Still Not Over You

by Barbara Lohr

  Giving one last sniff, Phoebe wadded the napkin into a ball. She had to get over this. Over him. Good-bye and good riddance. If he married someone, Trixie or whoever, so what? She had to keep this place. Their cottage, her cottage. Old tiles flew off the roof, breaking the stalks of her hydrangeas before they even had a chance to bloom.

  Grabbing her crutch, Phoebe managed to stand up. After gaining some balance, she thumped her way out of the porch, sheltered under one of the pine trees and glanced up. “Hey!” Another tile came sailing toward her and she ducked. Cripes, she could get hurt. “Hey you up there!” No break in rhythm, just more tiles winging toward her like Frisbees.

  Tucking two fingers into her mouth, Phoebe whistled. Okay, the whistle wasn’t particularly ladylike. Her mother had told her that a dozen times, but what did she care? It worked. The hammering stopped. She listened for the crunch of his boots. Finally, Ryder peered over the roofline.

  Holy Hotness, Batman. Sweat shone on his arms as if he were a newly glazed doughnut. The red bandana around his head was stained with sweat. Sculpted muscles rippled when he lifted a wrist to swipe his forehead. “Everything okay down there?” Twisting, he slipped a nail gun into a loop on his jeans. The weight made the waistband sag. Her pulse kicked up at the sight of paler skin below the sleeveless T-shirt, not that she was staring or anything.

  Hanging onto the crutch for dear life, Phoebe struggled to remember why she’d whistled. Her mind wouldn’t work. Maybe she’d just had a stroke and didn’t know it. When she opened her mouth, nothing came out. Panic seized her. Just what she needed. A stroke, just like her great Uncle John while he was waiting in line at the bank years ago up in Escanaba. Wasn’t stuff like that hereditary?

  “Phoebe?” For a second it looked as if Ryder was heading for the new aluminum ladder he’d bought. He was probably going to take that with him too when he and Trixie outfitted their new home.

  “Stop!” Whew! She could talk after all. That was close.

  Hands on slim hips, Ryder stared down. “Phoebe, I’m burning daylight here. What do you want?”

  “Doughnuts,” she whispered, not able to tear her eyes from the sheen of his skin. Phoebe knew just how that skin felt against hers. Squeezing her eyes shut didn’t work. The darn image appeared inside her eyelids, so she opened them again.

  Ryder cocked his head to one side. “What’s that?”

  “Doughnuts!” she roared, throwing her arms wide and nearly losing the crutch. “I want some doughnuts.”

  The roar ended on a pathetic whimper.

  Ryder’s mouth fell open. “Doughnuts?”

  “Yes! I want some! I do.” Her voice was a primal cry.

  Longing took her captive. Swaying in the morning sunlight, her body craved way more than pastry. But for now? A doughnut or two would do.

  What has gotten into you? Fernando looked offended.

  “Hormones.” But her flamingo therapist would never understand. After all, he was male.

  “What did you just say?” Ryder still stared down at her in all his hunky hotness.

  “I want dougnnuts.” She hated being helpless.

  Before she could think PMS three times, he was down that ladder and headed for the truck. Tossing his keys in the air, he moved those hips with hypnotic rhythm. “Be right back.”

  Watching the truck roar off, spraying gravel and sand in its wake, she wanted to kill Trixie. Ryder was the kind of guy who recognized a woman who needed a sugar fix. He’d always been like that. A lot of times, he’d joined in her feeding frenzy, whether it was caramel popcorn or double-stuffed chocolate cookies. Luckily Mandy Klavis’ Lithuanian bakery wasn’t far away. Their favorite treat was a braided cheese Danish with chocolate chips tucked inside. When he brought it home, they’d nuke it in the microwave for fifteen seconds to revive the melted sweetness.

  That wasn’t all they nuked after the pastry.

  But today? She wanted doughnuts. The cake kind. Ryder knew just what she meant. No need to draw a diagram. Limping past Fernando back onto the porch, she continued to the refrigerator for a glass of apple juice. Then she settled at the porch table to wait. Ryder was back in a flash, roaring into the driveway just like that ambulance. He jumped out, carrying a crisp white pastry bag. From the glaze crumbs clinging to his lips, she knew he’d done some sampling on the way back. When he shouldered the porch door open, her tongue swept her lips in anticipation. He smiled, as if enjoying a private joke. “Will half a dozen be enough?” He dropped the white bag into her lap.

