Tangle

by Locke, Adriana

  “Thank you,” I say, pleased he was thinking of me today. “Guess I need to make sure to nail this résumé, huh?”

  “You will. We will,” he says. “We’ll find your salable assets and play them up. It’ll be easy.”

  I groan. “I don’t know about that. I can’t even figure out what pertinent skills I have to ‘sell myself,’ as you say.”

  “You have people skills,” he offers. “I mean, I’ve seen you in action. You can be kind of a jerk to me, but others seem to like you well enough.”

  “Hey!”

  He looks at me, stopping me in my tracks. His eyes are scrunched up at the sides, his lips curled in a soft way. My hand falls from the door as I feel my heart leap into my throat.

  He looks back toward the road. “You have childcare skills,” he says, clearing his throat. “That means you can keep things alive. And you probably filed books and stuff, too, right? That’s office experience.”

  I study him from the side as he focuses on the road. I wonder what all he’s done in his life, what experiences he’s had. I imagine him with some six-year plan to becoming independently wealthy, and suddenly, I’m extremely out of place.

  He catches me staring just before I tug my eyes off him. “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, what were you going to say?” He narrows his eyes with a lighthearted wink. “Say it.”

  “You shouldn’t press. It’s rude.”

  He pulls the truck up at a red light and stops. “You know I’m not going to let this go.”

  I blow out a breath and watch the cars pass in front of us. “I’m not saying this to be whiny, because no one likes a whiner, but it’s just occurred to me that I’ve probably wasted the last handful of years of my life.”

  “First of all, you’re right. No one likes a whiner.”

  “This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” I point out. “Next time, leave me alone.”

  He laughs, his cackle filling the truck. As annoyed as I want to be with him, I find myself laughing too.

  He flips off the radio. “Second of all, I think it’s hard to waste your life.”

  “I don’t know,” I say warily.

  “Have you not learned anything in life?”

  “No. I have learned things. A lot of them.”

  “Like?”

  I roll my eyes but play along since I brought it up. “Like what it feels like to be twenty-six and have nothing to show for it but a few life lessons.” I scrunch up my face. “I’m kidding. I’m just having a moment. It’ll pass.”

  Trevor looks at me, his eyes bright. “I think what you’re feeling is more normal than you realize.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. This goes back to what I was saying about love and how people change all the time. Do you know how many people I went to college with who are doing something outside of their degree right now?”

  “I’m guessing a lot.”

  “More than not, probably. I’d venture to say three-quarters of my friends who graduated with a four-year degree aren’t using it right now.”

  “Are you using yours?”

  “Damn right. I paid way too much money for that piece of paper.” He laughs to himself. “Well, my dad did. But he just paid for it so I wouldn’t bum off him forever. That was his biggest fear, I think.”

  I laugh as he pilots the truck around a bump in the road. His forearms flex, his jaw moving as he thinks about something unknown to me, and I’m struck by what else there is that I don’t know about this man.

  “I highly doubt anyone would ever think you’re lazy,” I say. “You seem very motivated.”

  He laughs, running a hand over his jaw. “I have to be. Jake would kill me otherwise.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Nope. He agrees with me.”

  “On what?”

  “That there’s too much pressure to marry and settle down. It’s like you just get a handle on your hormones, if you’re lucky, and all of a sudden, you have to pick what you’ll do for the rest of your life and who you’ll mate with for the next fifty, sixty years. It’s asinine.”

  “I hate the phrase ‘mate with,’” I say, making a face. “I get this image . . .” I shiver. “I can’t.”

  “What phrase should I use? ‘Making love’?” He bats his eyelashes at me. “Let me give you a tip: never trust a guy who says he wants to make love to you.”

  “Why? It’s so romantic.” I bat my lashes back at him. “A little cabin in the woods with white sheets and rose petals sprinkled all around . . .”

  I open my eyes to see him looking at me, unimpressed.

