by Gina Sturino
The door to apartment 204 opened before I could knock.
“Right on time.” Dane smiled, waving me in.
Boxes and sparse pieces of furniture, including an oversized recliner, filled the small space that had been empty the day before.
“When did your stuff arrive?” I asked.
“This afternoon,” Dane replied. “I don’t have that much. One load, two guys. They finished a bit ago.”
The walls between our units were paper-thin, and I recalled hearing the prior tenants daily. Little noises here and there, a bump on the wall or the high-pitched squeal of the sweet little girl who lived here. Giggles and flowers.
“The one benefit of moving often is you don’t accumulate junk, and you know exactly what you need to live without the excess.” Dane motioned me toward the sofa. “Would you like something to drink?”
I wiggled the bottle in my hand. “I know you like beer and tequila, but what about wine?”
“Ah, I spent a good chunk of time in wine country, yet never acquired the taste.” He eyed the label. “A local winery, nice. I’ll give it a try.”
“Wine country? Napa?” I asked. I’d been there for business, which, when in wine country, mixes with pleasure. But too much wine at work events made for awkward morning meetings. I cringed at the memory of catching an inebriated Darrell with his assistant.
“Well, Monterey County, Napa’s little sister to the south,” Dane explained. He pulled several wrapped items from a cardboard box labeled “Kitchen” before locating a corkscrew.
“Do you need help? Looks like you’re in the middle of unpacking?”
“Nah, this is it. I have one box of kitchen supplies.” Proving his point, he dumped out the remaining contents of the box, swiftly unwrapping them from their brown packing paper. “The pots and pans have already been put away. I’m a plastic cup and paper plate kind of guy. That’s it. This is my kitchen.”
“Wow, sounds a lot like mine.” Although I wasn’t sure if I even owned a cookie sheet.
Dane pulled two red plastic SOLO cups from the cupboard. “Is it a sin to drink wine from these?”
“Well, you’re not in wine country anymore.” I leaned back on the sofa, feeling at home in Dane’s man-cave of a living room. The blinds to his patio were shut, and the dim light from the kitchen spilled over Dane like a peek of sunshine, softening his dark edges.
“Those people would string us up by our toe-nails,” Dane joked as he splashed wine into a cup.
“What did you do out there? Tequila distribution did you say?” I could not picture this man calling wine country home. He seemed rugged and tough, definitely more the whiskey or beer type than wine.
“I was an instructor at the Defense Language School in Monterey,” Dane clarified. “The military drove me to drink, and now I’m working for tequila.”
“Well, thank you for your service.” I laughed, now understanding his rough undertones.
“My pleasure.” Something flashed over Dane’s face as if it weren’t actually pleasurable. He poured a second glass of wine and handed it to me before taking a seat on the recliner. “To neighbors and bakers.”
“To us.” I tapped my red cup against his. “Not sure if I should be drinking.”
“Still taking pain meds?” Dane asked. His eyes brushed over the cut at my forehead.
“I tried to stay away from them altogether, but I haven’t taken anything the last two days. My head’s feeling pretty good.” My fingers absently grazed the edge of the gash. I cocked my head, realizing I hadn’t had a single twinge all day.
Dane brought his cup to his nose and closed his eyes, swirling then sniffing the wine. “Hmm, delightful. Sun-soaked strawberries with a velvety finish.”
I didn’t swirl, but I sniffed, not noting any discerning scents. Scrunching my nose, I asked, “Sun-soaked strawberries, really?”
“Nah, I’m just playing.” Now he slugged the wine, like one would beer, tipping the cup back. “But it is tasty.”
I took a small sip, then a larger one, realizing I hadn’t had wine in a good while. It went down too smoothly.
Dane stood up and returned to the kitchen to refill his cup. “Let’s get this party started.” He grinned and rubbed his palms together. I moved to the bar-height counter, sipping my wine while I watched him work.
Butter had already been set out. Dane pulled two eggs from the refrigerator, then unopened sacks of granulated sugar, brown sugar, and flour from the pantry. He laid the ingredients on the counter, setting them next to one of the bowls he’d just unpacked.
