Tumble

by Locke, Adriana

  “No worries,” I say. “Just coming by for coffee and got caught up in talks of the Summer Show with . . .”

  “Mia,” the little girl chirps.

  “With Mia,” I add. “Sounds like it’s going to be great.”

  The woman nods, side-eyeing the child. “Is it wrong to say I’ll be glad when it’s over?”

  “Yes,” the little girl and I say in unison, making her laugh.

  “Well, I’ll keep that to myself then,” she jokes. “You ready to get some work done?”

  Mia nods.

  “Have a good day,” I tell them, reaching for the door.

  “You too,” the lady calls out over her shoulder.

  “Bye!” The little girl tosses me a big wave as they step into the parking lot.

  Scents of bacon and sweet-smelling syrup lie thick in the air as I pull on the door handle. Chatter from the remaining customers telling stories mixes with the clatter of silverware and dishes from the kitchen.

  Stepping inside the cozy little café is like stepping back in time. The walls are the same white with a touch of yellow from the deep fryers in the back. There’s a country-blue chair rail lining the four walls of the dining area. A bar separates the front from the kitchen area, and the vinyl barstools sport a brown faux leather that crackles when you sit on them. Or, at least, I suppose they still do.

  The cash register pings as I force my feet forward toward the bar. I don’t look at anyone. I just need coffee.

  I take another step toward the counter and then jolt to a stop. My hip knocks a table, salt and pepper shakers rattling on the top.

  Eyes the color of leaves at the beginning of spring snatch my gaze and pin me in place from a few feet away. They’re a green so bright, so lively, so familiar.

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NEELY

  My brain goes dead. All coherent thoughts and processes come to a screeching halt. A low-keyed hum whispers through my head as I watch Dane Madden’s eyes sparkle. Flecks of golds and blues catch the light as the corners of his lips tug toward the ceiling.

  No, no, no.

  Self-preservation kicks in, and I take a step back. He takes one toward me.

  “Hi, Neely.” His voice is grittier than I remember it. Deeper. Gravelly, even. The timbre rushes across my skin without permission, slipping deep into my inner workings and flipping switches like it’s second nature. I can feel the struggle between us as we wrestle silently for control.

  I clear my throat. “Hi, Dane.” My voice is even, practiced, and I send up a prayer of gratitude for the communication classes forced upon me in college.

  His heavy brows, a shade darker than his sandy-colored hair, pull together. Back and forth goes his squared jawline as the hint of a smile disappears.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.

  “That makes two of us.”

  My breath is hot as it passes my lips, like his gaze actually upped the thermostat in my body. Moisture accumulates on my palms, and I slide them down my shorts as the waitress pulls his attention away. I vaguely hear him order coffee.

  A heather-gray T-shirt stretches across his broad chest, hanging loose enough to not be pretentious but tight enough to skim the tapering of his waist. There’s a hole in one leg of his jeans a few inches below the pocket and a pair of dirty brown work boots on his feet.

  He’s as different from the stockbroker at the deli as I could get. There’s a reason for that, I remind myself.

  As my eyes travel up his abdomen and my brain attempts to use facts and logic to put out the fire starting to smolder in my core, Dane plucks my gaze out of the air with his own.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Getting coffee.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

  I struggle to take a lungful of air from beneath his gaze. “Am I not allowed here?”

  “That’s not what I meant either.”

  The lack of oxygen makes it difficult to come up with words. I just look at him like we should break into chatter about our lives, joke about things that used to make us laugh. Only we can’t. There’s a wall between us we can’t skirt. It’s built with just as many tears and just as much betrayal as it is any good times we shared.

  I shift my weight, lift my chin, and feel my guard start to wane. My lips part to speak when I’m cut off by the sound of a high-pitched squeal.

  “Neely! Is that you?”

  I rip my eyes off Dane, and they settle on a set of bright-red curls. “Claire! Oh my gosh. How are you?” I pull her into a hug as she holds a cup out to each side.

