Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

I bite my lip, seeing right through his bullshit but appreciating it all the same. “You’re all right, you know that?”

“Don’t tell anyone and ruin my rep.” He makes a face as he reaches over me and pulls open the bathroom door.

“Thanks, Penn.”

“I’m holding a door,” he deadpans.

“You’re not just holding a door.” I pat his shoulder as I walk by. “I appreciate you holding the door and checking on me. Don’t worry,” I say, laughing as he balks. “I’ll never mention you being nice in public again.”

“Good. We don’t want to stir up the natives.”

The door closes, capturing me and my giggle inside the little bathroom. I find the light switch. There’s a little sink and a hand blower. The room bends into an L shape where I assume the toilet is located.

Fiddling with the lock, I try to latch it. It’s old and a screw is missing, so it hangs haphazardly. The alcohol does me no favors either. After a few seconds of sliding it around, I get it. I think.

My back hits the wall, and I look at myself in the mirror above the sink. My cheeks are rosy, my eyes a wide, steely gray. The concrete block wall behind me is nothing like what I normally see in a bathroom mirror when I’m out and about. There are no chandeliers. No white cloth towels for drying your hands. No line of women with expensive clothes and perfect makeup waiting to use the facilities.

Just me.

A hollowness descends over me. I push off the wall, slipping my phone out of my pocket. Pulling up my emails, I sort through the names and subject lines. There’s nothing there that I hope to see—no responses from companies looking for sports writers. Just a bunch of romance writers’ newsletters and offers for dollar flip-flops and discounted shirts.

My shoes shuffle against the concrete floor as I turn the corner and spy the toilet. Just as I’m unbuttoning my pants, I hear the door squeak open and realize the lock must not have fastened after all. My heart flies to my throat, and the alcohol sloshes around like an angry volcano.

My breath stills in my lungs as I look into the dim light. Dane is standing at the sink. One hand is planted on each side, his head bowed.

I blow out a breath. “It’s just you.”

His head whips to mine as he staggers to his feet. “How’d you get in here?” He shakes his head, running a hand over his chin. “Dumb question and not what I meant.” He sighs. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

“I know you didn’t. You were inside with the girl from the café.” The words come out before I have time to think about them. If I’d thought them through, I would’ve picked a better tone as well, because the accusatory way I said the words doesn’t help much. There’s nothing I can do, so I shrug.

“You mean Haley.” He shifts his weight, his brows tugging together. His lips begin to tug toward the ceiling.

“I don’t know what her name is.”

“You got a problem with her?” He grins.

“I don’t know her.” The light appears to move above the sink, but I’m present enough to know it’s really not. I lean against the wall and take a slow, deep breath. “She seems lovely.”

“She is lovely,” he says. “You’d like her.”

“I’m sure we’d be besties.”

He turns his back to me, but the way his shoulders vibrate tells me he’s laughing.

I wonder who Haley is and who she is to him. Does he screw with her on the side, or does he know her little girl too? It’s the last thought tonight, the one of Dane with a family, that draws my ire.

I do what comes natural: I throw my shoulders back, lift my chin, and pretend I have all the confidence in the world. It’s an old gymnastics trick that works on the mat. It’s not as effective against men. At least not this one.

Dane faces me, taking me in. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”

“Of what?” I curl the corner of my lip like it’s an absurd thought. “What would I have to be jealous of?”

“Haley.”

A sound that isn’t ladylike or explainable hiccups out of my mouth. I don’t worry about it, though. I roll my eyes. The motion makes me a little sick, but it’s worth it to make a point. “You obviously don’t know me. I don’t get jealous of pretty women, Dane.”

“I didn’t say you were jealous about that.” He half laughs. “I mean, come on, Nee. You’re the prettiest woman in any given room. Of course you aren’t jealous about that.”

My knees go limp, and I tell myself it’s the rum. I also tell myself I misheard him, but when I look into his eyes, I know that’s not true.