Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(41)

His kiss was spectacular, being he has plenty of practice, Avery.

But it’s more than the kiss that has me a mess. It’s more than the feel of his body against mine. It’s the genuine interest in my answers to his questions and the patience he has while he waits for them. It’s the feeling in my stomach when he looks at me. It’s the way he invited me to sit with him and Matt at Mucker’s and the inclusion I felt with him and Matt and Claire.

It’s all that. And I’m afraid it’s gone.

I pull my arm out of the water. It burns instantly.

“Shit.”

Back in it goes as I inspect it for visible damage. Just as I start to get a good look, something raps the kitchen door. I peek around the corner to see a shadow of a person through the white curtain.

“I’m coming.” I push the lever to off and try to find a towel to dry my arm. “Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

Stopping in the middle of the kitchen, arm dripping with water, I look at the door at Penn’s shadow. My head swirls with confusion. Why is he here? Is he looking for Harper?

“Harper isn’t here,” I call out.

“I know. I came to see you.”

Oh, so that’s what that text I got a bit ago from Harper was all about.

Damn her.

His response is so matter of fact, like he routinely swings by the house to see me, that it drives me a little crazy. A part of me doesn’t want to see him. The only way I got away from the library without talking to him again was by immersing myself in a conversation with Meredith.

Why would he want to see me now, anyway?

“Ugh,” I say, shaking the water droplets from my arm. “What do you want?”

“Can we talk without a closed door in between us?”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary.”

The shadow moves. From the looks of it, he’s laughing. It makes me grin.

“Just let me in, Ave,” he says.

“I . . . Why?” It’s almost a whine, a plea not to do this.

Clearly, the reasoning I used to justify kissing Penn didn’t work. One could even say it was an excuse. Maybe it was. But now it’s happened, done and apparently not over yet, and I have to deal with it, and I don’t want to.

Why can’t I be forced to deal with other things instead? Like a box of chocolates or a trip to Greece?

I make my way slowly toward the door in the hope that he’ll be gone by the time I get there.

“Fine,” he says. “We can have this conversation through a door if you’d like, but I really thought that you—”

I jerk the door open. His eyes go wide for a split second before a smile slips across the lips I just touched with my own.

“I’m kind of busy,” I say.

He tries to keep a serious look on his face. It’s ridiculous to watch, and also kind of charming, but I attempt just as hard to look neutral.

“Doing what?” he asks.

“I was making dinner. And burning myself.” I look down at my arm. “That really freaking hurts.”

A red blotch lies halfway between my palm and my elbow. Heat pours out of it like the grease is still somehow there, even though I know it’s not.

Penn reaches for my arm, but I yank it away.

“Let’s not,” I say. When his eyes crinkle with mirth, I look away. “So, door is open. What do you want?”

“I brought you something.”

He bends down and picks up a tackle box. It’s red and plastic and looks like the one every country boy has in the movies.

“Thanks.” It’s more of a question than a statement as I watch him hold out the box. I take it. It’s heavier than I anticipate. “You brought me fishing supplies. How . . . nice.”

He rolls his eyes. “No. I didn’t just bring you fishing supplies. Open it.”

There’s nowhere to set it unless I use the kitchen table. And if I do that, I’ll have to let him in.

I glance up at him only to realize that he knows this. It’s the smirk that gives him away.

“Fine,” I say. “Come on in.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I say as I turn around.

I set the box on the table. Penn closes the door and then walks to the other side of the table so he’s facing me. Instead of opening it, I take a step away.

“Why did you bring me this?” I ask.

His brows pull together. “What kind of question is that?”

“What do you mean, ‘What kind of question is that?’ It’s a question I want you to answer.”

He bites his bottom lip, probably to keep from smiling.

“What?” I ask. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Smiling.”

“I’m not,” he says as his face splits into a wide grin. “I mean, I wasn’t. Now I am.”

I blow out a breath, unnerved by this whole thing. There’s a chair pulled out beside me, so I sit. He follows suit.

We watch each other from the safety of our sides of the table. I search his eyes for some sign of what this is all about.

“Not that I don’t love staring at you, but will you just open the damn box?” he asks.