“Shoot, I forgot vanilla extract.” He frowned and slapped his hand to his forehead. “I knew I’d forget something. If this batch turns out bad, blame it on the move. My mind’s everywhere.”
I took a long drink. The back of my neck warmed from alcohol. With a lacking appetite and an empty stomach, the wine hit quickly.
“Refill?” Dane asked, wiggling the bottle.
I held my cup up for him to top off. “I was laid up most of the week, but I’m feeling surprisingly good the last few days.” I shrugged my shoulders. Not just the headache, I realized my bruised ribs seemed to feel better too.
“I have that effect on people.” Dane chuckled. He had more than just that effect on people. My neck warmed again, this time not from the wine.
Light banter continued as we worked together in the close quarters of the kitchen. Dane instructed me to crack two eggs while he added softened butter to the bowl. He used a fork to cream them, then had me slowly add the flour, baking soda, sugar, and chocolate chips while he continued to mix by hand. I wasn’t sure if I was thankful for the tiny galley kitchen, which offered minimal room to maneuver without bumping into one another. Each brushing pass of his forearm brought more heat to the back of my neck and another flutter to the pit of my stomach.
“Voila!” Dane exclaimed after he plopped the last heaping tablespoon of dough onto a greased cookie sheet. He pushed it into the oven and set the timer, then held up his hand for a high-five.
Our palms met. Our fingers lingered; his tips curled just over mine before he pulled away—but not quickly enough for the sudden jolt of electricity between us to go unnoticed.
I snatched my hand to my side, rubbed it against my pants and blinked at Dane who looked just as puzzled. His chin cocked, and he openly stared at me for what seemed like minutes. Giving a little shake of his head, as if brushing it off, he then reached for the wine bottle and split the remaining contents between our cups. I wordlessly followed him to the living room where he returned to the sofa. I perched at the edge of the recliner.
“I still don’t have my TV or cable set up. Or internet. Not getting into the nitty-gritty until next week,” he explained, easing into a cushion.
“How d’you go from the military to tequila?” Did I just slur?
“It’s a distillery out of Carmel Valley. I got to know the owner during my contract with DLI.”
“DLI?” I asked, straightening in my seat. “What d’you do there again?” Definitely slurring.
“Defense Language Institute.” Dane eyed his cup. “Taught Arabic, but I also speak Spanish, French, Russian, and German. That gig was a contract job. I’m no longer active duty, but still trying to do my part.”
“Wow.” And here I had struggled to learn Spanish in high school. “That’s impressive.”
“Language is my thing.” He smiled and leaned in. “So, what about you? A lawyer, huh?”
“Former. Gave my notice yesterday.” I rubbed my temple. A light twinge started between my eyes, either from wine on an empty stomach or talk of work.
“Right. The other story.”
“Yeah, I need a change, I guess. Near death experience, maybe? No more eighty-hour work weeks. No more jerk boss.” I shrugged. Could it be that simple? Giving up seven years of college and almost ten years at a firm? I’d interned at Loft during school before being offered a position after graduation.
“Good for you. But
are you a trust fund baby or something? Rent here isn’t cheap.” Dane again swirled his wine.
“I’ll be okay, at least for a while, until I work something out for the long-term. I’m cutting back on some indulgences, like my cleaning lady. Cancel cable. Maybe have a garage sale. I’ll figure it out.”
“A garage sale? You’re gonna sell your clothes?” Dane frowned.
“Purses. Lots of ridiculously over-priced purses.” I laughed.
The timer buzzed, and Dane popped to his feet. He opened the oven door, releasing a mouth-watering aroma of freshly-baked cookies. Grinning, he pulled out the sheet and appraised our baking efforts.
I joined him in the kitchen and set my empty plastic cup next to the sink. Two glasses of wine were two too many.
“Perfect,” Dane proclaimed. He used a towel as a pot holder, and set the sheet on the counter. “A few minutes to cool, and we can taste our creations.”
We hovered around the kitchen, Dane opposite me with the thick, quartz countertop separating us. Conversation had been easy the entire evening, but now, a strange shyness had me silent. My eyes moved from the cookie sheet to Dane. He unabashedly studied me. Something besides the sweet smell of cookies permeated the air.
