Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

Mia nods.

“Have a good day,” I tell them, reaching for the door.

“You too,” the lady calls out over her shoulder.

“Bye!” The little girl tosses me a big wave as they step into the parking lot.

Scents of bacon and sweet-smelling syrup lie thick in the air as I pull on the door handle. Chatter from the remaining customers telling stories mixes with the clatter of silverware and dishes from the kitchen.

Stepping inside the cozy little café is like stepping back in time. The walls are the same white with a touch of yellow from the deep fryers in the back. There’s a country-blue chair rail lining the four walls of the dining area. A bar separates the front from the kitchen area, and the vinyl barstools sport a brown faux leather that crackles when you sit on them. Or, at least, I suppose they still do.

The cash register pings as I force my feet forward toward the bar. I don’t look at anyone. I just need coffee.

I take another step toward the counter and then jolt to a stop. My hip knocks a table, salt and pepper shakers rattling on the top.

Eyes the color of leaves at the beginning of spring snatch my gaze and pin me in place from a few feet away. They’re a green so bright, so lively, so familiar.

Oh, crap.

CHAPTER TWO

NEELY

My brain goes dead. All coherent thoughts and processes come to a screeching halt. A low-keyed hum whispers through my head as I watch Dane Madden’s eyes sparkle. Flecks of golds and blues catch the light as the corners of his lips tug toward the ceiling.

No, no, no.

Self-preservation kicks in, and I take a step back. He takes one toward me.

“Hi, Neely.” His voice is grittier than I remember it. Deeper. Gravelly, even. The timbre rushes across my skin without permission, slipping deep into my inner workings and flipping switches like it’s second nature. I can feel the struggle between us as we wrestle silently for control.

I clear my throat. “Hi, Dane.” My voice is even, practiced, and I send up a prayer of gratitude for the communication classes forced upon me in college.

His heavy brows, a shade darker than his sandy-colored hair, pull together. Back and forth goes his squared jawline as the hint of a smile disappears.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.

“That makes two of us.”

My breath is hot as it passes my lips, like his gaze actually upped the thermostat in my body. Moisture accumulates on my palms, and I slide them down my shorts as the waitress pulls his attention away. I vaguely hear him order coffee.

A heather-gray T-shirt stretches across his broad chest, hanging loose enough to not be pretentious but tight enough to skim the tapering of his waist. There’s a hole in one leg of his jeans a few inches below the pocket and a pair of dirty brown work boots on his feet.

He’s as different from the stockbroker at the deli as I could get. There’s a reason for that, I remind myself.

As my eyes travel up his abdomen and my brain attempts to use facts and logic to put out the fire starting to smolder in my core, Dane plucks my gaze out of the air with his own.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Getting coffee.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

I struggle to take a lungful of air from beneath his gaze. “Am I not allowed here?”

“That’s not what I meant either.”

The lack of oxygen makes it difficult to come up with words. I just look at him like we should break into chatter about our lives, joke about things that used to make us laugh. Only we can’t. There’s a wall between us we can’t skirt. It’s built with just as many tears and just as much betrayal as it is any good times we shared.

I shift my weight, lift my chin, and feel my guard start to wane. My lips part to speak when I’m cut off by the sound of a high-pitched squeal.

“Neely! Is that you?”

I rip my eyes off Dane, and they settle on a set of bright-red curls. “Claire! Oh my gosh. How are you?” I pull her into a hug as she holds a cup out to each side.

“I’m so excited to see you, girl,” she says. “I haven’t seen you in, what? Ten years?”

“Close enough.” I laugh. “How are you? What have you been up to? Still seeing Happy?” I ask, pointing to his name tattooed on her wrist.

“Oh, hell no. That was a drunken mistake years ago.” She sighs, rolling her eyes. “I just tell people I got it for my cheerful demeanor.”

“That’s a crock of shit,” Dane mutters. Claire bumps him with her hip, careful not to spill the coffee in her hands.