by Elise Faber
(A note didn’t mysteriously appear in her bedroom when she did this).
She did even more listing through pouring coffee into a travel mug and grabbing a granola bar from the basket she kept on the counter for just such rushed mornings.
(No note by the coffee pot. Neither by nor in the basket).
She did still more listing on the way to her garage, looking at the windshield of her car, the passenger’s seat, the cup holder.
(No notes).
Then she did her final listing when she walked into Tangled: Yarn Emporium and checked the front door and the mail slot.
(There weren’t any notes there either).
But still, she was hopeful.
Because maybe he’d gotten called out quickly, and hadn’t had time to leave a note, and he didn’t have her number—except he did have her number. She’d given it to him after the accident. So maybe he hadn’t had a chance to call or leave that note, and he would call later.
Like during lunch.
(He didn’t).
Or after she closed.
(He didn’t).
Or maybe the next day.
(He didn’t).
The next week?
(He didn’t).
And that was when the ball of dread that had been threatening to gather in her stomach coalesced into a giant, writhing, uncomfortable sphere of disappointment…and she couldn’t lie, but that sphere also really hurt.
Because she’d thought they’d had a great night.
Because she’d thought they’d shared something.
And he was gone.
No word. No note. No call.
Not even a text.
She let go of her denial (and one might say the last bit of hope she’d held that this was all some emergency, strange misunderstanding and that Chance would come strolling through the shop’s doors, apology on his lips) during her Saturday morning class.
Because Soph attended, ready to make herself an adorable cowl-necked sweater.
And in doing that, she asked Misty how the date had gone.
Misty had answered honestly—fantastic.
It was the rest of it that had gone bad.
Soph had gleefully clapped her hands together and asked when they were going out again. Then had promptly stopped and said, saving Misty from having to come up with an answer, “Oh, I forgot. He’s on a job. Called and told me about it. So, it’ll be a while then.”
He’d talked to Soph?
He’d called Soph and not her? Not the woman he’d fucked into the wee hours of the night, making her think that she was special and meant something and—
Hurt wove its way through her, smothering the final embers of hope she’d (obviously now stupidly) held on to. “I—”
Mrs. Hutchinson pushed in through the door, the ringing of the bell drowned out by her shouting (because she only ever shouted), “I have a yarn emergency and I need you, Misty!” Then she began barreling through the store, her wide hips nearly knocking over displays that Misty had spent hours (hours!) organizing.
“We’ll talk later,” Soph had whispered out of the corner of her mouth, suitably scared of Mrs. Hutchinson, her yell-talking, her dangerous hips, and her perpetually annoyed attitude.
Mist felt the same.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Hutchinson had been a big part of the reason she’d made rent for the first years she’d been in business.
And had bought her house.
And paid off her car.
“Right,” Misty said to Soph, not committing to the later talk.
Because Chance had held her hand and kissed her like she mattered and then left her after he’d slept with her.
No note. No text. No call.
This was why she hadn’t wanted to go out with him.
Because she was a dumbass romantic and when people were nice to her, she melted, and when men held her hand and kissed her like she meant something and took her to escape rooms, she began to think of romantic things.
Like a second fantastic date.
Like more dates than two.
Like a future where she and Soph might become sisters-in-law in more ways than one.
Like a future with a man who held her hand and solved escape rooms with two seconds left by solving a puzzle to form the word “booty.”
Complications.
Too fucking many of them.
No call. No text. No note.
God, that hurt. Even more that she’d opened her body to him—and her heart—and he hadn’t even been able to bear staying the night.
Bear waking up next to her.
Her eyes stung. Her throat burned.
But luckily, Mrs. Hutchinson was in the midst of a yarn emergency and that quickly cured her stinging eyes and burning throat, especially since she had to crawl through her storeroom and unearth several boxes of very expensive yarn with slender strands of silver in them—Mrs. Hutchinson bought a dozen skeins—and by the time she washed the dust off her hands, it was time to teach.
Then, after class, several of her students had questions or comments or just wanted to shoot the shit about Stoneybrook—the storm that had knocked over the flag pole downtown, the announcement that Finn Stoneman was going to film his latest movie in town (mostly so he could stay close to his wife, Shannon, and kiddos), the news that Bob’s Burgers had been sold and was going to become a sushi restaurant (a first for their small town, but one that Misty was wholeheartedly behind).
Which meant that Soph disappeared with a kiss on Misty’s cheek, saying she would see her in two weeks, as she and Rob were going on a much-deserved vacation, leaving the following morning.
Saved by a trip to a private island.
Or rather, her brother and his wife’s trip to that private island.
Either way, she knew as she closed up shop and headed home, that trip was going to give her two weeks to put Chance behind her.
To close off the romance, to drown the hope.
To categorize the date as a fun one-night stand rather than what she’d thought was the beginning of something.
