I scrunch my face up and duck my head. “You heard that, huh?”
He lowers his face to meet my gaze. “I did. You’re in your head too much. Just let go. I promise you won’t regret it.” Lane leans forward, his hot breath fanning across my collar bone. “Let me in, Stella.”
I lift my chin and look him in the eye, knowing I need to say this so that he really hears it. “I was married to the same man for 20 years. He cheated on me with my best friend. I left him, sold everything and moved up here to start new. And I’m not even sure how to start new, because I don’t know who I am outside of that former life.” I take a deep breath and blow it out toward the sky. “Are you ready for all that baggage?”
Lane grins, flexes his arm, his bulging biceps catching my attention. “Stella, I am built to carry that fucking baggage.”
I place my hand on the side of his face, my thumb tracing the curve of his smiling lips. “Pick me up Saturday at seven.”
10
I CLOSE MY eyes and let Marley paint a face mask onto my skin.
“So, this will work to clean your pores, tighten the skin, and get you laid.”
“I doubt that’s on the label,” I say, through tight lips.
“Is too. Don’t judge Reagan’s products or her marketing tactics. Sex is a great motivator. All done.”
I open my eyes and feel the mask tightening on my face. Pulling the bottle from her hand I flip it over and pretend to read the directions. “All organic ingredients. Rejuvenates skin. Oh, see here? It says this product is rendered ineffective when applied by a smartass.”
“Well, that leaves us both out, doesn’t it?” Marley asks, sticking out her tongue.
“This mask is intense,” I say, sliding my lips back and forth to loosen it up. “Kind of like your cleavage tonight.”
Marley points her brush at me. “Hey! There is no judgement on girls’ night in. I’m comfortable. If my boobies make you uncomfortable, then maybe you could just show me Sandra and Dee and we could be on a level playing field.”
I throw myself back on the sofa and look at the plaster ceiling. “Why are you so obsessed with my boobs?”
She paints the rest of the mask on her own face, using a tiny mirror propped up on my bookshelf. “Because I feel left out. Look, I’m just here for skincare, manis and pedis—to get you ready for your first date in twenty years. Do you want my infinite wisdom or not?”
“I do.” I close my eyes and my imagination plays out a night of awkward talk over dinner between me and my gorgeous neighbor. I imagine long pauses in conversation and spilled drinks and maybe even a bit of oversharing on my part. Hopefully Chap will be around to distract me when I come up with nothing for conversation. “Okay, lay it on me. What’s the secret to dating?” I ask.
Marley looks at me, her face bright green from the mask. “Always keep them guessing, mystery is the key to being desired. You call the shots on how far you’re willing to go. Don’t feel ashamed if you want to polish his knob right there under the kitchen table. Never wear your period panties. Wear the good stuff. Bring cash, so you can split the check if he’s into that kind of thing. And carry a purse big enough for the essentials: makeup wipes, lip balm, safety pins, condoms, battery backup for the phone, mints, and matches.”
“Matches?” I ask, tilting my head in her direction.
“Yep. If he turns out to be crazy, light his ass on fire and run.”
“Why am I even asking you?”
She leans over me now, our faces inches apart. “Because you’ve been out of the game too long and I’m a goddamned professional.”
I eye my pretty red nails and matching toes. “Okay, so the physical stuff is good, but what about everything else? What do we talk about? Do I bring up my ex? Do I ask about his exes? What is appropriate date talk? Do we speak in hashtags and acronyms?”
Marley sits on my coffee table, facing me, her expression serious. “You’re not texting for god’s sake and he’s not that young. Jesus, Stella. This is all about what you’re comfortable with. Though, I have to admit, I’m curious about his previous girls. And if he’s exclusively into cougars. And his thoughts on threesomes.”
I cross my legs and sip my wine, the mask feeling so dry and hardened on my face. “Threesomes are not an option. Nope. And I am not a cougar. I’m not even forty yet, you tart. We haven’t discussed numbers. I don’t know how old he is, but I know it’s much lower than mine.”
