Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(50)

I read somewhere once that “flow” is a psychological state that means you’re in the zone, fully immersed with both involvement and enjoyment in an activity. It’s not an easy frame of mind to get into, and a lot of people never do. I don’t unless I’m drawing or sketching or painting. Even doing hair doesn’t get me there, so being able to bust out my sketch pad daily is a dream come true.

“How long have I been sitting here?” I ask. The last things I remember are Matt bringing Penn and me sandwiches, and then Matt leaving and saying goodbye. I have no idea how long ago that was.

Penn looks at his phone. “About five hours.”

“Crap.” I get to my feet, my back and bottom yelping from sitting on the concrete floor. “Why didn’t you get me up?”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” he cracks. “Kidding. I did try to get you up. I even did a striptease over there, and you weren’t interested.”

Now I know he’s lying.

I work my shoulder around, trying to stop the pinch that’s burning inside it. Penn tidies up the area he was working in. Tool cords get wrapped up and sawdust swept into a neat little pile and then tossed into a makeshift trash can.

For all the hell he catches from Matt, he seems to be a hard worker. He barely took a break as far as I can tell, and by the looks of the wood laid out in squares on the floor, he seems to have gotten a lot done—even more so when you figure that he sent Matt off with Meredith and then sent him for lunch. I think he’s taking it easy on his friend, even though I’m sure he’d never admit it.

The sketch in my hand is more final. Dogwood trees will stand on either end of the wall, their branches draping over the top. The lake will be featured front and center, along with other local favorites. I even worked in the bright-yellow sign that welcomes you into town. Still, there are a few more spots that need to be filled, and I’m not familiar enough with the area to know what to add.

I look up at Penn. “Hey.”

He holds a tape measure with the end sticking up in the air. “Were you admiring my eight inches?”

I snort but secretly find his ridiculousness adorable. “Um, no. I had no idea you were holding eight inches.”

“Oh, you thought I meant this was eight inches . . .” He clicks a button, and the tape rolls back into the device. “Clearly you haven’t had much exposure to the difference in what an inch or two can do. What’s up?”

I laugh. Minor flirting, my ass.

“What do you think of when you think of Dogwood Lane? Since you know it better than me. I have a couple of spaces to fill on the sketch, and I’m not sure what to put.”

He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. “The lake, for sure, but you’ve got that. The old cannon in the park. Everyone in town has had their picture taken riding that thing at some point or other.” He grins. “The train trestle on the far end of town. It goes across the creek that feeds the lake.”

I scribble down his ideas. He goes back to cleaning up.

An idea comes to me slowly, more in feelings than in images. I watch Penn move around the room and notice how careful he is about everything he does. It’s not what I expected. At all. Come to think of it, he’s not what I really expected him to be, and I don’t know what to make of that.

I flush.

“Hey,” I say again.

“Are you bored or something?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you keep saying ‘Hey.’”

I slip my pad back in my bag and hoist it on my shoulder. “Forget it.”

“No. Tell me.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“Ave . . .”

“Stop calling me ‘Ave,’ by the way.” I don’t really mind the nickname, but I’m sort of embarrassed that he thinks I was pestering him.

He rolls his eyes, not taking me seriously at all. “Tell me now.”

“I don’t like being told what to do.”

He looks at the ceiling. “Fine. Please tell me what you were going to tell me.”

The way he says it is downright adorable. It’s a tongue-in-cheek, “I’m trying so hard to play your game” kind of way that makes me grin.

“I was going to see if you had plans tonight, but—”

“I don’t.” He says it immediately without even letting me finish. “I’m free.”

My stomach twists. I sort of just spewed this whole thing without really thinking about it, and now that he’s free, I realize what I might’ve gotten myself into. Not that spending time with Penn is a bad thing at all. It’s quite the opposite.

“Well,” I say, trying to settle my heartbeat, “I was wondering if this was an okay time for me to cash in my ticket?”

A look of pure bewilderment is slowly replaced with complete shock. “You mean to tell me that is gonna work?”

“It probably wouldn’t have except for the fact that I happen to need some help from someone who knows their way around.”

“Fuck, yeah. Let’s go.”

“Now?” I ask.

“You just asked me if right now is a bad time, and now you’re acting surprised that I’m—”

“No, you’re right,” I say, brushing an errant lock of hair out of my face. “I’m sorry. Yes. Now.”