Tangle (Dogwood Lane 2)

I haven’t talked to him since he dropped me off last night. I considered sending him a quick text as I normally would after a date, just to say thanks for a nice meal. Then I remembered it wasn’t a date and he hates texts if his response to Liz’s is any indication, so I didn’t. I just sat in the bathtub and replayed the slight kiss on the cheek over and over again.

I did exactly what I knew I would do. I overthought everything. What I didn’t expect was the way my thoughts always circled back to the kiss on my cheek and how that made me so . . . happy.

He hops out of his truck as I get closer. The jeans he had on the day I met him make a reappearance. The “shirt” stretching over his broad shoulders is a heather-gray sweater that makes him look like one thing he isn’t: cuddly.

“I thought you stood me up,” he calls to me. “I got here about five minutes ago and you didn’t answer the door.”

“Because I wasn’t home.” My breath billows in front of me. I bounce on my toes to stay warm. “Do you want to come in? Because clearly I’m not ready to go with you yet.”

“Sure.”

We head up the sidewalk and I unlock the door.

“I love how you walk everywhere,” he says.

“Small-town life.” I flip on a light switch and shut the door behind him. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“I love this painting,” he says, heading over to the one piece of art I own. “LaCassa had an art show in Nashville a few years back. I don’t know shit about art, but this painting in particular stood out to me.” He looks at me. “I love that you have it.”

“I love that I have it too,” I say. “I actually won it at a charity auction for kids’ cancer. I got it super cheap. It was before anyone knew who LaCassa was. Honestly, I didn’t know who he was either. I just didn’t want to spend my money on something that would be gone in one fell swoop.” I bite my lip. “Like filet mignon.”

“Agree to disagree on the filet, but love that you got the LaCassa.”

“Me too.” I let my hair down and run my fingers through it. “It’ll take me a few minutes to get changed if you still want to go to dinner.”

He grips the back of my sofa. “I’m not supposed to comment on your appearance because you have stupid rules, but I think you look fine.”

“Fine? Great,” I mutter.

“God forbid I say something else and throw a wrench into your universe.”

“It’s your universe, too, pal,” I say, jabbing him in the chest as I walk by. “You don’t want me to end up like Liz, do you?”

He grimaces.

“See? Rules exist to protect you from me.” I head to the kitchen, flipping on lights as I go. “I know those might be a new concept for you, but you’re gonna have to deal.” I turn around by the table and put my hand on my hip. “Now, do you want to go to dinner or not?”

He stands in front of me. “We’re going to celebrate your job. So, yeah, we’re going.”

“What if we go out tomorrow and just make sandwiches here tonight because I just chased a bunch of ten-year-olds around a gym and I’m tired?”

“I think that would probably break a rule.”

He takes another step to me, his grin growing wider. My heart skips a beat as I breathe him in.

Having him in my space cranks up the attraction I always feel toward him. His masculine presence surrounded by my more delicate things is an intoxicating mix I can’t get a handle on.

“It doesn’t,” I say, catching my breath. “But how close you are definitely does.”

“This room is the size of a shoebox. Not my fault.”

I take a step back and look at him warily. “You were that boy in school who went through the handbook and just chipped away at everything with the word ‘don’t’ in it, weren’t you?”

“Something like that.” He scoots past me and opens the refrigerator. “Okay. We can make sandwiches or order pizza. Your choice. I only see two slices of cheese, though, and I really don’t want to fight you over dairy products.”

I roll my eyes. “You are so funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

Laughing, I grab my phone. “Fine. Pizza is always the right answer.”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll order Mucker’s. They deliver.”

I make a quick call to Mucker’s. It’s hard to ignore the way he moves around the kitchen or how his back flexes in his shirt. I finally look at the wall so I can focus on the order. By the time I’m done, Trevor is in the living room with the television on.

“Make yourself at home,” I say, tossing my phone on the coffee table.