Finding Kyle(8)

I curse under my breath and practically stomp around the house to the flower bed I’d just turned over, dropping the tray in frustration. When I turn around, she’s right there, giving me a big smile that does nothing to diminish the fullness of her lips. “Need some help?”

“I’m good,” I mutter as I pull the tray out of her hands and drop it beside the other one.

I start to brush past her, but she steps into my path and I come up short.

“I’m Jane Cresson,” she says as she sticks out her hand. “Thought I’d introduce myself since we’re neighbors.”

My eyes flick down to her hand before coming back up again, but the only thing I give her is my name. “Kyle.”

“Well, pleased to finally meet you, Kyle,” she says cheerfully, and fuck… she almost emanates goddamn sunshine she’s so perky and radiant. “And actually… I came over to get my basket back from you.”

“Basket?” I ask dumbly.

“Basket,” she affirms with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “The one I left on your doorstep eons ago with homemade muffins. I’m sure you remember.”

Yeah, I remember them. The miniature assault weapons.

“So I’d like to get it back if you don’t mind,” she prods me gently. “And then, I don’t know… maybe you could ask me out to dinner or something?”

My entire body jerks. I blink at her several times, trying to figure out if I just heard what I thought I did. “I’m sorry… what?”

“Well, you know,” she says as she clasps her hands in front of her and looks at me sweetly. “I made you homemade treats to welcome you, and I thought you could thank me by taking me out to dinner. Or just coffee would be fine, too.”

“I’m not following,” I say, my mind actually reeling with the thought that she’s essentially asking me out by goading me into asking her out.

Jane grins at me. “What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.”

I just blink at her.

“Cool Hand Luke, 1967,” she says as she waits for me to recognize the movie line.

I ignore her attempt to win me over with her personality and cute-as-fuck quote of a very appropriate movie line by moving past her to head back to my truck. “Sorry. Not going to take you out to dinner. Or coffee.”

If I thought that would put her off, I was sorely mistaken. She falls into step beside me as I walk, and Christ… I can smell her perfume. The scent totally fits her. It smells like coastal sunshine… salt air and sweet coconut oil.

“Well, I thought you might say that,” she says slyly, and I don’t dare look at her. Instead, I reach into my truck and pull out another flat of flowers. She does the same, and we both turn back to the cottage. “So I’m inviting you to dinner at my place tonight. I’m making a pot roast.”

“No thanks,” I mutter even as my stomach gives a slight grumble. I haven’t had a decent meal since I’ve come here because I can’t cook worth a fuck and I’ve not really ventured out much.

“Dinner’s at seven,” she says firmly.

I turn to her and glare. “I said… no thanks.”

She beams that smile at me, and I note her teeth are white and her lips a delicate shade of pink.

Fuck… when did I start noticing or even caring about those things?

Jane steps into me, her smile still wide and dazzling. She leans up on her tiptoes and whispers, “This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Casablanca, 1942.”

Goddamn it, she’s cute. That makes her seriously dangerous to a man like me.

Taking a step back—for her preservation or mine, I’m not sure—I ask, “What’s up with the movie quotes?”

She shrugs. “Just a hobby. I love movies. Some I love so much that I watch them over and over again, so I tend to memorize lines.”

“Well, Houston,” I drawl as I narrow my eyes and give her my fiercest glare. “We have a problem. I’m not coming to dinner. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a fuck of a lot to do today and I’d like to get back to work.”

“Sure,” she says sweetly with a nod of her head. “But dinner’s at seven. Hope to see you then.”

I growl low in my throat but don’t respond to her. Instead, I toss the flat of flowers down and stalk to the side door of my cottage that leads into the small laundry room. It’s just easier to leave the battlefield than continue to engage with her. I’ll finish planting when I’m assured she’s gone.

?

A soft knock at my door has me tensing up, and I close the book I’m reading. The prior caretaker had a pretty good collection of classics that he left here, and I’ve been reading them in the evenings. Tonight, I’m doing a re-read of Call of the Wild because it was my favorite in high school.

Setting the book down on the cushion beside me, I glance at the clock on the wall that sits adjacent to the fireplace.

Eight-thirty.

Leaning forward, I reach under the couch and grab my Ruger 9mm pistol, but I don’t make a move from my seat. I listen and wait.

After a few minutes, with not another knock sounding, I push off the couch and go to my front door. I always leave the porch light on. As I pull the curtain away, I don’t see anyone.