  “When a guy is thinking about taking you to bed, they aren’t thinking about whispering love notes in your ear.” His hand moves discreetly to his groin. He shifts in his seat, moving his eyes back to the road. “They’re thinking about the curves of your body and how you’ll feel wrapped around them.”

  My thighs press together, my stomach clenching so hard I almost groan as I immediately picture him hovering over me. I divert my gaze from his and out the passenger’s side window.

  “Let me give you a tip,” I say. “Talking like that won’t help lessen a girl’s attraction to you.”

  “Ah, do you like a little dirty talk, Miss Raynor?” He chuckles, grabbing my thigh. His fingertips press into the denim covering my legs in one swift movement. It’s a reaction, a playful gesture he didn’t preplan; the way his mouth hangs ever-so-slightly open at the contact makes it obvious.

  My gaze flies to the spot where he’s touching me. The embers aflame in my belly burn hotter. He pulls away, but it does nothing to quell the riot inside me.

  This isn’t a date. He’s just a flirt. He lives in Nashville. This isn’t a date. He probably talks like this with every girl. This isn’t a date.

  “We’re here,” he says, his voice a little rougher than before.

  When I look up, I realize we are at Colby’s Steakhouse in Rockery.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TREVOR

  After you,” I say, holding the door open for Haley.

  She strolls by me, her purse tossed over her shoulder like we do this every weekend. I usually hate it when a woman gets a certain level of comfort with me. It’s always a precursor to particular behaviors—behaviors I have no interest in entertaining.

  Strangely, this time, it just feels normal. Easy. All right. Nice.

  “Reservation for Kelly,” I say. I slide up beside Haley, putting thoughts of anything other than having her by my side out of my mind. Even if it’s just for these couple of hours, I’m going to enjoy this weird sense of peace.

  “Right this way.” The hostess grabs two menus and escorts us through the restaurant.

  The place is decorated like a log cabin with little country sayings and pictures on the walls. The booths are covered in a burnt-orange vinyl, probably to make it easier to clean up after the families filling most seats.

  My hand goes to the small of Haley’s back as we venture through the other patrons. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye and gives me a shy smile unlike the ones I usually get from her.

  The scent of vanilla ripples off her body. It winds around me, almost luring me closer to her. My fingers press into the fabric of her shirt, craving the contact, as we approach an open booth in the back.

  I remind myself to behave, to remember who she is and who she isn’t. She’s not a woman I’m taking out as a precursor to a quick fuck after. She’s not that at all.

  That might just be why I like her.

  And that’s just plain weird.

  “Here you go.” The menus are dropped on the table. “Your server is Delia, and she’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I wait for Haley to sit before taking my seat across from her.

  “I figured a steakhouse was a safe bet,” I say, resting my forearms on the table. “With all the food issues you didn’t have . . .”

&nb
sp; She puts her purse on the chair beside her. “I didn’t want to seem too picky. I hate when people list off all the things they refuse to eat. If it’s a food allergy or something, I get it. That’s different. But if you’re just making my life hard by refusing to eat beef that’s not grass fed . . .” She shakes her head. “I’m not into that kind of pickiness.”

  “Lorene promised me this was a good spot.”

  “Ah, I heard about you and Lorene,” she says, leaning my way. “I heard through the grapevine you were doing chores for her and you took her to breakfast.”

  “You tell that grapevine named Claire to mind her own business,” I joke. “But, yeah, I did take her to eat and moved some pictures around. She’s very grandmotherly.”

  She grins. “That she is. Has she given you pie yet?”

  “No, but I smelled something pretty amazing before I left the inn tonight. I have high hopes.”

  “If you want another dinner with me, you’re going to have to bring me some of Lorene’s pie. And don’t try to get a counterfeit piece, because I’ll know.”

  I laugh, watching her eyes dance. “I saw you with a doughnut. I can only imagine what you’d do over pie.”