“So what,” Marley says. She swallows down the last of her wine and sets the glass aside. “He doesn’t seem to care, so why should you?”
“You’re right. It’s my thing. I need to get over it.” I lean back and throw my arms out. “But he’s so fucking hot, and sexy, and smart, and sweet, and I know there’s a bit of bad boy lurking inside him. I deserve this, right? I need to just embrace it.”
Marley places her hands on my knees and leans in with a weighty expression painting her green face. “That’s right. You deserve to put those heels to Heaven and explore every inch of that man’s amazing body. Side note: let me know if there are anymore hidden tattoos. I’ll need details—extreme details, like Morgan Freeman narrating a documentary details. Take notes if you have to.”
_______________
Marley is gone and the house is quiet. I’ve just finished a phone call with Brea for my third pep talk of the night. She’s not much help having married her high school sweetheart like I did. The difference is, hers actually remained a sweetheart. I’m wearing a cute sweater dress and boots while I wait for seven o’clock to arrive. My nerves rattle inside my body, making my foot bounce and kick the coffee table. It sounds like the ticking of a clock, the countdown on a bomb. I guess we’ll find out which one of those is accurate later on.
Unable to sit still any longer, I jump up from the sofa and pace the room. My steps keep up the ticking rhythm as I twist my hands together and try to calm my thoughts. It seems like every memory I’ve ever had swirls around inside my chaotic head. From the time I fell off of a horse in fourth grade all the way up to the moment I caught my ex-husband and ex-best friend in bed together. I imagine every one of these memories falling out of my mouth in a sort of word vomit as soon as Lane shows up.
I take a deep breath and run my hands down my dress, tugging at the hemline. It’s a little shorter than something I’d normally wear, but I don’t even know what my normal is anymore.
A knock at the door makes my stomach drop to my feet. I take another deep breath, exhale, wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my dress and answer the door.
Lane stands there, looking so casual, like he’s not the most attractive man in the state. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and black shoes. His eyes slide down to my boots and back up as he gives me a smile.
“Are you ready?” he asks, holding out his hand, palm up. I nod and slide my hand into his. Grabbing my purse from a hook beside the door, I lock and close the door behind me.
He leads me down the sidewalk and I catch a new scent, some kind of light cologne that makes me want to breathe deeper. “Where are we off to tonight?” I ask.
“My house,” he says, looking down at me. “I’m cooking dinner for you. I hope you don’t mind staying in.”
I grin. “Not at all. I’m not sure if any man, besides my father, has ever cooked me a meal.”
“That’s a shame,” he says, pulling me inside his front door. Chap greets us with a single bark. “I love any excuse to cook. I guess it’s a hobby of mine.” I bend over to give Chap a scratch as he rubs against my legs like a cat. “Stop flirting, you shameless dog,” Lane says.
I laugh and follow Lane into the kitchen. The whole house smells amazing. The scent of garlic and spices makes my empty stomach growl. On the kitchen island, he’s set out a small board of different cheeses and crackers.
“Wow,” I say. “This is fancy. It’s like a smaller version of what you did at the garage, right?”
“Help yourself,” he r
eplies with a nod. “Red, I assume?” Lane asks, holding up an empty wine glass. My grin answers.
I look over all the choices on the board and rub a hand over my grumbling stomach to keep it quiet. “I have no idea where to start.”
“Here,” Lane says, handing over my filled wine glass. “Let me help. First, I like these little baguette slices the best.” I’m mesmerized as he picks one up and spreads a creamy cheese across the top. “Then a little bit of fig preserve, and top it with these candied pecans.” His bite-sized creation looks like a professional chef put it together and I am impressed.
He moves the treat toward my mouth. I open up and take a bite. All the flavors and textures mix together, creating the best thing I’ve eaten since I moved out of the South.
“Oh my god, that’s delicious.”