  “Yes, oh, yes.” Her hands tore at the paper. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” And he winked.

  Hands crumpling the lips of the bag, she absorbed that wink like an electrical shock. Thank goodness the scent of sugar restored her senses. Then Ryder was gone, tromping up the ladder and whistling as he climbed. The bag of doughnuts released warm wonderfulness in her lap when Phoebe opened it. No time to be choosy. She grabbed the first thing her fingers found and crammed it into her mouth. Sweet blueberries exploded on her tongue, along with nutmeg and cinnamon. While she slowly chewed, she settled back. What a great morning. The lake breeze flowed over her skin, cool and damp.

  Her contentment was restored.

  As she enjoyed her stash, Phoebe wondered how Ryder’s business was going. Hadn’t he said he was expanding? How could he take off all this time? Well, his dad no doubt had that under control. After all, the first Branson Motors had been Stanley’s. Ryder had grown up with grease under his fingernails.

  One of the bad things about a divorce was that you not only lost the man, you lost the family. Phoebe took another bite. Ryder’s mother had passed away when he was only thirteen, so Phoebe never knew her. But his dad? Stanley was a jewel. Just thinking about him brought a smile. Oh sure, he was all rough and tumble like Ryder. If he shaved three times a week, they were lucky. Stanley knew every raunchy joke in the book and loved to shock her.

  Right, like that could happen. Oh, she’d blush but she laughed too. Stanley had a heart of gold and boy, could that man cook. After the divorce, Stanley had texted her, saying stop by any time. But she couldn't. If she dropped in at the shop, Ryder might be there. The hurt cut too deep, her feelings still too raw. The less she saw of her ex, the better.

  But losing Stanley had left a hole hard to fill.

  Fingers crusty with sweet glaze, she stared into the open bag. Maybe time for the frosted raspberry jelly puff? Perfect. Taking it out, she swiped off the chocolate glaze with her tongue. Man, oh man. Mandy Klavis had a great bakery. Next time they’d get the cheese braid.

  Bluebirds scolded in the trees as she sat munching, licking off an extra dollop of raspberry filling now and then. Mandy always used a generous hand in filling her pastries. But after three doughnuts, Phoebe called a halt. After all, she liked to think she had some self-control. Up above, the nail gun pounded, strong and fierce.

  Pump, pump, pump. She could feel that driving rhythm in her chest, or thereabouts. Hands sticky, Phoebe folded the top of the white bag and pushed it to the other side of the table. Time for some restraint, which wasn’t her strong point.

  She glanced at the clock. Not quite ten o’clock but it felt like noon. Heaving herself up from the table, she made it as far as the sofa, dragging her leg behind her. When was that dull ache going to stop? The pain pills made her groggy. Although she hated to admit it, Ryder was right. Dr. Swanson had told her to take them and she should. “Let your body heal without fighting the pain,” he’d said. “Pain can leave you all knotted up.”

  Well, so could desire.

  In fact, Phoebe felt like a pretzel.

  Delete, delete. What was wrong with her?

  Making herself comfortable on the sofa, she decided to rest for just a second. Then she’d get busy with lunch. The locusts sang high and thin in the trees. The thumping continued. In her sugar-crazed head, Ryder was there. His muscled body worked above hers while he whispered naughty stuff in her ear.

  But sh
e liked it. Oh, how she liked it.

  Next thing she knew, she woke up. Drool dampened her cheek, now mashed into a flamingo pillow. And she was raging hungry. Again.

  Giving her head a shake to clear it, she swung herself up so fast, dizziness nearly took her down. Squirrels scampered through the trees above, and the smaller branches dipped under their weight. Enjoying their effortless leaps from limb to limb, she felt the weight of her cast.

  She was grounded this summer. Grounded and plagued by thoughts that had no business in her mind. Or her body.

  Ryder was still working on the roof. He must be starving by now. Crutch under her arm, Phoebe clomped into the kitchen. The clock said almost noon. The least she could do was fix lunch. After all, he’d gone to pick up doughnuts. Opening the refrigerator, she got out the ham and cheese and snagged the caraway rye bread from the counter. Where would she be without Clancy’s delivery service?

