Tangle (Dogwood Lane 2)

She gasps like she’s shocked, but it dissolves into a laugh. “You’re impossible.” Her bag swings at her side as she steps into the night air.

I stand next to the gumball machine and watch her walk away. A dose of satisfaction rumbles through my body. Whether it’s from her turning down Joel or knowing she’s turning down every guy who asks, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that her ass looks amazing in those sweatpants.

She glances at me over her shoulder. I speed-walk to catch up.

The parking lot is dimly lit, more light coming from the full moon overhead than from the flickering halogen lamps above. We stop at my truck.

She peers up at me. Her face is void of any makeup. Little creases that I didn’t see earlier today form at the corners of her eyes, and somehow, it makes her prettier.

“Thanks for picking up my tab,” she says. “My dad always tells me to keep a twenty in my pocket, but I never do.”

“Solid advice. My dad’s advice isn’t as good.”

“What’s he say?” she asks.

I unlock my truck and set my bag in the seat. “My favorite one might be to bewilder them with bullshit.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well, Dad’s an attorney. He always told my brother and me that when you can’t dazzle someone with facts, you bewilder them with bullshit. Just overwhelm them with so many opinions and so much misdirection that they don’t even want to fight.”

“That seems . . . helpful?” She laughs, shivering against the cold metal truck. “I think.”

“It is if you have a line of bullshit ready.”

“Do you?” She twists her lips.

“Sometimes. Depends on the topic at hand.”

I watch her shiver again. I hold up a finger. Fishing around in the back seat, it’s a long minute before I find what I’m looking for.

I climb back out. In my hand is a gray jacket. “Here.”

She eyes me warily.

“Just take it,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re shivering.”

“My car is right there.” She motions a few spots over. “I could just go get in and turn on the heat.”

“You could. But I don’t see you moving that way.” I shake the jacket as her eyes grow wide. “I’m kidding. Just put this on, will ya?”

She reaches cautiously, her fingers wrapping around the fabric. “If this is your way of making me owe you forever, I’ll have you know I’m not a woman of my word and I don’t feel obligated to make good on any outstanding debts.”

“I figured as much.”

She slips my jacket over her narrow shoulders. The fabric swamps her, hanging well past her hips and over her wrists. She holds up her hands. The sleeves bunch at her elbows, making her laugh. “I bet my dad would have something to say about wearing random men’s jackets.”

She snuggles into the fabric, pulling the collar closer to her face. I can imagine her huddled under blankets and watching a movie or bundled up outside and playing in the snow. Her eyes glisten like a girl who’s had a good life, and I wonder what kind of family she comes from.

“What’s your dad like?” I ask. “If you don’t mind my prying.”

“Well, like I told you before, he’s an accountant. Very exact about things. Precise. Very busy.” She groans. “He married my mother when they were eighteen years old, and they were married until she passed away.”

“I’m sorry, Haley.”

“Thanks. It was a long time ago.” She leans against my truck again. “What about your dad? What’s he like?”

“He’s worked relentlessly ever since I can remember. Divorced my mom and married this new girl he says is the love of his life.” I shrug. “We’ve butted heads a time or two, but he’s a good guy. Would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.”

“You’re a lot like him, huh?” Her voice is an octave lower than it’s been. Her brows raise in surprise, like the question was offhand, but she doesn’t retract it.

Under normal circumstances, I’m quick to point out the differences between Branson Kelly and myself. This time, I’m happy to take the comparison.

With a half grin, I look at the woman in front of me. “Are you saying I’m a good guy, Miss Raynor?”

“I’m saying you just gave me the shirt that wasn’t on your back, but same thing.”

We exchange a smile, a stripped-down gesture that makes me forget all about the cool air. Her breath is visible in the chill as she speaks.

“I better get going.” She starts to shrug off my jacket, but I stop her.

“No, keep that.”

“I’m not going to keep it,” she says. “Who knows if I’ll ever see you again to give it back?”

Our eyes grip each other in the narrow space between us. Her movement slows as something unspoken passes in our gazes.