Tangle (Dogwood Lane 2)

She leans against the bar, resting her arms on the ledge. “If you were to get married, what kind of woman would you pick?”

“Are you asking me to go steady, Miss Raynor?”

“Hardly,” she scoffs. “I’m just doing some market research.”

I sit back in my seat and study her. I don’t think I could ever think about Haley like I do Meredith or Liz. She’s not like them at all. Come to think of it, she’s not like any woman I’ve ever met. I just can’t quite figure out why.

“I’m a bad person to research on because I’m not, nor will I ever likely be, in that particular market,” I say.

She stares at me with an open mouth. A spattering of freckles covers the bridge of her nose and sprays over the tops of her cheeks. From this angle, she looks so much younger than what I’m guessing is her twenty-six, twenty-seven years.

“What?” I ask.

“You don’t want to get married? Ever?”

“No. Not particularly.” I roll my cup around in my hands. “I mean, if it happens, that’s fine. Great. But it’s not on the agenda.”

“Why not?”

“Why would it be?” I ask her. “Why would you want to attach yourself to one person for the rest of your life?”

Her lashes flutter once. Twice. Three times before she shakes her head to rid it of the fog she seems to think is keeping her from understanding my point. “Because you’re in love.”

“That would work if you believed in love to start with.”

A gasp escapes her throat. “You don’t believe in love? What kind of animal are you?”

I think she’s kidding with the animal comment, but I’m not sure.

My first reaction is to make some kind of sexual innuendo. To play it off and change the subject to something lighter. But the sheer shock written across her features locks me into this conversation I didn’t start out to have.

“Fine,” I say, blowing out a breath. “I believe in love. I really do. I just don’t believe in one love for all of time.”

She looks at me like I’m from outer space and don’t understand what she’s saying. “But that’s what love is,” she says slowly.

“Is it?” I take a brown paper bag from Claire, who wisely refrains from joining the conversation. She dips out, scooting into the dining area. “I don’t know if I believe that. I mean, how can the twenty-six-year-old me know who the fifty-six-year-old me wants in life? It’s ludicrous.”

A steeliness settles over her eyes. “So this is your way of opting out of monogamy?”

“No. Why does it always have to go there?” I ask. “I’ve never cheated on a woman. Ever. Not even when I was a teenager with the sex drive of a monkey. One girl for me at a time. That’s all I can handle.” I pause and think about what I’ve said. “That’s not the whole truth, if I’m honest. I firmly believe that cheating is an asshole move.”

“Wow. So honorable.”

“Not really. I watched my mom cheat on my dad, and I’m not a fan.”

“Ah, so that’s why you don’t believe in love,” she says. “I get it.”

I bend my straw in half, watching it flip back up like a spring. I don’t want to talk about my issues or about Mom. Both make me squeamish.

“What about you?” I ask. “Do you believe in some fated love like you see in movies?”

“Of course I do.” She tugs my jacket around her waist in a subconscious move. “It’s a basic human need—to love and be loved.”

“That’s where I think you’re wrong. People need to be understood, not necessarily roped into buying flowers and chocolates.”

She makes a face and turns her attention to the kitchen as a cook shouts an order is up. “It must suck to be so jaded about love.”

“Or maybe it sucks to be so naive about it?”

“I don’t think believing in one true love is being naive.” She looks at me with a softness that feels like someone sent a rock through a slingshot and struck my chest. “I think believing you can go through life and not need love is naive.”

There’s something about what she says that prickles the back of my brain. It bothers me, irritates me, begs me to pay attention and dig deeper. But it’s hard to do that when I have to spend so much energy telling myself not to reach for her and pull her into my arms.

“I didn’t say you don’t need love,” I mutter. “I just said maybe getting different loves as you go through life may be more practical.”

“That’s sad.”

“That’s honesty.”

She shakes her head. “You are the exact kind of guy who’s broken my heart a dozen times. I should hate you on principle.”

The softness in her eyes hardens as a shield locks in place. The need to touch her deepens, and I busy my hand with my cup to keep from making that connection—one I need more and more.