Page 37

She stands—shoe in mouth—and trots downstairs, nails clicking as she goes. I can’t help but wonder if the real reason Lydia gave me the house was because she didn’t want to deal with this stupid mutt asshole.

I drag myself out of bed, go to the bathroom—washing my face and brushing my teeth in the middle of a sea of still Pepto-colored tile—and make my way downstairs, ignoring the chewed shoe in the middle of the ripped-up floor as I cross the living room. In only an oversized T-shirt, I step outside and Molly sprints around me with a bark, making me stumble and swear before sniffing her way around the yard to do her morning business.

The cool morning air sends a shiver down my spine but soothes me like a salve.

On the old porch swing, I push my bare toes against the boards to make me sway. The water is calm, the birds are loud. Molly barks; a car appears. A police car.

Ford.

My chest tightens from guilt or regret or want or all of the above.

In full uniform, he gets out, pets Molly, and starts toward me, carrying a drink caddy with four coffees.

He stops at the edge of the porch, which hits him at hip level, and his eyes roam over me—doing a slight double take whenhe notices my shirt—then gestures with the drinks before setting them down. “Morning,” he says, his voice still holding rich hints of sleep.

I look at the coffee. “You expecting more people?”

An amused sound rumbles in his chest but doesn’t meet his lips. “I didn’t know how you take it anymore, so I brought you options.” I stop swinging. His attention goes to movement at the bird feeders. “You got a few finches this morning.”

I do not give a flying fuck about the birds.

“You bought four coffees for me?”

His eyes slide back to mine. “Three.” He lifts one out of the caddy and smiles around a sip. “I figured whatever happened last night to keep you from showing up meant you’d need coffee today.”

Damn him.

Guilt pokes me. “I forgot I had better things to do.”

The look on his face tells me he’s not buying today’s bullshit.

“I have to get to work,” he says, massaging the back of his neck and looking at his patrol car before looking back at me. He sets his coffee down, places both palms on the edge of the porch, and hinges at the waist as he drops his chin before lifting it. He blows out a breath then pins me in place with his eyes. “Maybe I’m misreading everything here, but when I look at you it’s like everything in between hasn’t happened. Like you and my hands are still opposite ends of a magnet because all I want to do when I see you is touch you. You feel that? Likeyour heart can’t keep up because it’s beating so fast?”

I cannot breathe, let alone answer him.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, Scotty. Anna was right—I didn’t even care that she ended it. That night, I didn’t sleep wondering if you were in bed with that guy. If he got to kiss you and touch you and know you in a way I’ve convinced myself only I should get to even though all this time has passed.” He pauses to swallow, gaze staying locked on mine like wet to water. “And, showing up here, seeing you with hair like this and in that shirt—it takes my damn breath away.”

My stomach drops fourteen floors.

“You feel any of that?”

Without hesitating: “No.”

His lips roll inward between his teeth and his eyes flick to my shirt again—the one I stole from him when I made him strip. “You wear that every night?”

For the week I’ve had it, I have. The first time was an accident, I grabbed it blindly from a pile of clothes. The rest . . .

“I don’t pay much attention to what I wear at night,” I say, annoyed by the transparency of the lie in my voice.

My heart is pounding so hard I wonder if he can feel it vibrating the porch. The ground. The molecules of the atmosphere.

“I have to get going.”

He swipes his coffee from the porch, dips his chin, and walks to his car.

I shouldn’t say anything. I should keep my mouth closed and let him drive away, praying he takes a hint and leaves me alonelike he did twenty years ago, but when he opens the door, I hear myself shout, “Black.”

He stills, looks at me.