  “I’m so excited to see you, girl,” she says. “I haven’t seen you in, what? Ten years?”

  “Close enough.” I laugh. “How are you? What have you been up to? Still seeing Happy?” I ask, pointing to his name tattooed on her wrist.

  “Oh, hell no. That was a drunken mistake years ago.” She sighs, rolling her eyes. “I just tell people I got it for my cheerful demeanor.”

  “That’s a crock of shit,” Dane mutters. Claire bumps him with her hip, careful not to spill the coffee in her hands.

  “I have to jet to the back and help pack up an order for the fire department.” She hands Dane a cup. “This one’s for you. And this one,” she says, turning to me, “must be for you.”

  “I didn’t order anything yet. I do want a cup of coffee, though. Black, please.”

  She bites her lip. “Coffee. Black.” Nodding toward the cup, she extends her hand again. “Dane ordered it for you. Or I guess it was for you.”

  I glance at Dane. He nods, tossing me a little smile that throws me. My insides flop like a fish out of water, one direction one second, another the next. My attention flips to him in an unguarded moment.

  He takes a sip of his drink—coffee with two sugars and one creamer, if he still takes it the same as before. To anyone watching, he’d seem cool and collected. I, however, see the fire hidden in his eyes. Feel the heat in his gaze. Hear the questions sitting on his tongue.

  The last time we saw each other came with a finality that was as hard to accept as it was necessary. It came with more pain than anything I’ve ever endured on the gymnastics floor or in the business world. All the reasons why come flooding back as I feel him burn through my defenses.

  Forcing a swallow, I make myself look at Claire. “How much is it?”

  “Stick it on my tab,” Dane says.

  “No. I’ll pay for it.” I put my hand into my pocket.

  “If you think I’m taking your money when he’s standing there, you’ve forgotten where you are, Neely. I’m not getting on his bad side over a cup of coffee.” She shrugs. “Now take this. I need to get to the kitchen.”

  She shoves the cup into my hand.

  “Um, thanks,” I say, still uncertain whether to accept it. “Let me at least give you a tip.”

  “I add ten percent on Dane’s bill every month. No worries.” She winks, moving to miss Dane’s shoulder bump. “Will you be in town long? I want to catch up.”

  “Probably not. A couple of days at most.”

  “Well, I’ll find you.” She glances toward the kitchen. “I really do gotta go. Talk to you soon.”

  “Okay. Bye, Claire,” I say, giving her a little wave.

  With each step she takes away from us, the air grows thicker. I used to know without looking when Dane walked into biology class. I swore the air changed. Standing this close to him now, I believe my assessment back then was probably true. The space around him is charged with some invisible, magnetic energy I can’t describe but that pricks at the very fiber of my being.

  Jerk.

  “Thank you for the coffee,” I say, finding my voice. “I will say I’m kind of surprised you remembered how I like it.”

  “Not a big deal.”

  My stomach flutters like a teenage girl’s, and I try to override the sensation and remind myself I’m a grown wom
an. A capable woman. A smart one—a smart enough one not to be dazzled by his smirk.

  He’s a couple of steps away, but it feels as if he’s right up against me. My shirt clings to my chest, the air so warm my lungs almost refuse it.

  He twists his Dodgers cap backward. As if I need more of a reason for my heartbeat to go wild, I get a better look at his face. His skin is tanned, a couple of days’ worth of stubble scattered on his cheeks. Under his left eye is a purplish mar, and I can only begin to imagine where that came from.

  “How have you been?” he asks, tapping his thumb against the side of his cup.

  “Great.”

  “Where you living these days?”

  “New York,” I say, wishing I’d prepared more for this scenario. As I stand in front of him, I mentally smack myself for not thinking this through.

  “New York? Nice.”

  “Yeah. I love it there. What about you? How have you been?”

