Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(12)

And I want her.

Excitement begins to bubble in my stomach as I consider how to play my cards. I can’t play them too fast, because something tells me there’s a slight chance she’d back away. But if I play them too slow, there might be an opening for some other prick to get his foot in the door.

Or worse.

My teeth grind together.

The idea of her saying yes to someone else before she says yes to me is mildly irritating. As I ponder the vision of another guy’s hand wrapped around her waist—before me or not—my jaw clenches harder.

The realization is uncomfortable.

“Let’s calm down,” I tell myself. “No need to get all out of whack because a girl is playing hard to get.”

The words sound so easy when I say them aloud. The feeling doesn’t translate into my body. My brain offers possibility after possibility as to how I can see her again. My body constantly moves—to the stairs, to my truck, to the little bed of flowers near Lorene’s door—as if it’s staying limber for some kind of pursuit. My fingers itch to dig into something . . . that’s not the phone ringing in my pocket.

With a frustrated sigh, I grab it and bring it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Where are ya at?” Matt asks.

“Lorene’s.”

“Lorene? Like Lorene from the Dogwood Inn? How’d that happen?”

I grab a seat on a step. My leg bounces as I stare off across the field. “I ran into her this morning at Harper’s. She said she fell because her step was busted, so I thought I’d run by and fix it.”

“You taking side jobs already?” he jokes.

“Nah. It’s just if I didn’t come fix it, she would’ve fallen again, and I would’ve blamed myself. Plus, I didn’t have a lot to do today.”

Matt makes a noise like he understands. “How old is she these days? She has to be almost a hundred.”

“She said she was ninety. But she still drives herself around and tried to repair this damn step with a brick, so she’s doing okay.”

“Does she still run that inn alone?” he asks. “I was thinking her family lives out of state or something. She can’t possibly do all that on her own, can she?”

“What do I look like? Lorene’s historian? I just saw her at Harper’s and heard her step was broken. That’s all I know.”

Matt starts to say something but stops. He takes a breath and starts again. “You know, I’ve always wanted to own that place. Ever since I was a little kid. I’d—”

“Hey,” I say, cutting him off. “This is pillow talk or some shit, and we aren’t fucking.”

Matt laughs. “You’re a jerk.”

“No, I’m not. I just don’t want to hear about your hopes and dreams. Go tell ’em to whoever you’re fucking these days.” I pause. I rack my brain as to whom Matt has been spending his time with but come up empty-handed. “Who are you fucking these days, anyway?”

The phone rustles on the other side. Matt coughs and then grumbles before the phone rustles again.

“No one, really,” he says finally. “I was supposed to take Brittney Blevins out last weekend, but with my busted spleen and all . . .”

“I still can’t believe you are that injured,” I deadpan.

“Penn, I fell off a fucking ladder.”

I can’t help but grin. “A ladder that was four foot high. I mean, come on, Matt. You—”

“I landed on a sawhorse. I’m lucky I didn’t die.”

“Pussy,” I tease.

“I was pissing blood, Etling.”

It’s true, and I almost feel bad for giving him shit. But if I didn’t, he’d think something was wrong. And . . . it was four foot high. I told him to rub some dirt on it and call it a day, but Dane hauled him to the hospital instead. It’s one of the times in my life that I’m glad no one listened to me.

“For the record, I’m glad you didn’t die,” I say, getting to my feet.

He chuckles. “Gee, thanks. But I would be a lot more touched by your sentiments if I thought it was for my well-being and not just so you didn’t have to pick up the slack at work.”

“Can you imagine if Dane hired someone to replace you? I couldn’t work with anyone else.”

“Because no one else would put up with your shit.”

“True. Now, did you call me for anything in particular, or am I good to get on with my life?”

“Yes, actually. I did call for a reason.”

I flick a piece of wood off my jeans. “Which was . . .”

“I’m bored. Want to meet me at Mucker’s tonight?”

I grin at the opening he just handed me.

We meet at Mucker’s more nights of the week than we don’t. It’s a routine, a habit we’ve grown accustomed to over the years. Matt has bowed out a lot recently due to his “injury,” but giving me the heads-up that he’s ready to enjoy a beer green-lights me to get some help where I need it.

“Sure,” I say, “if you want to help with The Meredith Project.”

Matt chuckles. “I heard you already committed. I’d hate to take that away from you.”

“Oh, you would not.”