even know how long we’ve been watching when he proves himself right.
“I won’t do anything to jeopardize Jake’s career,” I tell him.
“I would never ask you to.”
“I won’t choose you over him in public.”
His eyebrows thread together. “Never dreamed you would.”
“I won’t risk getting in trouble at work by not preparing you for the Show.”
“Why would I ask you to do that?”
“And I’m not going to, I don’t know, make out with you under the bleachers.”
“Making out on the bleachers feels riskier, but okay.”
He’s nodding. I’m shaking my head.
We both look at each other. He studies me, and my heart threatens to bruise my ribs.
“Is it my turn now?” he asks.
“Um. Yes?”
“I’ve been clear about how I feel about you almost since the moment I met you—”
“You’re a flirt,” I interrupt, although I don’t believe it. But that’s part of the Scottie Quinn experience.
“Name one woman I’ve flirted with since the first time I brought you coffee,” he challenges, holding my eye as Jason Bourne gets into a brutal car crash in the background.
“Mildred in accounting,” I say weakly. His intensity is zapping the little resistance my pride is holding onto.
He doesn’t even blink. “Do you like me, Scottie Quinn? I’m not asking you while you’re under the influence this time. Do you like me?”
“Yes.”
My voice is quiet, but the impact is earth-shattering. Lucas goes still, yet his energy shifts like he’s been holding his breath and finally got to exhale.
“Good.” He takes off his baseball cap, puts it on the side table, settles deeper into the couch.
“Is that it?” I ask.
“Yup.”
“What? But … what do we do now?”
“I’m not doing anything. You’re steering this ship, and I’ll go wherever you take me.”
“That’s a lot of pressure, Lukie,” I say.
“Oh, I know,” he says. “And I plan to be irresistible.”
I swallow.
That’s what I’m afraid of.