  God, no, don’t go there, Kelly. Watching her gorgeous lips surround the pie-filled fork would probably unman me. If she groaned one time . . .

  “I’m not even going to pretend to be embarrassed by or dispute that,” she says with a hint of defiance.

  I grab a menu, needing to change the subject quick. “Have you been here before?”

  “Yes, actually. And I love it here. The food is super good and not overpriced.” She picks up her menu. “I can’t eat food that costs more than what I make in a day.”

  I lower my menu. “So if I told you my favorite meal is a filet mignon with crab at Morris’s Steakhouse in Nashville, you’d be . . .”

  She lowers her menu too. “How much is it?”

  “Oh, like a hundred bucks or something. With sides,” I add in as her eyes go wide.

  “That’s ridiculous, Trevor.”

  “It’s really good.”

  Her menu slowly rises until it covers her eyes.

  “Are you judging me over there?” I ask. “I can feel your judginess through the menu, and I don’t appreciate it.”

  “No. You waste your money however you feel necessary. No judgment here.”

  “You’re a brat,” I say with a laugh. An adorable, beautiful brat. But still a brat.

  Our attention is drawn to the side as a woman with a name tag reading DELIA approaches. “Welcome,” she says, pulling an order form out of her apron. “I’m Delia, as you can probably read. And pardon the ketchup I’m currently wearing. A three-year-old didn’t appreciate the macaroni and cheese and let me know that with gusto.”

  Haley giggles. “No macaroni and cheese, then. Got it.”

  “Sorry.” She blows her bangs out of her eyes. “So what can I start you off with tonight?”

  I look across the table at the deep-brown eyes staring back at me. “What would you like?”

  “I’ll have a sweet tea. No lemon, please,” she says.

  “I’ll have the same.” I look at Delia briefly but swing my attention back to Haley when there’s a little too much to read in Delia’s gaze. “Do you want an appetizer?”

  Haley considers this. “I don’t think so. Not tonight. I’m still a little bothered by your filet-and-crab order.”

  “You are not.”

  “I am too,” she insists. “And on another note, surf and turf has never made sense to me.”

  “You don’t even know what’s good.”

  She grins. “You should watch your word choice. I’m at dinner with you.”

  Delia, who I’ve forgotten is even standing there, laughs. “You two are adorable.”

  I look over at Haley. Her face is covered by the menu, and I wonder if it’s to keep me from seeing her reaction to Delia’s assumption—that we’re a couple.

  The word usually makes me want to vomit. It’s a sign things are crossing the line to commitment, to responsibility, and those are two words I don’t love. But thinking of it attached to Haley feels different. It’s like we are just together, two people having dinner and enjoying ourselves. It’s not as suffocating, and I might even like it if I thought about it long enough.

  Which I won’t.

  “Apparently no appetizer and no surf and turf,” I say. “My adorable dining partner is a little pickier than she let on.”

  “Got it.” Delia stuffs her notepad in her apron. “I’ll be back momentarily with your drinks. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

  “I’ll try,” Haley says. “It’s hard.”

  Yes, it is. I adjust in my seat as discreetly as I can, because it seems everything about this firecracker across from me turns me on. Shit.

  Delia disappears into the dining area as I turn my attention back to the lady in front of me.

  “Okay,” she says. “Being serious. You picked a nice place. Thank you. But you could’ve taken me to Mucker’s, and it would’ve been fine.”

  “I’ll take that as a point in my favor.”

  She narrows her eyes, her lashes dark and thick. “You don’t really mind dining alone, do you?”

  “Actually, I do. For real,” I say when she narrows her eyes even more. “I’m fine to eat alone at home or in my office. But I hate going into public and having a meal by myself.”

  “Why? Are you self-conscious?”

  “Not really,” I say. “I just . . . Fine. Maybe I am.”

  “You are not.”