“It’s called a canapé. And the best part? Now take a sip of your wine.” I do as instructed and am surprised at how well the flavors combine.
“That’s impressive,” I say. “Not many guys your age would know anything about this unless it were their career.” Lane shrugs and lifts the lid off of a pot, stirring the contents inside. “How old are you anyway?” Not the most subtle way to get to it, but I can’t stand not knowing. He gives me a sly look and for a moment, I think he’s not going to tell me.
“Twenty-eight, but I had to grow up fast. I had a deadbeat mom who left me at my grandmother’s house one day and never came back.”
“Oh my god, that’s awful,” I say with a hand clutched over my heart.
“Eh,” he shrugs. “I think I was better off. My granny raised me. She used to say I was an old soul trapped in a kid’s body.”
“I can believe that,” I say, finishing off my canapé. “So, you’ve never heard from your mother again?” I know it may be rude to ask, but my curiosity wins out.
“Nope. I believe she was on abusive boyfriend number four by the time she left. I was six years old and was pretty good at taking care of myself even back then. My earliest memories are not of her, but of these terrible, controlling, drunk men who ruled our lives. They could never be in one of your romance novels.”
“No, I guess not.”
He places the lid back on the pot. “Hey. Don’t be sad for me. I turned out okay.” I give him the smile and nod he’s waiting for. “Plus, Granny didn’t want this big old house, so she downsized and I bought this from her and did some refinishing.”
“I love your house,” I say.
“Thank you. I had a lot of help, so I won’t take all the credit. Is this the part where you make me ask how old you are or are we going to keep that a secret?”
I set down my wine glass and take a deep breath. “No games. I want to be honest and keep everything out in the open. I’m thirty-eight.” I watch his face closely for a reaction, but he gives me nothing. Lane takes a swig of his imported beer and grins.
“Nothing but a number, Stella.” He moves around the island and tips his beer toward my glass. We clink them together and each take a sip. “To new neighbors and new starts.”
“To Grace,” I say.
Chap’s nails click along the hardwood floors as he makes his way into the kitchen sniffing every inch of the floor. “And to adorable dogs and their masters.”
Lane laughs and sets down his beer. He takes my wine glass from me and places it on the granite countertop as well. His smile morphs into a straight line, paired with an intense gaze that holds me in place. “Can we just get one little thing out of the way so I can think more clearly?”
His hands come to rest on my hips and I tilt my chin up, realizing how desperately I need this. Lane’s lips meet mine and even with this not being our first kiss, there is still so much heat and magic to it. It still steals my breath and makes my head spin. I feel it everywhere.
When he pulls away, I can’t help the smile that paints my face. “Yes,” I say in a breathy voice. “Glad we could get that out of the way and focus.”
He grins and moves back into the kitchen. “With your permission, there’s going to be so much more of that later.” I choke on my sip of wine and cover my mouth to keep it from flying out. Once I get my coughing under control, I finish off the glass.
“And what about you, Stella? Would your childhood fit into an inspirational book or horror novel?”
I laugh as he refills my glass. “I love that you’re trying to speak my language,” I say. “My childhood was pretty standard, I guess. My parents loved each other, though my mom is a bit of a tight ass, very overprotective, but in a caring way. I was closer to my dad.”
“Was?” he asks, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth. I get distracted for a few seconds by the way he licks his lips.
“He passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear.”
I nod. “Thank you.” Silence stretches between us and I search my brain for anything to say.
“The first time I started my period, I was wearing white shorts. Oh lord, why did I just tell you that?”
He chuckles and leans over the counter, resting on his elbows. “Well, let’s hear it then. What happened?”
“We were on a bus on a field trip. As soon as I stood up, I knew something was wrong. One of the teachers pulls me aside and into the bathroom before we even get into the zoo. She gives me this enormous pad, tells me what to do and leaves.”
“Damn, that’s cold.”