  “Doing good. Been working on a house up on Zion’s Hill. Some lawyer from Nashville bought it and is completely redoing the whole place. About done with it, though.”

  “Carpentry?”

  His lips purse and he nods.

  “Took after your dad, after all.”

  We exchange a soft, genuine smile. The mention of his father settles over the ball of frayed nerves in my stomach, softening it a touch.

  I always loved Nick Madden. He worked hard, was kind of a hard-ass, but was as sweet as pie when you got to know him. He loved me too. He taught me how to change the oil in my car and to throw a punch—just in case I ever needed to know.

  “How is he?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t.

  “Same. Busting my ass all the time.”

  “You probably need it.” I grin, ignoring the ease of the words. “There are worse things than taking after him, you know.”

  “I kind of fell into it.” Dane shrugs, bringing a hand to his cheek and sliding it over his chin. A yellow-and-green bracelet is wrapped around his wrist, the colors emulating the hues of his eyes. “Got laid off at the mill a few years back. Didn’t really have a choice. But I kind of like it.”

  I bring my cup to my mouth. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your dad you said that.”

  He laughs. “Please don’t. I’d never hear the end of it.”

  My laugh melts together with his, and for this one split second, I breathe easy and enjoy a familiarity I haven’t had with anyone in so long. “How’s your brother?”

  “Same. Total asshole. But Matt works for me now, so that gives me some leverage.”

  “I bet that’s a fun day on the jobsite.”

  “It’s a real treat.” He regrips his cup, the veins in his forearm flexing. “We work together pretty well, actually. We have quite a little crew. Get a lot of work.”

  My eyes travel up his muscled bicep, over his wide shoulders, and up his thick neck. I gulp. “I bet you’re good at it.” I think back to the way he could strum a guitar or fix practically anything. “You always were good with your hands.”

  As soon as the words pass my lips, I realize what I’ve done. He fights a smirk. I want to die.

  “Thanks,” he quips, the smirk growing by the second.

  Sticking the coffee between us, I shake my head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  Pulling the cup to my lips to hide my errant blush, I override the part of my brain telling me to leave. A grin kisses his lips, and I hold my breath for whatever is to come.

  “If anyone would know how good I am at anything, it would be you,” he says.

  It’s true at face value, but the innuendo is right there for the taking. My thighs clench together as I consider what Dane could do to me now. With that body. With those lips. With that damn smirk.

  The latter grows deeper. He thinks he has me. He might be right. But just as he might not completely be the bad boy next door anymore, I’m also not the naive teenager who wears her heart on her sleeve. And I’m definitely not a fool.

  Tossing my shoulders back, I shrug. “It’s hard to remember after all these years. You’ve kind of faded from my mind.” Lies, lies. All lies.

  We stand eye to eye, our chests rising and falling in time. I need to leave. I need fresh, un-Dane-scented air. But if I do, he may misinterpret it, and I refuse to let him have the upper hand.

  “You married?” he asks nonchalantly, but there’s a hint of deception in his eyes. He’s bracing himself for my reaction, knowing, or at least suspecting, his tiptoe into these waters won’t be met with grace.

  He’d be right.

  A bucket of cold water douses the warmth of the moment, and I shiver. My guard comes up and locks into place. “I think the real question is, are you?”

  “Nope. Never been married.”

  My eyes grow wide before I can catch them. Why that answer surprises me I don’t know, and before I can think about it too much, I change the topic.

  “Nice shiner you got there,” I note, nodding toward his eye.

  “If I told you how I got this, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “That’s a fact,” I tell him. Biting my lip to suppress the tangent I’m about to go on, about how I wouldn’t believe much at face value with him, I give up. It’s time to go. “You know what? I gotta go. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “I know you think back then, before you left, that I . . . that things . . .” He removes his hat and roughs a hand through his hair. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” He drops his hand, his jaw set.

  “You’re right,” I say, my mouth hot as I gulp in a steadying breath of air. “It doesn’t matter. Good to see you, Dane. Take care.” I tip my coffee toward him.

