“Smith wanted to get a head start on the trip back to L.A.,” he said. “He’s due in the studio tonight to work with a friend.”
“It still blows my mind that you two are who you are.”
His gaze jumped to my face before darting away. Today’s selection of cakes and pastries were enthralling, apparently.
“Is that not a cool thing to admit?”
He shrugged.
I finished making his coffee and handed it over. “It’s on me. To thank you for your hospitality last night.”
He gave me a sidelong glance. The dubiousness was particularly strong with him today.
“What is it, Garrett?” I asked. “You’re acting even weirder than normal. Not that it isn’t great that you voluntarily left your house and went somewhere.”
“I wouldn’t say voluntarily. And didn’t you call it my woodland fortress?”
“Something like that,” I agreed.
A grunt from him.
“Though ‘woodland fortress’ makes it sound like you have bunnies and fawns helping out around the house. Or like, acting as your bodyguards with twigs and tiny little Tasers.”
He just stared at me.
“I may have slightly overdone it with the caffeine.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Does this have anything to do with what Smith was talking about last night?”
He tipped his chin and turned to peer around the store. Like someone might be hiding behind one of the shelves or something. Lurking, ready to jump out and ask for a selfie and an autograph. Being a celebrity must be tiring.
“There’s no one else here,” I said, taking a sip from my mug. Unlike his dreary drink, I fortified my caffeine with a shot of caramel. Sugar for the win.
“I’ve been giving it some thought.”
“And you thought of someone more suitable to not date?”
“What?” His dark brows drew together tightly. “No.”
“Oh.”
And for a long moment, he just looked at me. Then he looked away again.
“What were you going to say, Garrett?” I asked, fingers wrapped tightly around my mug.
“There aren’t really many places locally, but I promised Smith I’d try,” he told the pastry case with all due seriousness. The man was the king of evading eye contact. “Do you want to come over tonight for dinner? I don’t know what we’ll eat. Guess I’ll think of something.”
“Um. Sure. That sounds nice. Sort of.”
He tipped his chin.
“What time would you like me there?”
“About seven?”
“All righty then.”
And he just stood there. Then he stood there some more. At long last, he said, “Give me your cell. I’ll put in my number.”
I grabbed my phone from under the counter and handed it over.
He paused on the screen. “Not a picture of me.”
“It’s a particularly cool tree I saw the other day, actually. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“You’re not going to give my number to anyone, are you?” he asked.
“I promise to guard your number with my life.”
He didn’t smile. I’d made a joke about death, for heaven’s sake. How stupid. Before I could figure out how to apologize in a non-awkward fashion, he’d entered the digits and handed it back.
“Thanks,” I said.
Another decisive nod and he about-faced and headed for the door with his cup of coffee in hand. The soft cotton of his T-shirt outlined his strong back and wide shoulders. Not to mention his denim-clad ass. Meanwhile, there was the whole me-having-dinner-with-a-rock-star thing to consider. And that was . . . a lot.
“Garrett,” I said, voice tight. “Just a second. I have one small question. This isn’t a date, right? I mean, we’re not doing that, because I don’t do that, and you’re not ready. As previously discussed.”
“Not a date,” he confirmed in that smooth, deep voice with nil hesitation.
“Got it. Just friends.”
“Yeah. Friends.” And any weirdness or hesitation he showed over using the F word was probably just all in my imagination. Then he was gone.
Whoa. I was officially friends with Garrett from The Dead Heart. Did not see that coming. Though I think it’s safe to say that nothing about last night went the way I’d expected. Apart from winning trivia. That was pretty normal because my team was mighty.
Which was when I happened to look down and notice my red Chucks, black leggings, and oversized tee. So comfortable. But not the least bit fancy. Not even for just friends having dinner in a low-key fashion at home. Especially not when that friend was Garrett. Let’s not get into why. But my fingernails were unvarnished, I wore no makeup, and my several-days-past-needing-a-wash hair was tied back in a basic boring ponytail.
It had been a while since I’d put any real concerted effort into my appearance. Four years ago, when I’d moved back to Wildwood, to be exact. When I’d decided it was easier, safer, and better to hide. If Garrett could attempt to free himself from his grief and restart his life, however, then so could I. The time had come to zhuzh me up.