Page 35 of Just Ten Seconds

Taking a step toward him, I lay the papers on the counter and then place a hand on his forearm. “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

He looks at my hand on his arm and gives a beholden smile. With a kick off the counter, he walks over to the Viking refrigerator, taking out a beer and then holding it up in the air in offering to me. I decline, so he holds up a water. I nod in acceptance.

He twists off the cap and hands it to me. I take a timid drink while watching him pop off the top of an IPA. He raises it to his lips, and his Adam’s apple bobs with the swallow. He hisses through his teeth as he runs his hand over the back of his neck.

“The beach,” he says, looking back to me. “You asked about the beach. It’s where we spent her last days. It was where Amanda lived for a summer when she was six. Nicole wanted to see the ocean.”

Nicole.

It’s the first time I’ve heard the name of his late wife, and a zing waves through me. From the little I know about Dean, I know this—to be on the receiving end of his dedication is a beautiful thing. To be the woman who deserves it means she must have been extraordinary.

“That wasn’t that long ago. Amanda seems so well adjusted,” I say.

He turns back to the refrigerator, takes out a package of sausage, and closes the door. “It’s been a long few years. I credit our parents. We come from big families, and they’ve done everything to keep Amanda happy.”

“What about you?” I ask, more interested than I should be.

His brows curve in realization. “I’m better than I thought I would be at this stage.” His words are said as if he’s surprised by it. It makes him grin, and damn if it doesn’t feel like a cozy knit blanket wrapped around me on a chilly afternoon. It also makes me grip the end of my sweater.

He opens the package of sausage and starts removing the links. “So, tell me, why did you give up acting?”

I scratch my cheek. “Long story.”

“I have time.”

I push my hair away from my face and hug my arms around my body. “Theater’s fun, but it doesn’t pay the bills.”

“That wasn’t so long,” he muses.

“You’re too interested in my past.”

“I’m fascinated by you.” His comment makes my brows furrow. He holds up a spoon as he explains, “An actress from the big city who moved Upstate to wait tables and tutor little girls in theater. You’re a complex woman.”

Complex? Try one-dimensional, and the forward-facing side is me pretending to be something I’m not.

“Some might say it’s flaky. Having two lives.”

“Life is rich. It’s full of experiences that make up who we are. Life’s too short to be uncomplicated. It’s the obstacles, both the good and bad experiences, that make it worth staying here for the long haul.”

His words are deep and powerful, and I don’t think he’s trying to be. Dean might say he’s fascinated by me, but I’m wildly intrigued by him.

He adds the meat to the Dutch oven, and the sizzle is electrifying.

I turn around, taking in the large kitchen. I look up at the kitchen ceiling and the boxed-in wainscoting that lines the entire space. “Have you always enjoyed building?”

A deep rumble sounds from his throat. “I was, for lack of a better word, a slacker in school. It wasn’t my thing. It should have been, but I ran with a crowd that didn’t exactly follow the rules. Or the law, for that matter. When I was fourteen, I was arrested for graffiti. See this spoon?” He lifts the wooden spoon he’s cooking with. “My mother rapped me with this so hard. Then, she made me spend the summer working with my uncle, taping Sheetrock. I learned pretty early on that I was good with my hands. My uncle hired me after school and on weekends to keep me out of trouble. By the time I was a senior, I was framing houses. Working for my family was the best education I could get. I started my own business when I was twenty-six, and now, my uncle works for me.”

“Does your family live around here?”

“No. They’re in the Bronx. I came up here, looking for land to build on. Found this property about three years ago, before Nicole got sick. It sat vacant for a while until I got my head on straight. Built this house this spring as a model and moved Amanda up here over the summer. It’s part of our new chapter.”

“It’s a good chapter.” A smile lifts my lips.

“It is.” He returns it, and my heart races at the sight of those creases at the sides.

Men with dimples are kinda my weakness.

I walk around the kitchen table and loop back toward where he’s cooking. The wood cabinets are painted a bright white, and the marble countertops have nothing on top. The walls are free of paintings, and the only decoration is a black metal chandelier over the kitchen table.