“Scarring for the both of us,” Mom whispers and then adds, “I found out her nipples are pierced.”
“Jesus Christ, Mom! Things the doctor doesn’t need to know.”
“It’s not like it’s a secret—they’re practically pressed against your shirt now.” As a group, we all look down at my chest, and yup, would you look at that. That’s what happens when you can barely dress yourself—the bra is skipped.
Dr. Beau clears his throat. “Well, we should probably get on with the—”
“Can you please check her head, Dr. Beau?” Mom cuts in. “It’s very concerning she woke up this morning with no idea why she had a cast on her wrist and couldn’t recall her fall. And the fact that she hasn’t acknowledged—”
“I said hi,” I practically yell. “I said he smells nice—what more do you want?”
Mom gently places her hand on my shoulder. “Sweetie, this is Dr. Beau.”
“We established that. And I’m Palmer, and because of you, this stranger knows I have pierced nipples.”
Mom shakes her head. “No, Palmer, this is Dr. Beau Novak. Larkin’s brother, and the boy who saved your life in the store fire.”
My eyes snap to him, and just like that, I instantly recognize that hazel gaze.
But . . . no, is it really him?
He’s taller.
Bigger.
His voice is deeper.
His . . . his clothes are sharper.
He’s all man. Not the same boy from high school. Not the same boy I hoped and prayed would look my way, and surely not the same boy who almost kissed me the night of the fire.
This can’t be him.
Can it?
Dr. Beau clears his throat and offers a shy smile. “It’s, uh . . . it’s been a while, Palmer.”
Oh.
My.
God.
It has . . .
CHAPTER TEN
COOPER
“I’m going to kill her,” I mutter as I plow through the rain, dodging the spray from the cars as they drive by. I love living in Seattle, except when I have to walk in the rain.
You would think by now I’d come prepared for the too-frequent rainfall here, but nope. Not prepared at all. Instead, I’m power walking for cover, hands tucked in the pockets of my jeans, my T-shirt clinging to my chest and my boots getting their fair share of water sloshed around them.
As my destination comes in sight, I jog the rest of the way and then whip the pink door open, only to be assaulted by the fresh, buttery smell of cake.
A bell sounds off in the small cake shop, announcing my arrival. From the back, Nora calls out, “Be right with you.”
Not wanting to get her shop soaking wet, I wait by the door and let myself drip on her rug. While attempting to do some editing this morning, I got a text from Palmer saying she’d changed the cake order to something more refined. When I pressed to find out what “more refined” meant, she didn’t reply, which meant I needed to take matters into my own hands.
Nora steps out of the back of the bakery, wearing a bubblegum-pink apron and wiping her hands on a matching towel. When she spots me, she stops, and her hand slowly goes up to her mouth. Humor flashes through her eyes.
“Don’t say a goddamn word,” I mutter as I push my hand through my soaked hair.
“I wasn’t going to.” She holds back a smirk that’s tempting the corner of her lips.
“You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes.”
“It’s just . . . you’ve lived here your whole life. You’d think you could at least carry around a folded-up poncho or something.”
Her long black hair swishes back and forth as she moves forward, and I feel an awkward ache in my stomach as I remember the way that hair swished against my bare chest. Does she ever think about that night? From her cool composure whenever she sees me, I’m going to guess no, but hell, I think about it. It’s why I always feel like my body is itching when I’m around her—because I want to talk about it, but I have no clue how.
Especially since I was the one who left.
“I wasn’t intending on walking in the rain, but my sister didn’t give me a choice,” I say, burying thoughts of the past beneath my present annoyance.
Nora smiles softly, her deep-brown eyes soothing the tension in my chest just enough to keep me from flying off the deep end.
“Let me guess: this is about the cake and how she switched the flavor order.”
“You guessed right.”
She stands from her stool and brings it around the counter and sets it down. She pats the top. “Take a seat, Cooper.”
“I don’t want to get your floors wet.”
“That’s why mops were created.” She taps the stool again. “Take a seat, let’s talk.”
Sighing, I walk across the black-tiled floor, my boots squeaking with every step, and when I see her start to laugh, I point at her. “Not a goddamn word.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “I wouldn’t dare comment on your soggy boots or soaking wet jeans—or your flooded hair that keeps sending droplets of water down your face and almost makes it look like you’re crying.”
Yeah, she’s not affected at all, but that little laugh, that chuckle . . . hell, it ignites a burning need inside me.
“Great, glad we’re not talking about it,” I say, using sarcasm to avoid the real, unspoken reason I’m here. I take a seat and let out a deep breath. “She changed the cake.”
“She did.”
“To what?” I ask.
“You know, this could have been done over the phone,” Nora says, leaning over the counter. Calling me out, just like that. How long will it take before she calls me out about our one-night stand?
And yeah, this conversation could have been done over the phone, but ever since I saw her the other day, I’ve felt this burning need to see her again. It’s been a year, a whole year since I even thought about her, and yet, just like that, seeing that perfect smattering of freckles along her cheeks, those innocent yet daring eyes question me . . . well, before I knew it, I was traipsing through the rain for one more look.
One more interaction.
I shake my head, water dripping on my arms. “No, this needed to be done in person because I need you to know how serious I am.”
“Oh, okay, so this is a serious conversation. Glad we established that.”
Smart mouthed, quick witted—I’ve always liked that about her.
“Do you want me to take notes or anything?” she adds. “Is there going to be a quiz at the end of this?”
I push my hand through my hair again, and I catch her gaze landing on my biceps for a few brief seconds before they snap back to my eyes. Ignoring her perusal, I say, “Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“Are you fragile right now?”
“No,” I answer, brow creased.
She smirks. “Then I can be a smart-ass.”
Groaning, I cut to the chase. “What cake did she order?”
All too happy with herself, Nora flips through a stack of orders and pulls a single sheet out. Holding it up, she clears her throat. “Your sister ordered, and I quote, a ‘rosemary and lavender infused sponge with a blackberry compote generously spread in the middle and covered in a barely iced lavender buttercream. Five tiers, stacked one on top of the other, and decorated simply with a sprig of rosemary on the top.’” She sets the paper down and smiles at me.