I bit my lower lip as his gaze swept my face, settling to the spot near my collarbone where a trio of small freckles created a perfect triangle. My hands flew to cover it.
Dane’s brow twitched, and his dark pupils overtook the blue of his eyes. His focus locked on me as he walked around the counter. With a gentle hand, he peeled my fingers away, leaning in to look at the three speckles.
Moving closer yet, his lips inched near mine, so close I could smell sweet wine on his breath. My skin tingled. My breath hitched. I looked up, tilting my chin. My lips parting…
“I think they’re cool,” he whispered, his warm breath brushing my cheek.
I took a step back, and my hands again flew to cover the freckles. I blinked. “Cool?”
Dane’s eyes flashed to my hands. “The cookies.”
A moment of sobriety zapped the wine buzz, and I reddened, groaning inside. Dane stepped away, wordlessly returning to the cookie sheet. He poked a finger at the golden cookies, then used a fork to lift each one off, setting them onto a paper plate.
When he again looked to me, I recognized his odd look.
Hunger. And not just for the cookies.
But the fleeting glint faded, and when he smiled again, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The benign atmosphere cooled along with the air-conditioning that kicked on.
He was going to kiss me. I was sure of it. Awkward seconds passed. We stared at each other until I finally broke away, my eyes shifting to my feet.
“It’s late. I should go,” I mustered.
Dane nodded in reply, handing the heaping plate to me.
“Enjoy,” he murmured.
Six
Since the accident, I’d traded designer power suits—a lawyer’s uniform—for low-key cotton tank tops and stretchy yoga pants. Messy buns replaced my usual neat chignons.
As I dressed Friday morning for my appointment with Pete, I met in the middle between my old style and new, choosing a sleeveless cotton sundress and a low ponytail. Even if our meeting was informally held over coffee, and I no longer represented Loft and Associates, I supposed yoga pants weren’t appropriate.
After containing my beach-blond curls with a hairband, I applied minimal makeup and gave a satisfied nod to my reflection. I looked good—normal. A new normal.
More importantly, minus the lingering embarrassment that flushed my cheeks each time I thought of Dane, I felt good. No persistent symptoms from the concussion, only the gash and bruise above my left eyebrow.
Preparing for a twinge to my ribs as I bent, I slipped a pedicured foot into a black leather sandal. Even that ache had dulled to nothing.
One week and two days post-accident, I felt surprisingly good.
I gave a once over in the full-length mirror beside my closet. The sleeveless dress hugged my curves, emphasizing my toned arms and legs. Hopefully I’d be able to return to yoga and spin classes soon. I may have a new normal, but they would stay a part of the new me’s new norm.
Satisfied, I headed downstairs, first stopping at the kitchen counter to grab a cookie from the platter Dane had prepared before heading out. I stuffed it into my mouth as I locked my apartment door. Even without vanilla extract, the cookies tasted divine. I’d polished half of the plate before bedtime, pledging to leave the rest for Cami.
The old me avoided sweets; the new me devoured them. I was really beginning to like this girl.
Ever since Dark Beans’ baked goods were featured on Sweet Kay’s Cooking Show, finding an open table at the coffeeshop became nearly impossible. I pushed through their front door and scanned the crowded room before realizing I had no idea what Pete Mackroy looked like.
“Novalee? Novalee Nixon?” a familiar voice called from behind, and I spun to see a tall man with dirty blond hair and warm brown eyes extending his hand. Based on his casual polo, shorts, and flip-flops, the meeting would be informal—maybe even free of charge. “You must be Novalee. I’m Pete.”
“Hi, yes, I am. Call me Nova, please.” I smiled and shook his hand. “I was about to call you. I realized I didn’t know how I might identify you.” I waved toward the throng of people.
“Oh, right. I saw your picture on Loft’s website,” Pete explained, looking appraisingly at my face. “Have you ordered?”
“No, not yet. I just got here.”
We joined the line, each ordering coffee and a bagel, and made small talk as we waited for a table to open.