“Well, she was responsible for the welfare of many other teenagers. I cleaned up as best I could but still had this big red spot on the seat of my shorts. I came out of that bathroom and just clung to the wall while everyone else was horseplaying and lining up to go in.”
“So you had to walk around like that all day?” Lane asks, eating another piece of cheese.
I sip my wine and shake my head. “No. A boy in my class came over and offered me his shirt to tie around my waist. He just wore his t-shirt for the day and I gotta cover my bum.”
Lane stands and holds his arms out wide. “Now see there? A nice guy. Whatever happened to Mr. Niceguy?”
I pop an almond in my mouth and quirk an eyebrow. “I married him.”
Lane’s hands fall to his sides and his smile disappears. “On that note, let’s eat.” He serves our dinner of a Bolognese sauce over pasta with freshly grated parmesan on top. It is plated beautifully and tastes delicious.
“I think you may have missed your calling. This is so amazing,” I say, taking another bite.
“Thank you. But I could never cook as a professional gig. Too much stress. Have you seen any of those chef competitions on television?”
I laugh. “Yeah. It seems like a crazy life. But your job must be stressful too?”
Lane chews and swallows, sipping his water before answering. “At times it is. But being my own boss and working from home kind of balances that out. What about you? How is bookstore employment treating you?”
“Good,” I say. “I love being surrounded by books all day. Becca is easy to work for. And I even get to be a little creative. I think I’m going to redo the Alaina Taylor display next.”
“How idyllic for you.” He grins and sets down his fork. “You know, your eyes light up when you talk about books. It’s special to find something that brings so much joy. I love your enthusiasm for reading.”
I swallow my bite and lean forward, excitement propelling me. “It’s not just for reading. I have such an appreciation of the process, the storytelling, the way characters grow and change. I could never do any of it, and I am enamored with people who can.” I finish off my wine and lean back in my chair. “Hence my adoration of Alaina Taylor. Something in her books especially connects with me. I read a lot, but I read absolutely everything she publishes.”
Lane nods his head and covers my hand with his own, strong fingers wrapping around. “I don’t know if Becca has told you or not, but you know you’ll probably never meet her, right? Living here gives you no advantage as far as that goes.” His expression is serious and sympathetic.
“I know,” I tell him. “But Becca was able to snag me a personalized autographed copy of her next book.”
He smiles now and releases my hand. “Well, that’s something, right?”
“It is.”
We finish our delicious meals while chatting about random stuff. As much as I like him, it always feels like he’s keeping me at a distance. And maybe that’s for the best, because can you fall head over heels for a man you barely know?
Lane tells me he’ll help prepare my house for winter and gives me a few tips on dealing with the snow. The thought of snow excites me, but he says I’ll probably get over that after a couple of weeks of shoveling it.
When we’re finished, he says to leave the dishes and he’ll get them later, asking if I want to move to the main room.
“A man who cooks and washes dishes? Be still, my heart,” I say, as he refills my wine glass.
He puts some music on and takes a seat on one of the large sofas. I sit next to him, leaving about two feet of space between us. As much as I love being near him, I want to get to know him better. And the closer I am, the more chances that there will be zero talking and all kinds of everything else. I make a vow that there will be no more kissing until he tells me more about himself.
Lane doesn’t restart the conversation after we take a seat. He just sits there watching me, a sexy smirk in place. I wrack my head for something to say, anything to kill the silence. I feel like he does this on purpose so that I’ll have to talk about myself. Or maybe he’s completely comfortable in silence. Either way, I speak first.
“So, are there any crazy ex-girlfriends I should worry about?”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Not exactly. I don’t usually date girls from Grace. I just never had romantic feelings for someone I’ve grown up with my whole life, you know? It’s hard to crush on a girl you watched eat glue in kindergarten. I’ve only had two serious girlfriends and they’ve both moved on. Married with kids and all.”
“Is that something you want?” I ask, sipping my wine and embracing the warm fuzzy buzz it brings. I feel myself relaxing, getting more comfortable in his space.
Changing Lanes Page 11