To be able to lock everything down enough to pretend that she and Chance could be friendly acquaintances (not friends because friends didn’t fuck and leave friends without a note or call or text, and she wasn’t hopeful or romantic enough to let that slide, nor was she pathetic enough to sign up for a repeat of that same treatment).
Complications. These were the complications she’d hoped to avoid.
Because feeling like shit wasn’t conducive for happy family gatherings.
Fucking hell.
Enough.
She would lock it down, would use these two weeks to convince herself that she and Chance had no chemistry, and that way she would be able to convince Rob and Soph that friendly acquaintances were all she and Chance would ever be.
And if it killed something inside her to do that, then so be it.
Life was full of disappointment.
She had Rob and Soph, her friends.
That was enough.
Because she sure as shit didn’t need a man in her life who thought she wasn’t worth that call or text or even a fucking note by a coffee pot.
10
Wicker
Chance
He whistled as he strolled up the sidewalk.
Two weeks since he’d seen her, and damn, but he was itching to taste and hold and laugh with Misty Hansen.
He’d gotten that one night, and it wasn’t nearly enough.
Strolling down the little street, its cobblestones mismatched and slightly uneven, Chance knew he was a long way from Atlanta.
And he liked it.
Liked the quiet and safe neighborhoods, the way people waved to each other and said hello and seemed to know everything about each other.
He didn’t miss the traffic, or the smog in the air, or the humidity of the big city.
Plus, he really liked the ocean air, the way the sky went orange and red and navy when the sun set.
Bu
t more than that, he seriously liked the blonde beauty who owned Tangled: Yarn Emporium.
His hand wrapped around the stainless steel handle, his mouth turning up into a smile before he was even through the door. Because Misty was standing at a display of yarn on the far end of the store, a basket in her arms as she reached up and shoved rolls of yarn onto the shelves.
The bell jingled and she said without looking over her shoulder, “I’ll be right with you.”
She rose on tiptoe, putting another paper-wrapped ball of yarn onto a shelf above her head, barely able to reach, and he made his way to her, coming up behind her and nudging it back so it wouldn’t fall.
“I’ve got it, Cloudless.”
Because that was what she was.
The cloudless sky, no hint of storm on the horizon. Beautiful and clear.
Misty jumped, going ramrod stiff, the basket falling to the ground, yarn balls skittering in all directions. Then she spun.
He thought she was going to throw her arms around him, to press those luscious breasts against his chest, to kiss him like she had that night—like he was water, and she was desperate to slake her thirst, but only with him.
Instead, she jabbed a finger into his chest, hard enough that he rocked back on his heels. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Chance blinked. “What’s up, baby?” he asked.
“What’s. Up?” Her other hand lifted, shoved him back a step. “What’s up?”
Okay, he didn’t consider himself the smartest man around, but he knew he wasn’t fucking stupid. He’d left Misty with a sleepy smile on her face, her limbs lax from pleasure, after getting a full night of her cute and sweet, and had gone to work for two weeks, and somehow during the last two weeks something had pissed her way the hell off.
He snagged her wrists, drew her close, inhaling that floral scent as he stared into her eyes.
They were swirling orbs of gold and brown and black, fury sending them sparking.
“What happened, baby?” he asked, genuinely concerned now. “Is everything okay?”
She plunked her hands on her hips. “You seriously cannot be this fucking stupid.”
“What. Happened?” he repeated.
Her head dropped back; her sigh ripped through the air of the shop. “You are,” she muttered, lifting her head, before bending and reaching for the scattered yarn. “You are seriously that stupid. Despite solving booty. Despite the charm at dinner. You are a fucking moron.”
Okay, now he was getting pissed.
He inhaled, his exhale a hiss.
But he held on to his temper by a hairsbreadth.
“I had a great time with you, Cloudless,” he gritted, going for calm. “I told you that night I wanted to see you again.”
Her cheeks flared with color. “Yeah, you did,” she snapped. “And then you disappeared off the planet for two weeks without one word or action to back that up. I’m not stupid. I know how to read signals when they’re given to me.”
He stepped into her, fury licking up his spine. “I was on a mission. I couldn’t call because I was off the grid.”
She stepped into him. “But you took the time to call Soph and let her know you were working?” she asked, her voice icy cold. “And you couldn’t spare me ten seconds to write a note or call or text? I couldn’t reach out to you. I don’t have your number. And even if I did, it seems that wouldn’t matter because you were still off-grid, and I’m guessing you wouldn’t have had time for a chat.”
“My work is important,” he gritted out. “You said so yourself.” They’d talked about his job. She knew it was complicated and delicate at times. She’d called it awesome.
Said he was a hero.
And he’d explained that it took him away from home often.
“I know it’s important.” Her lips pressed flat. “I don’t believe I said it wasn’t. But you left, Chance. Without a second thought, without a word, and I don’t need someone who doesn’t think I’m important.”
“I don’t think that,” he said, cupping her cheek, holding it a little tighter when she would have yanked away. “And I didn’t call Soph while I was on the mission. I talked to her before our date.”
She froze. “Oh.”
