Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)

“I brought you something.”

He bends down and picks up a tackle box. It’s red and plastic and looks like the one every country boy has in the movies.

“Thanks.” It’s more of a question than a statement as I watch him hold out the box. I take it. It’s heavier than I anticipate. “You brought me fishing supplies. How . . . nice.”

He rolls his eyes. “No. I didn’t just bring you fishing supplies. Open it.”

There’s nowhere to set it unless I use the kitchen table. And if I do that, I’ll have to let him in.

I glance up at him only to realize that he knows this. It’s the smirk that gives him away.

“Fine,” I say. “Come on in.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I say as I turn around.

I set the box on the table. Penn closes the door and then walks to the other side of the table so he’s facing me. Instead of opening it, I take a step away.

“Why did you bring me this?” I ask.

His brows pull together. “What kind of question is that?”

“What do you mean, ‘What kind of question is that?’ It’s a question I want you to answer.”

He bites his bottom lip, probably to keep from smiling.

“What?” I ask. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Smiling.”

“I’m not,” he says as his face splits into a wide grin. “I mean, I wasn’t. Now I am.”

I blow out a breath, unnerved by this whole thing. There’s a chair pulled out beside me, so I sit. He follows suit.

We watch each other from the safety of our sides of the table. I search his eyes for some sign of what this is all about.

“Not that I don’t love staring at you, but will you just open the damn box?” he asks.

“What’s in it?”

“You’ll know if you open it,” he says, exasperated. “Good lord, Avery. Why are you so difficult?”

My jaw drops. “Me? I’m not difficult. You didn’t even have to work that hard to kiss me.”

There. I said it. It’s out in the air. The elephant in the room is out of its cage. Or savanna. Or wherever elephants are kept.

His eyes twinkle. “Ah, so you think this is some kind of parlay from that? Is that your hang-up?”

“I don’t have a hang-up,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I just don’t understand what the point of it is.”

He leans back, resting his hands in front of him. He frowns as he takes me in.

“Don’t people do this?” he asks. “I mean, Neely baked Meredith a bunch of cookies when they moved to town. And Claire just bought a dozen doughnuts from the café for some woman that moved into the house next to her.” He spins his hat around so it’s sitting backward on his head. “Maybe I got this all wrong.”

I’m speechless. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I don’t even really know what to say. That stupid backward cap makes him even more attractive, and that’s not what I need right now.

“I’m sorry if I fucked this up,” he says, starting to get up.

“No,” I say quickly. “Um, no. You didn’t mess anything up, Penn. I just . . . I’m not used to this kind of thing.”

He settles back in his seat with more than a dose of hesitation. “What do people in California do when you get a neighbor?”

“Ignore them.”

A laugh spills into the room, but it’s more from disbelief than entertainment.

I play with the latch on the box, snapping the black piece that holds it shut over and over. There has to be something that goes along with this. Something I’m not thinking of. If someone does something nice for you in Los Angeles, it’s because they need a favor.

“So, there are no strings attached to this?” I ask.

“What kind of people are you used to?” He raises his brows. “I mean, hell, Avery. I’m not the nicest guy in the universe, but I wouldn’t bring you something and expect something in return if that’s what you’re getting at. And quite frankly, I’m a little offended you’d think that.”

My heart sinks as I take in his face.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just used to people that don’t make a move unless there’s a reason behind it—and the reason isn’t ever to just be nice.”

“That fucking sucks.”

“Yeah. It does.” We exchange a soft smile, one that fills me with a warmth that I never want to leave. I flip the latch and pull apart the two halves of the tackle box.

And I laugh.

“This is not what I was expecting,” I say.

He leans forward, peering into the box like a child at a birthday party. He looks up at me through his dark, thick lashes. “Do you like it?”