by Tara Wyatt
It had all come to head when one night, after a few beers, he’d asked her out during one of their chats. And then he’d panicked. He’d known Charlie wasn’t going to be someone he could have a casual fling with, and he hadn’t been in a place to offer anything more, as much as he might’ve wanted to.
She was smart, and funny, and sarcastic, and so damn cute. Just talking to her made him feel so fucking good, and he hadn’t known what to do with any of that.
So he’d stood her up and deleted his profile. Real fucking mature.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, replaying what had just happened. How shocked and then hurt she’d been to see him. How cute she’d looked in her pajamas, her reddish-brown hair thrown up in a messy ponytail. How she’d wrapped her slender arms around herself, as though seeing him caused her physical pain. Hell, after the way he’d led her on and then stood her up, maybe it did. He couldn’t blame her for slamming the door in his face before he could explain.
He sat up a bit straighter, squinting at her house as an idea took root. He cut the ignition and stepped out of his truck, the scents of fresh-cut grass and hot pavement mingling in the air. Hands on his hips, he peered up at the house before wandering around to the side and into the backyard, letting himself in through the gate that didn’t latch properly.
He let out a low whistle as he observed the damage that Jared had done, taking out the entire section of fence that separated his backyard from Charlie’s, as well as destroying her deck. Tire tracks covered the grass between the two heaps of splintered boards. He examined what remained of the deck and saw that the wood was old and rotting in some places. Even before Jared had rammed his Jeep into it, it had already been falling apart.
He paced the yard, trying to figure out if he could replace the missing section of fencing, or if the entire thing needed to be redone. He glanced from the fence to her deck, his mind already whirring with ideas and designs.
He wasn’t sure he deserved her forgiveness, but this was his chance to make up for the way he’d treated her. She might not want to hear his apology or his explanation, but he could try to show her. With wood and nails and sweat, maybe he could make her see how much he regretted hurting her. At the time, he’d been so caught up in himself that it hadn’t really occurred to him that she would be hurt when he didn’t show. It came back to that whole emotionally drained thing. But she was hurt, and he was an asshole.
He hadn’t realized just how bad he felt until he’d seen her standing in front of him, in the flesh, scowling at him. A wave of shame had rocked him, stealing his breath for a second, followed quickly by a hot, sharp pang of lust. A part of him had wanted to cup her delicate face, drink in those pretty brown eyes, tell her he was sorry, and kiss her until she forgot she was hurting. He knew he had no right to any of that, but he wanted it just the same.
God, he’d made such a huge, fucking colossal mistake, and not just because she’d been even cuter in person.
“Hey! Get the hell out of my backyard!” Charlie appeared in a second-floor window, a deep frown creasing her pretty face.
He planted his hands on his hips, squinting up at her. “Don’t you want me to fix this?”
She stared at him, and his words hung between them, heavy with meaning. “No. I want you to get off my property.”
He held his hands out at his sides. “Charlie, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole.”
She sighed and shook her head, her voice losing some of its sharpness. “I’m sorry you’re an asshole, too, Adam.”
It was hard to tell from his vantage point, but he thought maybe something in the line of her shoulders softened, and a tiny seed of hope took root in his chest. A cicada buzzed, humming its warm summer song. He wiped at the sweat forming along his hairline with the back of his hand.
“Let me do this. I want to fix this,” he said, gesturing around her backyard.
“And I want you to go. How many times do I have to ask you to get off my property?”
“Charlie, I just—” But he didn’t get the chance to finish his thought because he was too busy dodging the sneaker that came flying at him from the window. “Hey! What the hell’s wrong with you? I’m trying to help you out here!” he yelled, irritation flaring up through him. He was being nice, attempting to make amends, and she was chucking Nikes at him.
And fuck if the twisted part of him didn’t like it, just a little. Her anger was about her being hurt, yes, but it was also about protecting herself. She was strong. Gutsy, and nobody’s doormat.
It was really fucking appealing, flying sneakers and all.
“Me? What the hell’s wrong with you? What kind of person stands someone up and then ghosts on them after weeks of messages? Huh? And now you think you get to stand there, say you’re sorry, and that it’s fine? That I’ll just let you—”
This time he cut her off. “I’m sorry, Charlie! Fuck, I’m real fuckin’ sorry, okay? It was a stupid, dick move.”
Another shoe came flying out the window, landing with a heavy thunk in the grass beside him. He jammed his hands back onto his hips and blew out a long, slow breath through his nose. He waited for a minute to see if more footwear was about to rain down on him. Charlie reappeared in the window, her cheeks flushed.
He held out his hands at his sides again. “Alright. I’m gonna go. Mainly because I don’t want to get brained with a shoe.” He pointed up at her. “But I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m not giving up, Charlie. I’m gonna make this right.”
He hadn’t realized just how much he’d hurt her, and it gutted him. He wanted, more than anything, to try to make up for the shitty way he’d treated her. He’d try again, tomorrow. If after that, she still wanted nothing to do with him, wouldn’t accept his help and let him make amends, he’d go. But he had to try, just one more time.
The next morning, Charlie stood under the hot shower spray, rolling her shoulders and trying to work out some of the tension that had gathered over the past twenty-four hours. After Adam had left, she’d spent the rest of the day restless and on edge, finally submitting her column around midnight.
