The Love Series Complete Box Set (134 page)

“How old are you, anyway?”

“It had nothing to do with . . .”

We both speak at the same time, our words running together.

He scrubs his hand over his stubbled jaw and I notice slight traces of grey there. Pulling my eyes up to his hairline, I notice some grey there too—streaking at his temple, but nowhere else, really. He’s got the whole ‘George Clooney’ look going for him. A silver fox as Linda would call it.

“I’m fifty two.” He scans my face for some kind of reaction, but the only one he’ll find there is surprise.

“That’s pretty young to be retired.”

“Yeah, it is, but I didn’t have a choice.” The tension in his words suggests I’ve touched on a sore topic; one he apparently doesn’t want to get into.

When he doesn’t say anything right away, I walk over to the small coat room at the back of the kitchen. Gathering my things, I take a deep breath and wish I could rewind the last ten minutes. Me and my big mouth. Just because we flirted a few times tonight doesn’t give me the right to dive into his personal life. Though, he did dive into mine. How’d this get so complicated?

When I re-enter the kitchen, Evan is still leaning up against the counter, a tormented look plastered to his face.

“All right, I’m going to go.” I make no mention of what’s supposed to be our date slash cooking lesson next week. If he wants to do it, then I’ll let him be the one to mention it. Just as I’m at the arched entryway of the kitchen, his low voice calls me back into the room.

“It wasn’t my shoulder. It was my lungs.” I stop in my tracks and turn on my heel.

“What?”

“I was on medical leave for my lungs. I had cancer, and even though it was in remission, I couldn’t be on the job full time. The medical office made me take leave while they ran some more tests.” His words sound rehearsed, as if he’s had them prepared for a long time − maybe since he saw me earlier.

“Cancer? Oh, God, Evan. I had no idea.” My hand covers my mouth, as if it will cover my concern.

He sits at the small kitchen table and I sit next to him. My hand immediately falls to his leg, a simple gesture of sympathy that catches him off-guard.

“I never meant to lie to you about it. It’s just that I really had no intention of retiring. But when the tests came back, I didn’t have a choice.” Before his hand falls to cover mine, he rakes it through his hair roughly then across his face. “It was from 9/11,” he adds quickly, as if he’s trying to erase the memory.

“Evan . . .” I gasp and my words stick in my throat.

“I wasn’t there when it happened, but I was at Ground Zero a lot in the months that followed. All that shit got into my lungs, and now I don’t have enough lung capacity, even after all the cancer was gone, to stay on the job. I got the results after Becca’s funeral. When I told Joe about it, he joked that I should move up here with him. The idea of being alone no longer had the same appeal as it did when I was younger, so I took him up on the offer and here I am.”

We both must have forgotten that my hand is on his leg because we both look at it at the same time. Just as I’m about to pull it away, he takes my hand in his. It’s calloused and rough, large and warm. He strokes his thumb over my wrist, a simple gesture that sets my heart beating like crazy.

“When you brought it up, you caught me by surprise. I would have told you next week. I promise.” Something about the way he just said the word promise lets me know that he’s serious.

“So then, we’re still on for our . . .” I stumble over my words, not knowing what he considers it before settling on “cooking lesson?”

“It’s a date. Unless you’d rather eat microwave dinners forever?” He’s still holding my hand. My heart’s still racing. And when he winks at me, it crashes into my ribs.

We sit there for a few more moments; the silence no longer tense and awkward. “Well, I should get going. It’s kind of late.”

“I’ll walk you out.” He lets me walk in front of him, through the living room where Joe is lightly snoring.

Before opening the door and letting the cold February air blast us with its chill, Evan leans up against the frame. “I’m glad you could make it tonight.” His words are sincere and honest. They’re a far cry from the defensiveness and anger that was there just a few minutes ago when I asked him about his shoulder.

“Thank you for having me. And thank you for sharing your story with me. It was rude of me to bring it up. I really didn’t mean to upset you,” I ramble.

He shakes his head and chuckles lightly. “Lucy, I laid into you about the soap you buy to remind you of your late husband, yet
you’re
apologizing for being rude? Please, if anyone is in the wrong, it’s me.”

I don’t know what to say to that; his honesty disarms me in a way I never knew possible. He looks behind me, out the front window. “It’s starting to snow. I should drive you in case the roads get bad.”

“I’ve driven in worse. I’ll be fine.” Pulling on my jacket and gloves, he still looks uneasy about letting me drive myself home. “Seriously, Evan, I’ll be fine.”

“Can you at least let me know that you got home okay? Call me? Or text me even?”

“I will. I promise.” I secure the last button and wrap my scarf around my neck. “Goodnight, Evan.”

“Night, Lucy.” His eyes twinkle like the stars in the clear but still-snowing sky. Before I can even realize what he’s doing, he leans down and plants an innocent kiss on my cheek.

When I arrive home, my skin is still buzzing where Evan’s lips were. I even consider not washing my face before going to bed, wanting to ghost my fingers over the same spot he kissed knowing some essence of his lips is still there. My God, his lips—they are the perfect combination of soft and firm, sweet and rough. I try to convince myself that my heated reaction is because I haven’t been kissed in forever, but that’s definitely not the case.

Not wanting to make him worry any longer, I text him the second I walk in the door.

His reply is immediate.

OK.

I said immediate, not poetic. Brushing away my irrational thoughts, I take off my jacket and lock the door behind me. Heading up the stairs to my room, my phone buzzes in my hand.

