Unbreakable (City Lights, #2)(66)

“I think I’ve heard that before,” I said. “Usually, by the opposition team, just as the jury is rendering its verdict. In my favor.”

Cory rolled his eyes and jerked open the door, but before I climbed back in, I put my hand on his forearm. His extremely strong, tanned forearm. “Lunch, after. It’s on me, and I don’t take no for an answer.”

“Why are you so determined to spend money on me?”

“Oh, it’s this funny thing I have when someone saves my life. Call me crazy, but I get all grateful and eager to show my thanks.”

I was teasing but Cory’s eyes grew shadowed again. He leaned in the open door. “Alex, don’t. Forget it.”

“It’s not that easy,” I said and realized my hand was still on his arm. I pulled it away. “I still dream sometimes…gunshots and blood.”

His expression softened. “Yeah, me too. And if you want to talk about it, you can. I’ll listen. But you gotta stop thanking me. You don’t owe me anything.”

“No,” I said. “Just my life.”

He sighed. “You’ve done enough. More than enough. More than anyone’s ever done for me. We’re even.”

Not remotely, I thought. I felt myself leaning closer to him. A wisp of hair fell over my eyes and Cory raised a hand as if he wanted to brush it away. But he stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans instead. “Are we going to hang out here all day? We got some driving to do.”

I brushed the hair from my eyes myself. “Lunch is on me. Non-negotiable.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I surrender.”

“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked as he climbed behind the wheel.

He grinned. “You’ll see.”

#

Cory drove us all the way to Pasadena and just when I’d given up on guessing what he could possibly have in mind, he turned into the very crowded Rose Bowl parking lot.

“Biggest swap meet in town,” he said. “Only happens twice a month. We got lucky that this Sunday is one of them.”

We got out and walked through a tailgate party, only instead of being for football fans, it was for vendors and buyers come to make deals on everything from antique furniture to old CD’s. There was a friendly rather than competitive atmosphere here, and instead of a bunch of beer-drinking sports fans, the people were artists, DIYers, and collectors.

“I’ve never been here before,” I said.

“You went to UCLA, right?” Cory asked, incredulous. “You’ve never been to a game here? To support your own Bruins?”

“Never.”

“Never?”

I shook my head. “And I’ve never been here for this swap meet either. I don’t go anywhere, really.”

“Well, if you’re itching to shop, this is the place.”

He paid our entry fee and got a map. I thought that was strange until we stepped inside the stadium’s arches. Then it made sense.

I’d never seen so many booths in my life, and Cory wasn’t kidding about this being the place to shop. For anything. I saw one man selling large iron picks that looked like they’d be used for baling hay. Another woman’s table was laden with nothing but lace doilies, piled high in all shapes and sizes.

We strolled together in the bright sunshine that was made bearable by a pleasant breeze that swept into the open-air stadium. The backs of our hands brushed several times and I remembered Cory said he was a big fan of handholding. I didn’t exactly mind if he wanted to but of course he never did. Why would he? We are not a couple.

Nevertheless, the feeling that we were on a date didn’t leave me, but grew stronger. We talked and laughed and perused the wares of countless vendors. Some pieces were extraordinarily beautiful. Some nothing more than junk.

Cory guided us to the furniture section and we were confronted with all manner of furniture in all states of wear and tear. He shocked me by pulling out a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. On it was a detailed sketch in colored pencil of my spare room, redecorated with furniture and accessories in lavender and pale green.

“Did you do that? That’s…amazing.” I gazed up at him. “I didn’t know you could draw.”

He gave me a crooked smile. “How could you? It’s nothing, anyway. I’m no interior decorator, but sometimes it helps the client if you can sketch out how a remodel might look after you’re done.”

“Yeah, makes sense,” I muttered. This guy. He was like an onion. The more layers I peeled away, the more remained.

Cory showed me the sketch. “So we’re looking for this type of stuff but unfinished. I’ll do the finishing myself.”

“How about here?” I guided him to a spread of desks, bedframes and other wooden pieces that looked to be in great condition.

“Nope,” he said. “Too finished which makes it too pricy. Here look.” He took my hand then, and led me to another area. He didn’t let go as we perused wooden furniture, which was covered in peeling paint or splintered. I wondered if he even realized, and I didn’t remind him.

A young, dark-haired woman—maybe all of twenty years old and dressed in a bohemian-style dress—emerged from her small tent. “Hi. I’m Claire. Beautiful day, right?”

“Hi, Claire,” Cory said, releasing my hand to pull out his sketch. “We’re looking for some pieces that will eventually look like this: dresser, bedframe, maybe a small desk.”