  He doesn’t move as I step around him toward the door. He doesn’t call out as my palm grips the handle and twists it. He doesn’t follow me as I walk by the windows toward my car with a step quicker than can be explained as natural.

  He also doesn’t stop watching me, because his gaze burns a hole in my profile.

  It’s the second time he’s burned me. It’ll be the last.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DANE

  Splat!

  The sound of the hammer—swung with more force than was necessary, to boot—crushing my thumb ricochets across the front lawn. The tool falls from my hand, striking against the sawhorse, and flips into the soft grass with a gentle thud.

  “Son of a . . . Shit!” My hand shakes, the top of my thumb threatening to explode. I tilt my head to the sky and try to find some peace in the clouds.

  I come up empty.

  “Matt!” I call to my younger brother. “I’m taking ten.”

  He nods from halfway up the ladder leaned against the side of the house.

  Wrapping my good hand around my thumb, I head toward my truck. Sounds of construction ring out behind me. It’s usually music to my ears, the lifeblood of the Madden name. But each cut of a sawblade, buzz of a power drill, and swing of a hammer feels like a distraction this morning. I have a throbbing thumb to show for it.

  Beads of sweat cluster along my forehead. I remove my hat with my good hand and run the back of my forearm along my brow.

  “Damn it.” Everything feels sticky. Mildly irritating. And the progress on the project that usually energizes me has failed me epically this morning. I just don’t want to be here. Not that I have a better place to be. Quite frankly, I have a lot of places I shouldn’t be, and with Neely, or thinking about Neely, is one of them.

  I would’ve recognized her anywhere. Same gray eyes that glimmer like she’s about to tell you a secret. Full lips that spread into a smile so infectious you can’t help but feel your own mouth following suit. The hint of floral perfume, the golden hair that may as well be silk, and the aura about her that’s just as strong as the day she left Dogwood Lane and me—it’s all the same. It’s like time forgot to age her. She somehow has become more beautiful, sexier, stronger.

  The world hates me. I’ve postulated this for a
long time, but it’s obvious today.

  The tailgate of my truck lowers. I scoop a handful of ice from the cooler in the bed into a bandanna and wrap it around my injured digit. The relief lasts only a few moments.

  “What are you doing down here?” Penn rests his forearms over the side of the truck, the tattoos carved in his skin like mini masterpieces on full display. He eyes my makeshift bandage. “What happened to you?”

  “Hammer,” I groan, adjusting the ice.

  “That’s interesting.”

  “How you figure?”

  “Never knew you to hit yourself with a hammer before. I find that interesting.”

  “If that’s interesting, you need a hobby. Or you could work like I’m paying you to do . . .”

  “I have a hobby, thank you, and you should’ve seen her last night,” he says, smacking his lips together. “Lord Almighty, she’s a—”

  “Penn.”

  “Yeah?”

  The tip of my finger sticks out of the bandanna. It’s bright red and hot to the touch despite the ice packed around it. “All your escapades really sound the same at this point.”

  “Is that jealousy I hear?” He cups his hand around his ear. “I thought so. Not my fault you’re in a dry spell.”

  Leaning against the truck, I look at him. “Jealousy isn’t how I’d describe it. But if that makes ya feel good, go for it.”

  “My hobby makes me feel good.” He moves his lips around, like he’s fighting the next words trying to pop out. He does this when he knows he shouldn’t say something but can’t quite convince himself not to. “From the looks of you, I’d say you’re more than jealous. I’d say you’re . . . tempted.”

  My tongue presses on the roof of my mouth. “Tempted to what?”

  He leans against the truck, too, the gold St. Christopher’s medal he’s worn since elementary school clamoring against the side. The corners of his lips nearly touch the corners of his eyes. He knows.

  “Word travels fast, huh?” I say, prodding around to see if my guess is right.

  He slow blinks. Twice.