Ruin Me (15 page)

He sits down opposite me, offering snatches of eye contact. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah, wonderful.”

“Good.”

I stir my oatmeal and clear my throat. Patrick seems cagey.

“I’m really happy about last night,” I say, before I can chicken out.

“Me too.” Not cagey—shy. He measures a spoonful of syrup and mixes it into his bowl.

“I used some of your industrial-strength hand cream. I hope my face doesn’t look all shiny.”

He glances up at me. “Your face looks fine. You look pretty.”

“Oh. Good.”

“You can bring stuff over, though, if that’s what you’re getting at. I know I’m kind of…” He looks around the room, as though the right adjective might be sitting on one of his half-empty shelves. “You know.”

“Tidy?”

He nods. “I wouldn’t mind if you kept stuff here though.” I catch him swallow and blush just the tiniest bit.

“Thanks. Maybe I will.”

He nods again.

We eat in silence for a couple minutes then Patrick speaks.

“Sorry. I’m not great at knowing what to say. You know, after last night. I don’t take people home very often.”

“I suppose Dereham’s not exactly a teaming hotbed of sexy single ladies,” I offer.

He smiles into his bowl.

“Well, if you’re worried about what to say, you can just let me be an obnoxious, pushy girl and I’ll get way ahead of myself and start theorizing about our future together.” I grin at him.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Well,” I say, “I’ll start by trying to figure out a really emotionally charged Christmas present to get you. One that’ll make you feel really uncomfortable and pressured. Like a piece of man jewelry. With a way-too-earnest engraving.”

“You’re cute, Robin, but I’m already in love with you. I know you’re kidding, but you can’t scare me off, even with jewelry.”

“Cleavage tattoo?” I scrawl my finger across my décolletage, tracing his name in invisible script.

He smiles and scrapes the edges of his bowl clean.

“I guess if the last few weeks haven’t been enough to strike terror in your heart, there’s not much else I can do,” I say.

He shakes his head.

“Then I’ll go ahead and theorize for real… For starters, I’d miss you, when you’re away in New Hampshire,” I say. “Four months is a long time for a lady to go without her own personal lumberjack.”

“It doesn’t have to be that long,” Patrick says. “I only do it for the money…” He trails off, some heavy thought weighing down the corners of his mouth.

“What?”

“My mom,” he says. “I do it mainly because my mom’s off her nut, and someday I’m going to have to move her into a home or something. A decent one.”

I nod and reach across the table to touch his wrist under the cuff of his scratchy sweater.

“But I have plenty of savings,” he says. “I don’t have to do as much logging as I do.”

“I wouldn’t mind driving up to visit on weekends,” I say.

“Maybe. Maybe we could throw a cap on the truck and go camping.”

I laugh. “Wow, listen to us getting all ahead of ourselves. We’re good at this.”

He smiles, staring at the table before his brown eyes dart to the microwave clock. “We should get going.”

I’m not ready to say goodbye to him. “Can I buy you a coffee, before you head to work?”

“Sure.”

We get our shoes on and I follow Patrick into town. I park in the employee lot and jog gingerly down the icy sidewalk to meet him at the Dunkin’ Donuts a half block from my shop. We get in line together, not talking, and order our coffees. We head outside and stand by a mailbox, warming our bare hands on our hot takeout cups. I toy with the little plastic latch on the lip, unsure of what I want to be saying to him.

“Maybe…” I begin.

He raises his dark eyebrows and takes a sip.

“Maybe you’d like to come by the shop this afternoon, during your lunch hour?” I ask. “We could grab something to eat at the place next door.” I hold my breath, as if I’d asked him to the junior high school prom. Funny how it’s so tough, even after all that nonsense over breakfast.

He nods, casual. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“And maybe some night next week I could bring over some food again, and we could watch a movie or something at your place.”

“Sure.”

Warmth forms in my middle, a little spark that swells to a permeating glow, spreading out until I feel flushed. This is everything that should have happened between us after he was released—frantic sex followed by a cautious courtship. I stare up at Patrick Whelan’s face and I think,
This is my man.
My body’s known it for years, screaming itself hoarse trying to get my idiot brain to accept it.

A million things won’t be simple or easy in the next few weeks, but this, right now, feels the way it should. This, right now, is effortless. It’s as easy to be with Patrick as it was impossible to stay away from him.

He clears his throat and looks at our feet. “I better head over there.”

I nod and I tap my cup against his. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Patrick pauses a second then leans in and kisses my cheek. His own cheeks are pink when he straightens back up. “I’ll see you.”

I give him a little wave and watch him cross the street. I watch my man get into his truck and slam its door, and I watch him glance at me and raise a hand before he drives off. I watch my man until he turns down Brewster Street and disappears from sight and I think,
There goes my man.

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