  Setting to work, she made the three-tiered sandwich just the way Ryder liked it and a simpler one for herself. Why, she could get all weepy thinking about the things she'd done for that man when they were together. Even though she hated raisin bran, she even bought his favorite breakfast food and cheerfully ate it. But once all the divorce stuff started, she tossed it out. Then she went through the house, pitching anything she could lay her hands on that meant something to Ryder. But you can’t carve out pieces of your life without hurting yourself. Some of this they’d purchased together, like the light tower clock. The losses would cut too deep.

  So she threw out what she could handle. Her peach clothes? Gone to Goodwill. Back then, she wore pale orange all the time just because he said she looked like a peach in them. Following the divorce, she switched to pink. Bright flamingo pink. And her soft caramel curls, the long hair where he loved to bury his face? Now short and sheathed in mauve. She wanted to be as badass as possible.

  Sniffing, she figured if she kept up this trip down memory lane, the caraway rye bread could get soggy. The screen door slammed behind her. Ryder was a man of habit. If it was noon, then it was lunchtime. Turning, Phoebe felt like she'd been punched in the gut. There he stood, all six foot two of sweaty man. His white T-shirt stuck to his chest, and her fingers tingled to trace that six pack all the way down to his belt line. The jeans had been washed a hundred times so they hugged his thighs. And those rugged work boots? The final touch. “Is that for me?”

  Her head snapped back. The sandwich, Phoebe. He’s talking about the sandwich. “Right. Sure is.” She raked shaking hands through her short hair.

  For a second their eyes locked and tangled. In five short seconds the things their eyes communicated made her break into a cold sweat. That eye language? Rough and tumble, down and dirty.

  And all in her head. Phoebe dropped her eyes. Sometimes she could be such a dope, especially when it came to Ryder Branson.

  Dwarfing the kitchen, he whisked off the bandana and blotted his forehead. “I've got to clean up first.” Moving over to the sink, Ryder looked so comfortable, like he did this every day––because he had. Pouring blue detergent into his palms, he lathered his hands under a stream of warm water. For a guy with broad shoulders, he had the slimmest hips.

  Picking up a knife, she sliced his sandwich in half and then hers. How amazing that she didn’t cut off a finger, trying to keep him in sight while she wielded the knife. Phoebe had never been any good at multitasking. While some hairdressers balanced two clients at a time, letting color set while styling the hair of the next customer, she never did that. Her clients got her whole attention, and that was a good thing. Melissa Ryan had never forgiven her for that pink hair intended for Greta Gaines. You can’t strip hair twice in a row or it might just break off. But then, Melissa had always been fussy. She looked good in pink.

  The soapsuds bubbled up to his elbows, and Ryder hummed as he cleaned up. Back when they were married, he used the same technique with her in the shower. Start at the top and work down. Oh so carefully, she sliced her own sandwich into quarters. Heat hung in the air. She loved it when he went va, va, voom with his low bass. Ryder always told her she was his va-va-voom.

  Well, men can say a lot of things.

  In Michigan people waited for summer. Longed for warm weather the way you'd long for a man to come walking through the door, not that she thought about that much anymore. Now summer was here and the air was warming up along with the humidity.

  Watching Ryder, she felt heat take her hostage. Quietly, she moved around the table so her back was to the sink. No way could she look at him another second and not want him.

  The water was turned off, and Ryder came up behind her. How could soap smell so sensual? Maybe looking at him had been safer than smelling him, safer than feeling his warm body behind her. In more ways than one, her ex had always been a roaring furnace. Stand up straight and concentrate, Phoebe. Hadn’t Miss Laus, her fourth grade teacher, taught her that? Oh yes, it would be way too easy to slump back against the muscled strength of his chest. Feel his firm body against her softness.

  But she would. Not. Do. That. No, no, no.

  Throwing some ruffled chips onto the plate, she managed to send a few to the floor. “Want a pop?” Trying to look casual, she moved to the side but the incriminating crunch under her cast brought his eyes to hers.

  If eyes could be sweaty and hot, then his were. “I can get it.”

  “No, I will.” Teetering on her leg, she winced.

  “Sweet Cheeks…” Ryder’s voice dropped but his eyes didn't. “Why don't you just go sit on the porch. Stop being a stubborn girl. I’ll bring everything out.”

