Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

“Guess that leaves us all alone,” I say. “You and my orange aura.”

“Lord help me.” She shakes her head, and then her ass as she walks away.

I watch her study the mural wall as if she already envisions something there. She bites her bottom lip as she takes it all in from different angles. I want to ask her what she sees or what she’s thinking, but I don’t.

“Inspired already?” I ask.

“Actually, yes. I am.”

“It’s my aura, huh?”

She looks at me over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Definitely your aura. How did you ever guess?”

The sarcasm is thick and plentiful, but the look on her face makes it so worth it. The light comes in the window and highlights her cheekbones and the copper highlights in her hair. I’ll take her mockery if it gives me a view like this.

She turns back to the wall. I imagine a paintbrush in her hand and find myself curious about a lot of things. How talented is she? What else does she like to do? What is she good at?

Is she the ultimate package? I don’t know. But I’d sure as fuck like to give her mine.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

AVERY

I don’t turn around to see if Penn follows me. Even if I couldn’t hear his footsteps against the floor or smell his cologne teasing me as he pursues me from behind, I’d still feel the overwhelming sensation of having him this close.

I’m an adult, and I have control over what I say and think and do. Acknowledging I have a problem, a super slight, possible crush, is the first step to recovery.

I look over my shoulder.

Lord have mercy.

He’s leaning against the wall, a dimple nestled in his cheek. The glimmer in his eyes tells me that he knows exactly what I’m thinking, what I’m struggling with over here, and he’s ready to counterattack.

“If this wall were bright, it’d really lighten up this whole space.” I press my hand against a crack in the drywall. “I think we need a repair here first, though.”

“I can do that.”

I wait for the sexual innuendo, for the comment that has nothing to do with construction at all. Nothing comes.

“What’s back here?” I ask.

Walking away from Penn, I continue through the building. A hallway extends off the main room. There’s a bathroom and a meeting room across from a small office. At the end of the hallway is a closed door. I pop it open and peek inside.

Oversize bay windows are centered on a long wall. The area is bright and spacious with only a table that’s been shoved into a corner.

“I love this,” I say as I take in the antique molding around the ceiling. “What kind of thing is Meredith doing here?”

“Something about kids and animals.” His voice envelops me, wrapping around me like a warm sweater. “That’s all I got.”

“Kids and animals, huh? That’s super specific.”

I turn around to see him watching me.

He grins. “Kids and animals aren’t my specialty. I tuned out when I heard that.”

“Funny. I had you pegged to be someone that would love kids and animals.”

He shrugs. “I probably like animals better than kids, but I’m not really a fan of either.”

“No pets, then?”

“I had a goldfish once,” he says. “I won him at Dogwood Day. His name was Floater, and he committed the fish version of hara-kiri by diving onto the floor of the kitchen. I figured that was some kind of sign. What about you?”

“None at the moment.” I hop onto the table by the wall. “Maybe someday.”

“I’m good with not having any. I’d probably forget to feed them.”

My feet swing back and forth. I wonder if he’s truly irresponsible, or if he just plays that card. Most guys I know, especially ones in his league of looks, are content with someone doing everything for them. Yet Penn seems like he might be different. That, or my hormones are trying to convince me otherwise. It’s happened before.

Penn walks around the room and surveys the space. “I was in this club when I was a little kid. We had these hats and vests and shit. We’d go into the woods and learn how to start a fire and survive if, for some reason, we were left alone in the forest.”

“Was that a concern of yours growing up?” I ask with a laugh.

“Nah, my ma loved me. Most of the time, anyway.”

“Is she around?”

“No.” A frown drifts across his face. “She died a couple of years ago.”

He turns away. His shoulders slump a tiny bit, and I wonder what happened.

My heart sinks as he rolls his shoulder around like he’s trying to free himself from the memory. I wish I knew what to say. I want to hug him, to wrap my arms around his waist and pull him against me. But I don’t. I don’t know him well enough to do either of those things.