“Okay, yeah,” I say as he pats Rogan on the shoulder and takes off up his stairs.
I briefly watch him retreat and when I turn back to Rogan, his eyes are watching me, catching me in the act of staring at his brother.
Cheeks flaming, I clear my throat and step to the side. “Uh, thanks for coming over. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Ruth.” His eyes study me, and I swear I can feel my body shrink on the spot. “Make sure he pulls his weight around here. He’s a good resource to have, even if he can be an idiot at times. Don’t be afraid to ask him for help.”
“Thanks.” I fidget. Rogan and Brig look the most alike with their carved jaws and broad shoulders, while Reid and Griffin share the same pensive look. They all look quite similar, which is devastating to all single women in Port Snow.
“Okay, I’m going to head home. Sure you don’t want a ride?”
I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks, Rogan.”
With a curt nod, he hops into his SUV and departs. I take a deep breath and make my trek back to Snow Roast.
“Rylee, he sent a package.”
“What, really?” Her face lights up as I talk to her through FaceTime. “What the hell did you write in your letter? Did you use the lipstick?”
Shamelessly, I smirk. “I had a weak moment.”
“You harlot.” She claps her hands in excitement. “God, I’m proud of you. What a day? Ice cream with Brig and then a package. You’re practically married.”
“Oh yeah, I can hear the wedding bells,” I say sarcastically. “Keep in mind that he doesn’t know he’s sending it to me.”
“Doesn’t matter. When you texted me earlier that you had ice cream with Brig, I swear I felt all the stars align. It’s happening, Ruth.”
“It was ice cream, Rylee. And I just happened to be with him when he craved some. It’s not like he asked me out.”
“Don’t you read any of my books?” she asks.
“I mean . . . when I have time.”
She presses her hand to her forehead. “You know, that hurts, but I will forgive you. For now. If you had read them, you’d know that often, it’s the slow buildup that creates the best romance. My characters don’t start banging right away. They develop a friendship, a liking for each other, and when they need that every day, that’s when I start to pull out the feelings. That’s when the characters start questioning the twists and turns in their stomachs when the other person steps into the room. They start noticing their scent. They start craving their touch. A quick hug turns into a longer one, where a chin rests on the top of a head. And then the pull starts to happen, this undeniable, crazy pull that brings them together. Breaths catch, hands skim hips, noses touch, and then . . . the kiss.” Rylee sighs, looking off to the side. Hell, I sigh too. What I wouldn’t give for a moment like that with Brig. “It’s the slow burn that’s worth the wait, Ruth. Ride the wave with Brig. It won’t happen overnight, but it will happen. I can feel it in my bones.”
“I’m so awkward around him. My responses are lame, and I’m always questioning everything I say. Ugh. And I was in my basketball shorts and tank top as we hung out today.”
“Oh Ruth, that won’t do.”
“I know.”
“I have a bunch of old jeans that don’t fit me anymore thanks to your coffee cake. I’m going to cut them up, wash them, and bring them to your place tomorrow. You are not allowed to wear anything else but these cut-off jeans while doing renovations.”
“Okay, now you’re becoming the cliché romance author.”
“Cliché works.”
“Fine. What about my awkwardness?”
“Easy.” She smiles. “Take a shot before you go to the Parlor.”
“That’s terrible advice. I’m not showing up with tequila breath.”
“Hmm, yeah, that might be problematic, and then drinking while operating a hammer might not be smart either.” She taps her chin. “Looks like you’re just going to have to loosen up. Don’t think of Brig as the guy you’ve been pining after for years. Think of him as a friend. Build a friendship and once you have that friendship developed, it will be smooth sailing from there. Talk to him like you would talk to Beck.”
“I have a filthy mouth when I talk to Beck.”
“And men appreciate that. Brig is a fun-loving guy and you have the perfect personality to counter him. It’s about time you show it.” She nods at me. “Now open the damn box.”
Knowing she’s right, that I need to treat Brig as a friend, not a hopeful love interest, I take a deep breath and open the reused box that’s taped heavily at the top. My box-cutter slices through the tape and then I lift the flaps. At the top is a letter, which I hold up to Rylee with a crazy grin on my face. She chuckles.
“Dear Secret Pen Pal. I wasn’t sure what this letter exchange was going to be like. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I would get someone I wanted to talk to. After reading your first letter though, I knew there must be something here, brewing between us. Mrs. Davenport put us together for a reason and I want to figure out why. I want to apologize for my first letter. I was nervous, wasn’t quite sure what to say, but your letter back to me was inspiring and real. I want to do the same with you.”
“I barely can breathe,” Rylee says, practically crawling into her phone.
“Same,” I say, trying to calm my screaming pulse. Clearing my throat, I continue. “How about we start with something simple to get to know each other? In the box is one of my favorite things about Port Snow. Not sure if you live here or not, but it’s my hometown and I’ve always loved it, never wanted to leave. I’ve spent years walking these streets, looking in every shop window, observing the beautiful architecture that goes into every building to make it unique but also cohesive with the town. So in the box is a small reflection of that. There’s also a note with it to explain why I chose this to give to you.”
“Oh God, what is it?” Rylee bounces as I try to steady my shaky hands.
I set the letter down, part the blue tissue paper, and the minute I catch sight of what’s inside, I nearly break down in tears.
“What is it?” Rylee asks again, bouncing up and down.
Unable to form words, I reach into the box and pull out a small four-by-four sign. Carved into the wood is a picture of Port Snow’s harbor.
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Rylee says breathlessly. “Is that one of the carvings your dad did a while back?”
Tears stream down my face as I nod.
Before my dad passed, he started whittling. I remember sitting outside with him, helping sand the pieces of wood he intended to use, talking about everything and nothing. He’d whittle, I’d sand. We’d laugh, have picnics by the ocean, and I’d enjoy watching his strong hands create something so beautiful with a piece of wood and carving tools. He sold them at The Lobster Landing for a while.
“I didn’t know they still had any left.”
“Me . . . neither,” I say on a sob hiccup, bringing the sign to my chest and clutching it tightly.
“Oh, Ruth. Do you want me to come over?”