They stared at each other silently, the fury in her eyes having extinguished. But the hurt was still there, and her words proved to him how deep it ran, washed away his temper. “I waited,” she whispered. “That morning, after the best fucking date of my life, after me thinking that it was the start of something that might end with me related to Soph in more ways than one—”
His head jerked.
She sighed, eyes sliding closed.
And continued speaking. “That morning, I snuggled down in bed and thought that the man who’d upended our dinner plans so I could solve the Mystery of the Pirate’s Booty was going to walk right through the door of my bedroom with coffee and a cinnamon roll in his hand. Then I walked through my house thinking that surely you must have left me a note—on my pillow, my bathroom counter, by the coffee pot, or maybe in my granola bar basket.”
She had a granola bar basket?
His lips twitched at her cute.
He supposed that it went along with the baskets on her nightstand, the ones on her island, the copious amount of wicker containers in this shop.
His woman had an addiction to baskets.
Well, there were worse addictions to have.
At least baskets were cheap.
And no, he wasn’t worrying about the fact that he’d just thought of Misty as his woman. He’d be more worried if he hadn’t. Because he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since the moment she’d crashed into his SUV, and certainly not over these last two weeks.
She’d burrowed into him, and he’d decided to let her stay there.
But she was still talking, and what she said took away any amusement he’d held about copious amounts of wicker.
“Then I waited for you to come to the shop and ask me to lunch,” she whispered, her eyes glimmering with tears. “Then I waited for you to call or text. For an entire week, I was hopeful but feeling that hope slowly chip away, getting tangled with disappointment and despair and…hating myself because I couldn’t help but think that you didn’t call because you didn’t feel the same way about me and the date.”
His gut twisted.
Fuck.
He hadn’t thought.
He hadn’t even thought that she might take it that way. Not when he’d mentioned the job.
Hadn’t he? He certainly had told her that he might be away for a while, that he was leaving in the morning to chase down a lead. Chance scoured through his memories, sure he had, but as he kept going through that night, he couldn’t actually recall telling her that he was leaving for a job.
They’d talked about a lot of things.
His schedule for the previous two weeks? That he would be out of contact the entire time?
That he wasn’t sure of.
Fuck.
Her chin came up, those eyes still sparkling with tears, some escaping and clinging to her eyelashes. “I like myself,” she said, voice growing hard as she dashed them away. “I’m fun and nice and a cool chick to hang out with. I like sports…well, I like hockey and not because it’s something I’m supposed to pretend to enjoy. I watch it and yell at the players when they fuck up, and that’s because I like it and I’m a cool chick and I’m freaking fun to spend time with!”
He reached for her.
She dodged, snagging a ball of yarn and throwing it at him.
“Mist—”
“So, regardless of the stupid as shit agreement you made with my brother to not hurt me—which you fucking failed at, by the way, because I’m not going to lie, you hurt me, and you hurt me deep—”
Fuck.
She pelted him with another ball of yarn.
“I,” she went on, launching more yarn at him, causing it to bean off his face, his chest, his stomach, “really don’t like feel
ing like garbage. So, fuck off, Chance. Just go away, and we’ll be simple acquaintances and keep all the complications that come out of this shit going south far, far away from our siblings’ lives.”
He snagged her wrist. “Misty, I fucked up.”
Her eyes flared. “Yes, you did.” She tried to tug her hand free.
“Misty, baby, I’m sorry,” he said. “I fucked up. I’m—”
“You said that already.” She tugged at her hand. He held tight. “Let me go.”
“No, honey, not until you understand.”
“Let. Me. Go.”
“Not until I’ve said what I’m going to say.”
She kept tugging. He leaned closer, pressing her back against the yarn. “Let. Me—”
He placed one finger over her mouth.
She bit him.
Hard.
Cursing, he yanked his hand back. “Cloudless,” he muttered.
“I don’t even know what that means,” she snapped.
Now was not the time to explain the name to her. He could tell her later, after they’d figured this out. Because if this moment had proved anything to him, it was that the thought of letting her go was fucking agony. He’d do anything to keep her in his life, even just barely knowing her. “Please, stop fighting against me and listen.”
“I will not stop fighting you, Chance Fucking Jackson. I will not listen to you. You’re scum. A scummy scum…bag who has sex with women, leaves them heartbroken, and then thinks he can return to jump into bed with them again,” she snapped. “Well, I might get used once, but I’m not going to get used twice.”
She was furious at him, and he knew why.
He’d fucked up, hadn’t told her he was leaving, hadn’t woken her up to tell her he was going. They’d shared something he’d known was special, that she’d thought was special, too, and he’d left her hanging in the wind, twisting in the breeze, spending the last two weeks distorting everything that had happened between them.
He’d hurt her.
His only hope of fixing things between them was to lay the truth on her.
“I thought the same, sweetheart.”
Her hand had snatched another ball of yarn from one of the baskets, was clutching it tightly, her arm ratcheted back.
