Tumble (Dogwood Lane #1)(6)

Tossing my shoulders back, I shrug. “It’s hard to remember after all these years. You’ve kind of faded from my mind.” Lies, lies. All lies.

We stand eye to eye, our chests rising and falling in time. I need to leave. I need fresh, un-Dane-scented air. But if I do, he may misinterpret it, and I refuse to let him have the upper hand.

“You married?” he asks nonchalantly, but there’s a hint of deception in his eyes. He’s bracing himself for my reaction, knowing, or at least suspecting, his tiptoe into these waters won’t be met with grace.

He’d be right.

A bucket of cold water douses the warmth of the moment, and I shiver. My guard comes up and locks into place. “I think the real question is, are you?”

“Nope. Never been married.”

My eyes grow wide before I can catch them. Why that answer surprises me I don’t know, and before I can think about it too much, I change the topic.

“Nice shiner you got there,” I note, nodding toward his eye.

“If I told you how I got this, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“That’s a fact,” I tell him. Biting my lip to suppress the tangent I’m about to go on, about how I wouldn’t believe much at face value with him, I give up. It’s time to go. “You know what? I gotta go. Thanks for the coffee.”

“I know you think back then, before you left, that I . . . that things . . .” He removes his hat and roughs a hand through his hair. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” He drops his hand, his jaw set.

“You’re right,” I say, my mouth hot as I gulp in a steadying breath of air. “It doesn’t matter. Good to see you, Dane. Take care.” I tip my coffee toward him.

He doesn’t move as I step around him toward the door. He doesn’t call out as my palm grips the handle and twists it. He doesn’t follow me as I walk by the windows toward my car with a step quicker than can be explained as natural.

He also doesn’t stop watching me, because his gaze burns a hole in my profile.

It’s the second time he’s burned me. It’ll be the last.





CHAPTER THREE

DANE

Splat!

The sound of the hammer—swung with more force than was necessary, to boot—crushing my thumb ricochets across the front lawn. The tool falls from my hand, striking against the sawhorse, and flips into the soft grass with a gentle thud.

“Son of a . . . Shit!” My hand shakes, the top of my thumb threatening to explode. I tilt my head to the sky and try to find some peace in the clouds.

I come up empty.

“Matt!” I call to my younger brother. “I’m taking ten.”

He nods from halfway up the ladder leaned against the side of the house.

Wrapping my good hand around my thumb, I head toward my truck. Sounds of construction ring out behind me. It’s usually music to my ears, the lifeblood of the Madden name. But each cut of a sawblade, buzz of a power drill, and swing of a hammer feels like a distraction this morning. I have a throbbing thumb to show for it.

Beads of sweat cluster along my forehead. I remove my hat with my good hand and run the back of my forearm along my brow.

“Damn it.” Everything feels sticky. Mildly irritating. And the progress on the project that usually energizes me has failed me epically this morning. I just don’t want to be here. Not that I have a better place to be. Quite frankly, I have a lot of places I shouldn’t be, and with Neely, or thinking about Neely, is one of them.

I would’ve recognized her anywhere. Same gray eyes that glimmer like she’s about to tell you a secret. Full lips that spread into a smile so infectious you can’t help but feel your own mouth following suit. The hint of floral perfume, the golden hair that may as well be silk, and the aura about her that’s just as strong as the day she left Dogwood Lane and me—it’s all the same. It’s like time forgot to age her. She somehow has become more beautiful, sexier, stronger.

The world hates me. I’ve postulated this for a long time, but it’s obvious today.

The tailgate of my truck lowers. I scoop a handful of ice from the cooler in the bed into a bandanna and wrap it around my injured digit. The relief lasts only a few moments.

“What are you doing down here?” Penn rests his forearms over the side of the truck, the tattoos carved in his skin like mini masterpieces on full display. He eyes my makeshift bandage. “What happened to you?”

“Hammer,” I groan, adjusting the ice.

“That’s interesting.”

“How you figure?”

“Never knew you to hit yourself with a hammer before. I find that interesting.”

“If that’s interesting, you need a hobby. Or you could work like I’m paying you to do . . .”

“I have a hobby, thank you, and you should’ve seen her last night,” he says, smacking his lips together. “Lord Almighty, she’s a—”

“Penn.”

“Yeah?”

The tip of my finger sticks out of the bandanna. It’s bright red and hot to the touch despite the ice packed around it. “All your escapades really sound the same at this point.”

“Is that jealousy I hear?” He cups his hand around his ear. “I thought so. Not my fault you’re in a dry spell.”