  A stubborn girl once had been my stubborn girl.

  Her chin came out along with her lower lip. Ryder was right. Yeah, she could be stubborn and he knew it. Well she’d show him stubborn. Ignoring his comment, she shuffled to the refrigerator, opened the freezer and slid out a tray. In a second he was next to her.

  “Let me help with the ice. You never could handle that tray.”

  Her resistance growing, she hugged it to her chest. Cold seeped through her thin pink top. Grabbing the tray with both hands, she swiveled and thumped it on the edge of the sink.

  Ryder’s attention had shifted to the refrigerator. He laid a hand on the top of the harvest gold refrigerator like he wanted to push it over. “Stanley gave this to us, remember? It had been down at the shop.”

  “Of course I remember.” Stanley had been so sweet about it. “If it lasts three years, Phoebe, I’ll buy you another one,” her frugal father-in-law had promised. The refrigerator had lasted longer than their marriage.

  The weight of the cast dragged at her while she struggled with the ice tray, but the ice wouldn’t come out. Finally she tossed the tray into the sink. “Do whatever you want.”

  But he didn’t move away. Instead Ryder leaned into her face, so close she could watch a drop of sweat trail down his stubbled cheek. She closed her eyes against the gray glint igniting in his eyes. His scent did that to her. And it wasn’t fair.

  When he nudged her with a shoulder, her eyes flew open. “Phoebe, darlin’? If I did what I wanted right now, you know what that would be and how we’d do it.”

  Immersed in heat that felt more like August than June, she shuddered. “And that, Ryder Branson, is never going to happen.”

  How she wished those words hadn’t been so hard to say.

  Chapter 8

  Then before Phoebe’s very eyes, Ryder deflated like a balloon. A cool breeze blew in from somewhere. He was probably picturing what his girlfriend would do to him if he got cozy with Phoebe, not that she’d allow it.

  She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  As he opened that refrigerator and dipped his head into a cool blast of air, she had to remind herself. Phoebe Hunicutt. Never again. Remember Trixie. Crutch tight under her arm, she limped onto the side porch.

  Remember Trixie. Thump, thump. Remember Trixie.

  Fernando was giving her the eye. You got that right, amiga mia.
r />   “I know, I know.”

  Ryder stuck his head out the door. “What did you just say?”

  “Nothing.”

  Fernando kept his eyes straight ahead. But then, he always did.

  While Phoebe got situated in a chair, Ryder made two trips to the kitchen for their lunch. Then he took the seat across from her. The heat was gone. He was all business. The only thing he seemed hungry for now was his ham and cheese sandwich.

  Somewhere in the bushes, mourning doves crooned. How she loved that sound. They mated for life, a comforting thought. Why did she have to think of that right now?

  His face shuttered, Ryder opened his can of pop. Coke shot all over him and some even landed on her. While she blotted her shirt with a napkin, she watched Ryder lick pop from his lips. This wasn't a man that used napkins, not for lunch. Never breaking eye contact, he bit into the mile-high sandwich.

  Oh, her thoughts felt wicked. She wanted to be that sandwich. Feel his lips on hers again. But she couldn’t. Phoebe would never be a quick hop in the hay just because he was fixing up her place. Well, okay. Their house. Those days were over. Picking up a potato chip she nearly poked it up her nose. Phoebe dropped her hand, the chip still held tight.

  “If you don’t want to eat those potato chips, I do,” Ryder managed to say around a mouthful of ham. Glancing down, she realized she’d pulverized the chips in her tight fist. But who could blame her? Any girl would do the same thing confronted with massive masculinity. She crammed the crushed chip into her mouth. The slower she chewed, the faster he devoured that sandwich. Oh, baby. She knew just what he was thinking.

  When you’ve been married to a man for two years, you know a lot about him. You know what’s on his mind when he glances at your shirt. Ryder wasn’t thinking that her T-shirt needed to be washed. No, he was picturing what was under that fabric.

  A thought danced through her head. Maybe she would just make Ryder really uncomfortable for the next month or so. Isn't that what he’d done to her? After one of her customers mentioned that she’d seen Ryder in the Rusty Nail with his hand on Trixie’s waist or thereabouts, the end to their marriage came fast. Phoebe had agonized about it, but there was only one course she could take.