Pete wasn’t what I’d expected. Besides being much younger than I’d assumed, he had a classic handsomeness. Polished haircut, perfect teeth, toned body, healthy tan. Success and money, but not pretentious. Comfortable and confident in his own skin without seeming cocky.
A spot in the rear cleared, and Pete led the way. I sat with my back to the wall, having a view of the crowded café while Pete faced me.
As I waited for him to pitch his spiel, I pinched a piece of bagel and popped it into my mouth. Another first. The old Nova shied away from carbs, always ordering the egg white and spinach frittata at Dark Beans.
“So, I heard you left Loft,” Pete said, his eyes carefully assessing my reaction.
I nodded, still chewing.
“Darrell was surprised.”
“So was I.” I laughed. “I don’t really want to talk about it. In fact, I feel bad having made you take the time to come out here—”
“Oh, don’t worry, I had extra time. I’m meeting clients at the ball game tonight. Cubs and Brewers series this weekend.”
“Oh, good. Well, as I mentioned last night, I don’t want to talk about the accident.” Pete nodded as if agreeing. “I want to put it behind me. Focus on the future.”
“The future.” Pete’s head continued to bob up and down. “Right, so what’s going on—off the record. Nothing you say will go back to Darrell. I barely know the guy. He’s an old pal of my dad’s. Between you and me, I think he’s kind of a dick.” Pete stopped. “Sorry about the language.”
“It’s okay,” I laughed. “I agree. You put it perfectly, though… he is a dick.”
Pete’s grin took years off his face, making him look young and sweet, like a high school quarterback.
The more we talked, the more I liked him. He seemed genuinely interested in me, asking how I was feeling, how I was coping, and listening intently to my replies, but not pressing as I glossed over the grisly details of the accident. As our conversation continued, I learned Pete had turned down a position with his father’s firm, instead working his way up the ladder on his own. Chicago was his home, and baseball was his passion.
The conversation turned back to me and, inevitably, to what my future looked like now that I was unemployed and had a seemingly new outlook.
“Well, I always enjoyed writing,” I offered. The thought had be
en there since my early college days when my freshman writing professor encouraged me to nurture my creative tendencies. “Maybe I’ll look into writing classes or workshops. I haven’t had time to think about hobbies or anything besides work for, like, the last decade.”
“I’m in the same boat. I don’t remember the last time I got out and it didn’t somehow tie in to work—even the baseball game tonight, I’m meeting clients. Pretty sure they’re Brewers fans, so I’ll have to keep my mouth shut. My boss thinks this is a huge treat. The executive suite, catering, all that. At least it’s not the opera.” Pete shuddered.
“Seriously, you had to take clients to the opera?” I giggled, unable to picture him fitting in among the theater crowd. He definitely had a jock vibe.
“Yeah, I mean, I love live music. But opera? Nah. God, I haven’t been to a concert in ages.”
“Me either.” I nodded my head. “Wow, now that I think about it, the last concert I saw was a group called Jarhead Junction. They’re a local band, now turning mainstream. Have you heard of them?”
“Yes, I have, actually,” Pete agreed emphatically. “I think they’re cool.”
I think they’re cool.
I froze, Dane’s words echoing in my head.
“Nova?” Pete asked.
“Sorry.” I shook my head, waving off thoughts of Dane.
But a familiar figure at the far end of the café caught my attention, and I again found myself ignoring Pete.
Dane stood at the entryway, a leather cross-body briefcase slung over his broad shoulders. I watched as he proceeded to the counter to give his order. Pete turned, following my stare.
His head swiveled back to face me again. “You okay?”
I silently nodded, still watching Dane. The barista handed over a mug, and he turned, catching my gaze. His eyes darted to the back of Pete’s head, then again to me as he took deliberate steps toward us, keeping his eyes locked on mine.
“Hello, neighbor.” Dane’s voice was low and gruff, sounding not so neighborly. He glanced at the table next to us—the man sitting there gathering his laptop, mumbling, “I’m just leaving,” and quickly departing. Dane plopped down in the freshly vacated seat and proceeded to remove his laptop from his leather briefcase before looking expectantly at me again.