Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(14)

“Yup. That’s why I opt out.” I blow out a breath. “If you start talking to people, you end up knowing shit about them that they expect you to remember. I’m okay with that on some . . . trivial level. Like, I know you prefer diesel engines over gasoline. I know that. Why I know that, I don’t know, but I do. And here’s the thing: you don’t expect me to know that. You aren’t pissed if I don’t.”

“Because we aren’t dating.”

“Exactly.”

I wait for his response, but he’s silent. I think he thinks he proved his point. A part of me thinks I should explain how his “Because we aren’t dating” actually proves mine, but I let it go.

“I’m trying to decide if you have daddy issues or mommy issues,” he says cheekily.

“I have both. Clearly. You’ve met my parents.”

“I have, and I still like you. What’s that say about me?” he asks.

“That you’re dumb. We already knew that.”

“Possibly so. But at least I keep my dates straight.”

Just like that, Avery’s plump lips pop back into my mind. “So, you have nothing on an Avery?”

He sighs. “No. I don’t. Where’s this coming from, anyway?”

“I met a girl this morning at Harper’s when I went to get my hair cut. She’s Harper’s niece. She’s working there now, I guess, and . . . I feel like I know her.”

I think back to her eyes and how familiar they are. And how her smile put me at ease like only my closest friends can do. There’s also the zing to her touch and the way it feels so . . . right. Like a piece to a puzzle has been snapped into place, but I can’t figure out why. It’s so weird.

“Do you?” he asks. “Do you know her?”

I pause. “Do you think you know me?” The way she asked me that has stuck with me, but I don’t know what it means. I can’t place her for the life of me.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be wondering, genius,” I say.

The words are gruffer than I intend for them to be, and Matt picks up on it. It’s one of the nice things about being friends with someone for as long as you can remember—they know stuff, and unlike me, he wants to remember it.

“Maybe you do,” he offers. “Maybe you just need some time to think about it.”

I think back to her hands in my hair. I remember her smile and the way the sun made her dark hair look like it was glowing. The way her eyes were intelligent and assessing with a hint of playfulness that drew me in like a hook. It sends a burst of energy through my veins again. It’s exciting . . . probably because I don’t know her.

“No,” I admit. “It’s probably just because she’s new, you know? That, or she’s reminding me of someone else.”

Matt takes a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to give you a piece of advice, and then I’m going.”

“Fine. Shoot.”

“Don’t tell her you think you know her. She’ll think you’re really thinking about someone else, and that’s never, ever a good idea.”

I pop open my truck door and climb inside the cab. “For a dumbass, you’re pretty smart.”

“Thanks. I think.”

I grin. “Mucker’s at six?”

“Yup.”

“See ya there.”





CHAPTER SIX

AVERY

Well, what did you think?” Harper flops onto the sofa. Fresh from a shower, her hair is twisted up in a towel, and her body is clad in a set of pajamas.

I’m no better. I came home—Harper’s, for the time being—and changed into a pair of fleece pants and a T-shirt.

“Today was actually really good,” I say from the recliner. “Do you know how long it’s been since I actually enjoyed a day at work? A long damn time.”

It was enjoyable. It’s a novel concept to wake up and go about a day and not hate everything about it. My work was fun and low drama; getting to and from the shop was effortless. And the people—they were amazing.

Everyone was so incredibly nice. I was invited to more get-togethers, Sunday dinners, and church services than I can keep straight. I know what to order at the Dogwood Café and Mucker’s—the only two places where you can get food in this town—and to never buy the coffee at the gas station. Someone even gave me a casserole recipe.

It’s amazing how different life can be if you aren’t surrounded by hedonists. I’m a fan.

“I’ll admit that I was shocked at how busy we were,” I say. “I expected about half that.”

“Yeah, well, most days it is about half that.” She yawns. “You just might be the shot of energy Hometown Hair needed.”

She closes her eyes. Her hand stills on her stomach, and I’m not sure if she’s asleep.

I flip off the television. Silence descends on us immediately.

Sitting on the edge of town, Harper’s little white house is about a half mile from her closest neighbor. There are ferns in hanging baskets on the front porch and a whiskey barrel that catches the water from the downspout on the side of the house. The only thing missing from making it the ideal home is the lack of cookies baking in the kitchen because, like me, Harper doesn’t cook.