  “Yes, I am,” I insist. My foot taps against the floor as I decide whether to explain myself. I don’t have to. It won’t matter if I don’t. But for some reason, I want her to understand. Maybe because I think she might care. “I had this thing happen in elementary school where all the moms came for this Mother’s Day program. We made them hats with paper plates and buttons, and we had to memorize poems. They brought tea and cookies, and I was so excited to show off my hat and poem to my mom.”

  I force a swallow as my chest tightens like it did the day she didn’t come to the program. The feeling of loneliness that swamped me while I hid in the coat closet at school, humiliated that my mom was the only one who didn’t come, envelops me. Even Charlie’s mom came that day, and she missed everything. I was only eight years old. I hate that I still think about this nearly twenty years later. Get your head back on tonight, Kelly.

  I clear my throat. “Then, you know, she didn’t show up.”

  “Hey,” Haley says, reaching for my hand. “I’m sorry. That was really inconsiderate of me.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, but you tried to tell me and now I feel mean and I hate feeling mean.”

  “Haley,” I deadpan, “you couldn’t be mean if you tried.”

  “Oh, you don’t know me very well,” she promises. “I can be meaner than anyone you’ve ever met.”

  “Doubtful.”

  Delia appears out of thin air and sets our drinks in between us. She takes our orders, burgers for both, before disappearing again.

  I fiddle with the saltshaker while Haley checks her phone. Mine has gone off a handful of times in my pocket, but I’ve ignored it.

  As I watch her fingers fly on the keyboard, I wonder who she’s chatting with and what she’s saying. And in the same breath, I acknowledge it’s none of my business. For both of our own goods.

  “Did you bring your résumé?” I ask, clearing my throat. “We could take a look at it before the food comes.”

  Her fingers hover over the screen as she looks up at me. There’s a wobbliness to her gaze, an uneasiness that makes me uneasy too.

  “Yeah,” she says. Her phone goes to the table, and she pulls an envelope out of her purse. Instead of opening it or giving it to me, she sets it carefully by her phone. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “This dinner thing—is it just for tonigh
t? Or . . .”

  She bites her lip as she waits for my reply. I bite mine, too, to keep from saying something stupid—really to keep from saying anything because anything I say will probably be stupid.

  If she were any other girl, I’d know exactly how this plays out. But she’s not. And I know how she feels about things, and I respect the hell out of it, even if I don’t agree. If I press this thing between us, I’ll be an asshole. But I want to. And that want gets worse every minute I’m around her.

  “It’s whatever you want it to be,” I say. “I go to Nashville this weekend. After that, I’ll probably just be in town a few days. A week at the most.”

  I slide all emotions out of my brain as I watch her lips twist.

  “I see,” she says.

  “If you want to have dinner and chat about life and doughnuts while I’m here, that’s awesome. And if you’re not into it or have other plans or just want to tell me to fuck off, that’s not awesome but okay. Ball is in your court, sweetheart.”

  I grimace as the stupidity I knew I’d come up with rolls off my tongue. Her eyes go wide as she absorbs the word, and I kick myself for letting it slip.

  What’s wrong with me?

  She eyes me skeptically. “If we’re going to spend time together, we need a few ground rules.”

  I sit back in my seat and take her in. I have no idea what she’s getting at, but she’s fucking adorable when she’s trying to be serious. “Ground rules for what?”

  “For this arrangement we have.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all contracts have terms and conditions, do they not?”

  I laugh. “You’ve lost it.”

  “Really?” She lifts a brow. “Isn’t it you who’s always saying women arrive at conclusions about relationships that you don’t intend to happen?”

  Leaning forward again, I watch as the proximity of my body to hers lights up her eyes. There’s a wariness to it, but also a hunger that I both love and am leery of myself.

  My body hums just having her near. She doesn’t know that, but it’s really the best argument for her case. She’s said so herself—she falls in love easily. She may be sexy and funny and intelligent, but I’m not here to make anyone fall in love.

  “Okay,” I say. “You’ve made your point.”