"Don't you have wine to make?" Her footsteps retreat, and then she calls over her shoulder, "We're going shopping this week. Don't even try to argue with me."
I turn back to the work and let my attention settle where it belongs. The familiar order of it pulls me in, steadies something that’s been off-balance since Charlie walked through the door. Time moves without me tracking it, the light shifting across the floor as the afternoon wears on, and I stay right where I am.
My phone buzzes several hours later. Charlie's name lights up the screen.
I’ll be counting the days. See you Saturday. -C
I don’t fight the smile this time. I'm genuinely looking forward to Saturday, and I have no idea what to do with that except let it happen.
It’s four days away, and instead of dreading the stretch of it, I find myself anticipating it.
It feels like something’s finally moving in the right direction.
Chapter 6
Charlie
Sunny texts me her address at exactly five o'clock on Saturday evening, which tells me she sat on it until the last possible minute before conceding that I'd need to know where I was going. I'm already showered, dressed, and standing in front of the bathroom mirror debating whether to shave a second time today when the message comes through.
412 Pecan Street. Don't be early.
I chuckle and pocket the phone, then give my reflection a final once-over. Dark jeans, a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and boots that I polished this morning for the first time since I bought them.
Gran intercepts me in the hallway and straightens my collar without asking. "You look quite presentable." From Eleanor Hayden, that’s the equivalent of a standing ovation. Then she presses a small bouquet of white and purple flowers into my hand. "Don't you dare show up empty-handed, Charles." She disappears before I can point out that I'm thirty-five years old and don't need dating advice from my grandmother.
Sunny's street is tucked behind the main road, lined with small houses set back on modest lots shaded by live oaks. I findnumber 412 and pull to the curb at six twenty-eight, two minutes ahead of schedule, which I figure is close enough to not count as early.
Her house is exactly what I'd expect from a woman who keeps her world small and orderly. White clapboard siding, a narrow front porch with two chairs and a pot of herbs by the railing, clean lines, no clutter. The porch light is already on, casting a warm glow across the steps.
I kill the engine, grab the bouquet from the passenger seat, and head up the walk. The door opens before my knuckles reach the wood, which means she was watching from the window. I file that away and let my grin do the talking.
Then every thought in my head evaporates.
Sunny stands in the doorway in a blue dress that falls just below her knees, the exact shade that matches her sapphire eyes. The fabric skims her waist and shoulders in a simple way that's devastating at the same time. Her blonde hair is loose, falling in soft waves past her shoulders, and she's wearing small silver earrings that catch the porch light when she tilts her head.
She's also gripping her clutch like it owes her money, and the pulse at the base of her throat is going faster than it should for a woman standing in her own house.
"I wasn't watching for you," she says.
"I didn't say a word."
"You don’t have to. Your face says it for you." But the corner of her mouth lifts, and her gaze sweeps from my boots to my collar and back. I rock on my heels and give her all the time she needs.
"You look incredible, Sunny."
A flush starts at her chest and climbs. She lifts her chin and squares her shoulders, something I’m starting to recognize as a defensive response when something slips past her guard. "It's just a dress."
"It's a hell of a dress." I hold out the bouquet. "These are for you."
Sunny takes the flowers and lifts them to her nose, and the smile she gives me is genuine. "Nice touch, Hayden." She disappears inside for a moment and returns without them, locking the door behind her.
I hold out my hand. "Ready?"
Her fingers are cool against mine, and the slight tremor in them sends a surge of protectiveness through me. This woman who squared off with me in the middle of a Texas highway is nervous about dinner.
I open the truck door for her and catch the way her eyebrows lift at the gesture, surprised and pleased and trying to hide both. She climbs in and settles against the seat, smoothing the blue fabric over her knees.
The drive to Fredericksburg takes about twenty minutes, and the scenery puts on a show for us. The evening light paints everything gold and pink, stretching long shadows across the rolling pastures and turning the live oaks into dark silhouettes against the sky.
