Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

I tap her leg close enough to the spot where her leg meets her groin to get her attention. A small gasp lets me know I have it.

“You want to get out of here and see if we can go from six to seven?” I ask.

She grins, dropping the bacon. “Check, please.”

All I can do is laugh.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AVERY

A white banner with navy-blue lettering welcomes us to Dogwood Day. People wander about, stopping at little booths, and gathering in groups while they eat corn dogs.

It’s the perfect afternoon for a festival, although I’m not sure that’s the right word for this event. It’s small and quaint and probably doesn’t even fit the official definition for a festival.

Still, it’s lovely. The breeze moves the air in a lazy way, lulling me into a state of bliss.

Penn walks beside me. His jeans have a little fraying at the hems and a couple of stains here and there. I wonder if he bought them that way or if he wore them to a state of perfection. The blue T-shirt that’s stretched across his body is the softest cotton I’ve ever felt, and I could just nuzzle my face into it and call it a day.

Except he would end up taking it off and then I’d take mine off and things would progress from there. Not that I would mind.

I look up at him and catch him watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“You look pretty today.”

“Thank you.”

He flashes me a shy smile and looks away.

Even though he’s seen me naked and contorted into various positions, and even though he’s made it clear just how much he admires my body, having him say I’m pretty is a whole new thing. There was a vulnerability in the way he said it. It was as if he wasn’t only talking about my looks or body or cleavage—he was talking about me.

That feels nice.

We’ve spent the week together. Getting to know someone has never been so fun. I know he burns toast every single time, brushes his teeth multiple times a day, and loves the smell of lemon. And he loves to kiss and cuddle and is willing to play Jeopardy every time it’s on.

But there’s always a hesitation—something that holds him back just enough to keep from really putting his guard all the way down. It’s there when we’re alone but even more apparent in the presence of others. It makes me nervous.

“Penn, how are you?” A man wearing a brown pullover and smarmy smile heads our way. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“Blame Dane. He’s been keeping me busy.”

The man looks at me. “Maybe Dane’s not all that’s been keeping you busy, huh?”

Penn gives him a tight smile, takes my hand, and walks away. “See ya later.”

“Good seeing you.”

Once we’re out of earshot, I can’t help but ask, “Who was that?”

“His name is Patrick,” Penn says. “Word has it that the night a guy named Bobby Jones went missing, Patrick was the last guy to see him.” He looks over his shoulder. “Never got a good feeling off that guy.”

“He feels icky.”

“‘Icky.’ Good word.”

He grins, hesitates, and then takes my hand in his.

Laughter from a group of little girls running down the center of the blocked-off street fills the air along with scents of cinnamon and cotton candy. A giant lemon is perched on top of a food truck that sits next to a tent set up for donations to a local food bank.

“This is the sweetest little thing I’ve ever seen,” I say, taking in the game of bingo to our right and ignoring the wobbliness on Penn’s face. “People still play that?”

“Every Thursday night at the senior center. Actually, there was a brawl with these two seventy-year-old men a couple of months ago over whether the ball was B or G. I’m talking this fight, if that’s what you want to call it, had the police called and everything.”

“Oh, gee,” I say with a laugh.

“No. It was B.”

I shove him with my shoulder as he chuckles. “Hey,” he says, pointing across the road. “See that little building?”

I follow his gaze to a narrow slice of a building between two larger ones. It’s a deep green that probably is held together by decades’ worth of paint. There are letters just above the mildewed overhang, but I can’t make them out.

“What about it?” I ask.

“That place used to be Bernie’s. You could walk in and get a soda on the left at this sandwich-shop kind of thing. The rest of the top floor was a pharmacy.” He tugs my hand and guides me around a group of kids throwing bang snaps at the ground. “In the back, there was a set of stairs that took you to the basement. They sold furniture or appliances or something down there.”