So, what do I do to try and fix that mistake? I’ve spent every single day driving into town with the hopes of accidentally running into her again. Even Candice is starting to notice the imprint I'm making in her bar stool.
And, here I am again, sitting in my truck outside the Bear Claw, hoping I have some luck.
Pushing the door open, I stand and look around. But the place is empty, as usual. Once summer hits, this place will be packed wall to wall with tourists. The locals will stay away until late autumn.
I take a seat at my usual table in the corner. I look up and spot Candice staring at me from the kitchen. Her lips peel back into a thin line as she shakes her head.
She moves behind the bar and grabs a glass, pouring me the only thing I ever order, Jack and Coke, and comes to the table. Setting it down, she flashes me a big grin.
“I'm starting to think you've got a thing for me, Anders. I never see you this much.”
Chuckling, I lift the glass and take a sip. “Maybe I just really like your gumbo,” I say with a smirk.
“No one really likes the gumbo, not even you.” She wipes her hands on the towel tucked in her waistband and sets her hand on her hip. “I won't say I mind this, though. It's nice to see you getting out and about again. It's been long enough you cooping yourself up in that cabin. I think you might be becoming downright sociable.” She slaps me in the shoulder with her towel and smiles at me.
“Hardly,” I say, taking another sip. “Hey—” I start to say, then quickly cut myself short.
“Yeah?”
“Nothing, never mind.”
The temptation to ask about Laney sits at the tip of my tongue. But I quickly realize what that could do. People love to talk, especially in a small town like this, and the people in this town talk a lot about shit that ain't their business.
I've had enough with being the talk of the town. So, I keep my mouth shut.
“All right, well if you need anything else, you know the drill, just ask.” Candice heads back behind the bar with another smile.
Drumming my fingers on my glass, I'm trying to figure out another way to see Laney without drawing any attention. I can't ask questions. I can't just drive back to her place. That doesn’t feel right. But I can't ignore this urge to see her again.
I know that A-frame house. . .
I keep tapping my glass, over and over, and harder and harder until Candice finally notices and yells, “You're going to crack it! It's a glass, not a drum!” She laughs playfully and wags a finger at me.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling my hand off and setting it on the table.
Giving me a nod, she disappears back into the kitchen.
Marla Crawford. Her name jumps into my head. She's the one who owns Laney's cabin. And it just so happens that she's on my list of upcoming jobs.
I knew the place looked familiar when I dropped her off, I just couldn't place it at the time. My list of clients is long. When you run a business like mine, where everything is handmade and one of a kind, people want it.
But I do have one very important rule: I don't skip around the list, I go in order. If you want something, you'll have to wait in line. I won't be bullied by anyone into cutting the line. Rich or not, you wait your turn. And I’ve been offered lots of money to rush a project, but the answer’s always the same.
That rule has opened more doors for me than I could have ever imagined. People want to get on the list. The exclusivity and wait time have actually become an asset to my business.
Marla Crawford is one of those people. She wants new, custom shower doors, and even though I told her it would be a couple of months until I could get out to her place, I can make an exception. Right?
Standing up, I throw down some money and call out to Candice, “Thanks, Candice.”
I'm out the door before she even responds.
Who needs to know I broke my own rule?
I made the rule, I'm allowed to break it.
5
Laney
The music blares through the speakers as I draft another picture for the children's book I'm illustrating. The lines are flowing perfect, effortlessly actually, and it feels good. Like I'm finding myself again.
Welcome back, Laney.
Smiling to myself, my head is bouncing to the beat and my hand is sweeping across the paper. A noise from behind me breaks my attention, so I turn down the music, and perk up my ears.
Knock, knock, knock.
It's the front door. Who could that be? I'm not expecting anyone. Hell, I don’t know anyone.
Setting down my pencil, I head for the door and try to look through the small peephole, but it's completely frosted over.
“Who is it?”
A muffled man's voice responds, hardly audible through the heavy wood door. Pulling back the curtain on the front window, I try to see who it is, but all I can see is a shoulder, a toolbox, and a sliver of the side of his head.
I'll have to open it; I don't have a choice. Cracking the door, I start to say, “Can I help—” Cutting myself off, I quirk a brow and open the door all the way. “Anders?” I say surprised. “What are you doing here?”
My heart starts to pound as vivid images of our naughty morning flood my mind. I haven't been able to get this guy out of my head. He haunts my dreams, he haunts my thoughts while I’m awake, and a small piece of me is left wondering if our encounter was the boost I needed to break through the wall I’d recently hit.
He holds up the toolbox and points at the patch on his jacket. “I'm here for the shower doors.”
Holy shit! He's the guy putting in the new shower doors.
My landlord called me the other day and said someone was coming at some point, I just never imagined it would be Anders.
I honestly never expected or really planned on seeing him again. The sex was amazing, and I’d take a repeat of that any day of the week. But the next day, snippets of the night before became clearer, and mortification had washed over me, remembering how I sobbed and begged him to fuck me. And like a gentleman, he’d held me off, refused. I shudder to think about it. I was so pathetic.
First impressions are everything, and I really hope he hasn’t thought too much about mine.
But him, the first impression he left on me is indelible, and in the most perfect way. He brought me in from the cold, he took me to his place, soothed me to sleep, and then fucked my brains out the next morning.
Plucking at my lip, I stand awkwardly in the doorway.
He arches a brow and tilts his head. “So. . .” he says, drawing out the word. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, yeah, of course, sorry. Come on in,” I say taking a step to the side. “The bathroom is the first door on the left. Here let me—” I start to say but he quickly holds up a hand to stop me.
“Don’t worry about me. I can find my way. I don't want to distract you.” His eyes fall to the table that I've been using as my workspace. It’s scattered with sketches and pens and colored pencils.
“All right, well, if you need anything, I'll be right here.” I throw my thumbs to the table and start to walk toward it.
Calm down, Laney! You sound like a nervous wreck.
I am a nervous wreck. This wasn’t in my plans. Having him in my dreams is one thing, but now that he's right here in front of me, my world is upside down. My palms are sweaty and my heart is racing. My stomach churns like it's been hit by a swarm of butterflies, and my head is spinning.