Georgia on Her Mind(28)

I search my purse for my keys.

“Can you get inside?” Dan calls.

I wave. “Yes, thanks again.” Go on, now—I’ve had enough humiliation for one night. The white Mercedes disappears into Dan’s garage.

I find my keys, unlock the door and step inside to hear the house phone ringing. Probably Lucy. I check the clock on the stove as I answer. Eight-fifteen. And date day is over.

“Hello?”

“Macy, it’s Dylan Braun.”

My bag drops to the floor. “H-hi.”

“Are you up for some company?”

“Who?”

He laughs low. “Me.”

Yowza. My heart starts the tango. “Um, sure.”

“It’ll take me about an hour to get there. I’m in Daytona.”

“G-great.” We talk directions for a few minutes before we hang up.

With the portable dangling from my hand and my feet bolted to the kitchen floor, I figure I must be dreaming. Dylan Braun is coming to visit me. I slap the side of my face lightly. Wake up, Macy. The sting of my burned skin tells me I’m awake. Very awake.

The next hour is a blur. I remember checking the downstairs bathroom for clean hand towels and switching on a few ambient lights, but after that, I’m not sure what I did.

Suddenly I’m opening my door to Dylan Braun. “Hello.”

He’s propped against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Hi.”

“Come in, please.” I stand aside for him to pass, breathing in sandalwood and spices as he walks through the door. I feel light-headed. Sandalwood and spices. My new favorite scent.

“This is beautiful, Macy,” he says, observing my home.

“Thank you. So what brought you to Daytona?” I move to the couch.

His blue-green eyes smile at me. “Dad and I came down for Bike Week.”

“Bike week?”

He sits next to me. “We started making custom motorcycles last year. Braun Bikes. Bike Week is a good place to advertise.”

“Custom bikes. Wow.”

We fall silent and stare at each other for a few seconds.

But not at all like the silence between Austin and me during dinner.

“Coffee?” I ask, breathing in his presence.

“Sure. As long as it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble,” I say, getting up. Unless I don’t have any coffee—then it would be trouble.

From the kitchen pass-through I look out at him. He’s watching me, so I move away. His gaze makes me feel exposed and vulnerable as if he can discover all my private thoughts.

He’s such a curiosity to me. He’s a man’s man, but the kind who smiles easily and helps elderly ladies across the street. He’s athletic and competitive, yet compassionate and caring.

I look out again. He winks. I duck back into the kitchen with a shiver. Must be the sunburn. Has to be.

I reach for the coffee filters, absorbing the reality of Dylan Braun driving down from Daytona to see me. This is the perfect ending to my rotten day.

“I hope I’m not imposing on your evening, Macy,” I hear him say.

“Oh, not at all.” I peek around the door. He’s standing, shedding his jacket, moving toward the kitchen.

My knees wobble. “Good. I thought you might be on a date or something.” He boldly enters the kitchen and straddles one of the chairs as if he’s been to my house a hundred times.

“Well, I was on a date,” I admit with a laugh, reaching for the mugs that dangle from the mug tree. Dripping coffee fills the kitchen with the aroma of hazelnuts.

He stiffens. “Oh?”

I make a face. “The night ended early. He didn’t feel well.”

He relaxes with a grin. “Lucky for me.” His comments feel deep and personal.

“Let’s have coffee in the living room,” I suggest when the pot is perked. I pour the coffee, offer Dylan the remains of toffee-flavored creamer and shove the sugar bowl his way.

While we doctor our coffee, my mind swirls. Dylan, in my home. I’ve known him most of my life, but we’ve never really hung out.

Once in a while, when our moms got the families together, we played table tennis in the Braun basement or watched a movie in the Moore living room. But our high school and college social circles rarely intersected. This is a monumental moment in the life of Macy Moore. Earth-shattering. Should I call NBC, maybe Oprah?

Following me to the living room, Dylan asks, “Do you mind if I light a fire?” He motions toward the fireplace. “I’m a little cold from the ride down.”

“Not at all.” I smile and set my coffee on the end table. Frankly, Dylan Braun is all the warmth I need, but I’ll keep that as my little secret.

Dylan sets his mug next to mine, then lights the fire as if he spent every Saturday night in my living room. Whew, it’s warm in here. I fan my face with my fingers.

“So,” Dylan says when he joins me on the couch.

“So,” I echo, smiling. My gaze catches his and for a long moment it’s as if we’re the only two people on earth.

“Are you still with Casper?” Dylan asks.

I nod. “Yep, and you? Still torturing Beauty High students with math and science? Didn’t you coach track and football, too?”