Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)
As Grace chatters on, I do my best to figure out who’s here. The shrubs are so big, and the only light comes from an outdoor lantern hanging above the door and haphazardly hung string lights around the fencing. It’s difficult to make out anything, or anyone, for sure.
It’s the “anyone” part that has my palms sweaty.
“And we were supposed to listen to a comedian uptown, but screw that.” Grace sighs. “I’ve had enough action for one night.”
“Sounds like it.”
She snorts. “Whatever. You weren’t even listening.”
“I was too!” Moving up in the driver’s seat, I shake the fog from my head. A warm breeze billows through the open car window. “You told me all about . . . dinner . . .” I scramble to come up with something else she talked about but fall short. “And your outfit?”
“It’s a good thing I love you.” She laughs. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Not what I should be doing.” My index finger touches my lips, and despite all the germs I know are on my fingernail, I bite it anyway. “I’m so stupid, Grace.”
“You better not tell me you’re at home throwing a pity party. I swear to all that’s holy I’ll be on the next flight to Tennessee.”
Someone stands on the other side of the fence. A blue cap rises just to the top of the shrub, and I can barely make out a Dodgers logo.
“Shit . . .” I whisper, but not soft enough to slip by Grace.
“Okay. What are you doing?”
A burst of laughter comes from the other side of the shrubbery. Several voices ring through the mix and swirl around me. My chest rises and falls in deep, steady succession, but it takes a lot of effort to keep it that way.
“I took your advice.” I gulp. “Again.”
“Does it involve hay and flannel? Because if it does, I’m jealous.”
“No.” I laugh. “I’m sitting in front of Mucker’s.”
“Which is?”
“A little pub sort of thing. I ran into an old friend, and she invited me out tonight.”
“That’s great. Exactly what you need. Go have fun and let your hair down.”
My laughter fills the car. “That’s a random saying for you to spout.”
“I was with this banker last night, and he said it.” She groans. “He had an accent that he said was British, but it kind of wore off in the middle of sex. I’m not sure about all that, but his skills in the sheets were sublime. I had no idea an investment banker would be that thorough.”
Settling back into the leather seat, my eyes still glued to the patio, I blow out a breath. “Maybe that’s the answer to my problems.”
“Not following you.”
“I need to find a thorough investment banker who takes care of everything, if you know what I mean. Then I could just sit at home and run my own magazine. It would be perfect.”
“So you want a sugar daddy. That’s what you’re saying.”
“No.” I giggle. “There’s nothing sexy about a grown man being called daddy—sugar or not.”
“So true. Do you remember the—”
“Lion tamer,” we say in unison before bursting into laughter.
“He couldn’t have tamed a first grader. Where do you find these guys?” I laugh, wiping at my eyes. “His ponytail was epic, though. I—ah!”
When I jump at the sound of a knock to my left, my elbow hits the middle console. My phone goes flying across the car and lands in the passenger’s seat with a thud. I barely register the glow leaned against the seat before I take in the white of a smile on the other side of my door.
My heart blips like it’s been tased.
Dane grips the top of the car, the sleeves of a white T-shirt slipped back on his arms and exposing his solid biceps. The haze of the lights from the patio creates a spectacular shadow across his face that steals my breath.
“Neely!” Grace’s voice shouts from the other seat. “What the heck just happened?”
“Hey,” Dane says, ignoring the commotion next to me. His cologne, spicy and warm, percolates through the night air.
“Hey,” I reply.
His mouth forms an easy curve. “You gonna get out?”
“Yeah, I . . .” Glancing down in response to the shouted demand from my phone, I sigh. Dealing with Grace, who is going to want answers, doesn’t sound appealing. Neither does trying to tiptoe around the minefield that is Dane Madden. As Grace shouts again, my decision is made. “I need to get that.”
“Sounds like it.”
Bending over the console, I snatch the device. “I’m here. Sorry.”
“What happened? And whose voice did I hear?”
“I dropped the phone.” I look straight ahead, trying to keep my voice void of any emotion whatsoever. “Can I call you tomorrow?”
“No, you can’t call me tomorrow. I mean, you can, but that voice—I need answers. It had that twang that makes me want to . . . This could get awkward.”