Sorry. Was getting out of the shower. Glad you made it home okay. Can’t wait ’til next week.

My mind is suddenly flooded with images of Evan’s muscles dotted with water, a towel secured tightly at his waist. My mouth goes dry at that thought—then my conscience weighs in, telling me I’m crazy to be thinking those things.

Brushing thoughts of a just-showered Evan out of my mind, I type back a quick response before getting ready for bed.

Me too. Meet you there at 5? What are we making?

5 it is. And it’s a surprise ;) G’nite, Lucy.

I can’t help the dorky smile that spreads across my face thinking about Evan texting me a winky face. Unable to let it go, I joke in my response.

Did you just winky face me?

I guess I did. You can blame Katie for that ;)

That bit of information, that he’s close enough with his college-aged niece to text her, makes my heart warm to him even more.

I think it’s cute, so I’ll thank her rather than blame her. Going to bed now. Nite, Evan.

Nite. Sweet dreams.

Smiling goofily, I can’t resist the bait. I quickly type out,

Is that more of Katie’s influence showing?

Again, his response is immediate and I wonder if he’s smiling like a fool at the thought of texting back and forth at ten at night.

Nope, that one was all me. See you Friday.

I fall asleep easily—thoughts of Evan and our upcoming date lulling me away into a vivid dreamland of which I never thought I would ever have the chance to experience.

Chapter Eleven

February 8, 2013

Parked outside of Wegman’s at ten to five on Friday afternoon, scanning the lot for Lucy’s white Corolla, makes me feel more like a stalker than a guy waiting to go food shopping. Shaking away the crazy, I see her pull into the lot and a bubble of excitement fills my chest.

I haven’t had a date—if this is even considered that—in forever.

She pulls down my row and catches sight of my truck. She waves as she pulls into the spot next to me. I get out of my truck, wanting to at least be a gentleman and open her door for her. Luckily, the snow that fell last week has all been washed away because I’d hate to see her have to navigate through the slush in those heels.

Okay, I have a thing for legs and it’s impossible to miss hers as she steps out of her car. They’re sleek and athletic, but fucking sexy as sin. Lost in my gaze, I imagine running my fingertips up her thighs as she curls her calves around my waist.

“Hi,” I croak, pushing my erotic musings aside for a bit. I keep it simple − manage not to sound like an idiot. Like last week.

“Hi to you, too.” Her smile is just so bright and warm that I can’t help but smile back.

The snow may have been washed away, but it’s still colder than fuck out here. We walk against the wind into the store. I grab a cart and we fall in step like we’ve been shopping together many times before.

“So . . .” Her words are tinged with a bit of awkwardness and unease.

We round the corner of the produce section and I head toward the salad. “So I thought we would start with a salad. You seemed to be able to handle that last week.” I nudge her arm with my elbow and the unease is gone.

“Wise ass.” She elbows me back and grabs a few items, placing them in the top basket of the cart. “Yes, I can make a salad; usually, I just get the kind in the bag. What else is on the menu?” she asks casually, but it almost sounds like she’s a bit nervous.

“I figured we could start out with something simple. Something you could make on your own, if you wanted to.” I grab a few more produce items and make my way over to grab pasta.

“How does pasta primavera with chicken francaise sound?” I toss some angel hair in the cart and she looks up at me almost terrified.

“Sounds like it’s perfect for me to screw up,” she jokes and scrunches her face at me.

“Don’t worry. I’m a good teacher. I won’t let you mess it up.” Her face relaxes a little and we make our way through the rest of the market.

As she fills me in on the project she was just recently assigned at work, she talks animatedly, clearly excited about the prospect of helping kids. Unfortunately, I can’t contribute much to the work topic.

“Are you all settled in your new place?” she asks as we approach the checkout.

“Pretty much. Got a few pieces of furniture delivered this week so I’m mostly set now.” Another topic that I don’t have much to contribute to. Unless me describing my white-walled and bare condo has recently been added to the list of really exciting things to talk about.

She offers to pay, which of course I refuse. “Thank you, Evan,” she finally concedes as we walk back out into the lot. She tells me to follow her to her house and I do, committing the directions to memory on the way.

On the short drive to her place, I give myself the mental pep talk that I obviously need. I want tonight to go well. Despite all the talk of dead husbands and lung cancer last week, it seemed to me like we hit it off. That doesn’t mean she felt that way and the nervousness with which things started out at the grocery store would suggest that maybe she doesn’t feel like things are going well at all.

She pulls into her garage in front of me, the automatic door sliding up a bit unevenly—looks like it could use a few tweaks to make it work more smoothly. But despite that, even from the driveway, I can tell her house is a home. The soft green siding is offset by black shutters, and even in the winter, there are a few small bushes to keep the front garden looking inviting and well maintained.

She walks out of the garage and steps in front of me as we make our way up the front steps. After unlocking the door, she holds it opened for me as I walk past her, my hands filled with the bags of groceries.

“Kitchen’s right through there,” she directs me and hangs her coat up. The kitchen is small and perhaps a little outdated, but after cooking in restaurant grade firehouse kitchens for the last twenty plus years, even I can admit that I’m a bit spoiled.

“Can I take your jacket? Get you something to drink?”

“Yes and yes. Thanks, Lucy.”

I unload the groceries and poke my head into the pantry to pull out some spices and a few staples that I assumed she would have.

“Here you go.” She slides a beer over to me.