Raelynn
“What can I get you?” the barista asks with a perky smile that makes me want to stab myself in the eye.
“Double espresso.” It’s almost eleven, but after last night, I’m dragging, hard.
“Coming right up!”
I fight my cringe. It’s not the poor girl’s fault I’m in a shitty mood. That my shoulder aches every time I move. That I had to take a Lyft here because my bike tire rim is bent beyond my ability to fix. Or that I had more than one dream last night about Nash—all featuring him shirtless.
The single glimpse of his back when he stripped off his sweatshirt affected me more than I wanted to admit. But then I saw Brooks’s flannel shirt in his hand—the shirt I offered him—and I had to leave the room.
Trudging off to the end of the coffee bar, I pull out my phone and scroll down to the text message he sent less than five minutes after he walked out the door.
Stay warm tonight. I’ll talk to you soon.
I read it half a dozen times when I got into bed. Almost responded. But I don’t want anything with him. Or at least, I shouldn’t. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
So why am I here with his sweatshirt tucked in my bag? I could have kept it until he came to fix the heater. I’m sure he has more than one.
The espresso sends a jolt through my system and gives me the courage—or stupidity—to ask the barista how to get to Nash’s apartment.
But before I take two steps toward the stairs, the man ambles through the back door.
“Raelynn? What are you doing here?” Nash runs a hand through his hair, and I’m drawn to the way his bicep flexes. And the tattoo of a flock of birds winding all the way down to his elbow. Why couldn’t he be wearing a sweatshirt again? His t-shirt is way too distracting.
“Your…uh…” My words fail me. Digging in my bag, I come up with the dark blue fleece. “I washed it.”
His full lips twitch into a half smile. “I haven’t been to the laundromat yet. Your shirt is still upstairs, but I can run up and get it. If you want.”
“I don’t need it back.” My heart screams at me. I didn’t keep much from my old life. Our rings are in a box in the basement. Along with the pictures from our wedding. Everything else—except for a couple of Brooks’s heaviest flannels—I donated to charity after I sold the ranch.
“Are you sure?” He drapes the sweatshirt over his shoulder and leans against the wall. “I can bring it over this weekend.”
“No. I mean…yes. I’m sure.” Flames crawl up my neck, all the way to my cheeks. I’m not this person. Flustered and insecure ain’t words I would ever use to describe myself. Yet with Nash, I can’t find my footing. “It belonged to my late husband.”
Shock plays over his features. “Shit. I’m sorry, Raelynn. When did he—?”
“Four years ago.” The lump in my throat feels like it’s cutting off my air, and I swallow hard. “He was struck by lightning. In a bad storm.”
The understanding in his eyes breaks me. Pinning my gaze to my boots, I fight for control. “I’m already feelin’ as low as a bow-legged caterpillar. Can we change the subject? I don’t want your sympathy.”
“No sympathy. Got it. What about a latte? Or an espresso. That’s why I came down. I need the jolt before I climb onto a steep, moss-covered roof. Can I buy you one?”
“I gotta get to the dojo. We’ve got a new session of the Horizon program startin’ this afternoon. Accessible classes for all abilities. It’s a big deal. This time of day, it could take me an hour to get a Lyft, so I’m walkin’.”
“You have to be sore after last night.” He glances me over like he’s looking for evidence. “Let me drive you. It’s on the way.”
Say no.
The last thing I need is to be trapped in a car with this man…again. It might be sunny, but he still smells divine. My brain and body are fighting like two hound dogs over the last soup bone, and common sense loses. “Thanks. I’d like that.”
“I’d like that?” What the hell? You sound like a teenager who just got asked out by the star quarterback.
It’s a damn good thing the barista calls his name. Lord knows what I’d say next.
Nash
Raelynn sidles up to the counter next to me while I wait for the oat milk latte. “You said you did ‘odd jobs’? Like…handyman-type shit?”