Adam. God. It had been weeks, maybe even months since she’d last thought of him, and then boom. There he was. In that stupid tight white T-shirt. With those hands. And those blue eyes. And the beard. And the pleasant, deep voice. And the muscles.
Damn him.
She grabbed the shampoo and squirted a little mound into her palm, lathering it through her hair as she played everything back through her mind. And not just what had happened yesterday, but everything. The cute, fun messages. How excited she’d been when he’d asked her out. The humiliating disappointment when he hadn’t shown and had disappeared from the face of the earth without a word.
I’m sorry, Charlie! Fuck, I’m real fuckin’ sorry, okay? It was a stupid, dick move.
His words echoed through her mind, bouncing around her skull. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was sorry that he’d hurt her or sorry that she was mad, because they were two completely separate things. A part of her wanted to believe it was the former, but the more realistic part of her knew it was most likely the latter.
“Fucking men,” she said aloud, her voice echoing off the shower tiles. A loud knocking sounded through the house, and she froze, tilting her head as she listened. The knocking continued, and she turned the shower off, stepping out and grabbing a towel from the rack. The doorbell rang, chiming through the silent house. She wrapped the towel tightly around herself, grinding her teeth together. She stomped into her bedroom, crossing the worn hardwood floor to the window, water dripping down her legs as she went. If that asshole had actually come back, she’d have to find something more substantial than a shoe to throw at him. Maybe a frying pan.
She yanked the blinds up, and her frown dropped away, her eyebrows shooting up when she saw the UPS truck sitting in her driveway. The driver headed away from her front door and back toward his truck.
“Shit!” In the wake of the stress of barely finishi
ng her column on time and Adam’s sudden reappearance, she’d forgotten about the materials she’d requested from the Giamatti Research Center at the Baseball Hall of Fame. The files contained copies of rare interview transcripts from Red Sox greats like Cy Young, Babe Ruth, Wade Boggs, Bobby Doerr and tons of others, and she needed them for the book proposal she’d been working on for months now.
Gripping the towel where the fabric overlapped between her breasts, she sprinted for the front door, flying down the stairs. She flung the door open and ran out onto the front porch. The front door slammed behind her, rattling the window panes.
“Hey! Wait!” she yelled, waving one arm frantically at the UPS guy. He’d just started to back out of her driveway, and he stopped, putting the big brown truck back in park. After she signed for her delivery, he unloaded the three sealed boxes onto her porch. Eager to dig into her treasures, she headed for the front door, planning to get dressed first, and then haul the boxes inside.
She closed her hand around the black wrought iron knob and slammed her shoulder into the door when it didn’t budge. Panic shot through her, dancing like electricity over her skin, and she tried the knob again, rattling it and pushing against the door, but the door didn’t move.
She’d locked herself out. Wearing nothing but a towel.
“Nononononononono,” she chanted as she tried the knob several more times. “Fuck!” She kicked at the door in frustration and then instantly regretted it when her bare toes made contact with the wood. Pain shot across her foot. “Shit!” She hopped on one foot, clutching her throbbing toes in one hand. The towel started to slip. “Fucking shit!” She dropped her foot and scrambled to grab her towel before she flashed the entire neighborhood.
She leaned her back against the door and forced herself to take several deep breaths as she tried to figure out how she was going to get back inside. Maybe she’d left the back door unlocked. Or maybe she could break in through a window. She spotted a pair of flip-flops under the bench on her porch, and the tiniest bit of relief trickled through her. Slipping them on, she felt a little bit less naked. Still, like, super naked, but at least she wouldn’t step on bugs. Or a rusty nail. God, and then she’d get tetanus. Which sounded just about right, given how the past couple of days had gone.
She knew it was probably futile, but she walked around the side of the house and into her backyard. Gingerly, she picked a path through the debris of her deck, making her way to the back door that led to the kitchen. The door was a few feet above the ground, and she clutched the towel around herself as she reached up to grasp the knob. She tried it, but it was locked. Of course. At least it was warm and sunny out. If this were a movie, it’d start raining, or things would somehow get worse, just for comedic effect.
“Charlie?” came Adam’s voice from several feet behind her.
She wasn’t laughing.
Chapter 3
Adam stood still, unable to tear his eyes off of Charlie’s smooth, creamy skin, dotted with pale brown freckles. Charlie, in nothing but a towel, her hair soaking wet, was pretty much the last thing he’d expected to see when he’d pulled his truck into her driveway and walked into her backyard.
But he’d always liked surprises.
Her shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice and she turned slowly, clutching the light blue towel around herself, her knuckles white. Two pale strips—tan lines—streaked down over her shoulders, disappearing into the towel.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear, a scowl on her face. His fingers twitched, wanting to repeat the movement.
Despite the scowl, she took a tentative step toward him, the towel riding up slightly as she stepped around the broken boards of wood, the muscles in her toned legs flexing. A drop of water fell from her hair and onto her arm, sliding slowly down. Her eyes met his, and she bit her lip as she studied him.
Fuck, he wanted a second chance. And it wasn’t only because his jeans were getting tighter by the second. Sure, that was part of it, but it was more than that. It was just Charlie. The woman he’d started to fall for without even meeting in person. She was strong, and funny, and didn’t take anyone’s shit. She was smart, and passionate, and hardworking. She was hurt and angry right now, but he could handle her prickly. In fact, he didn’t mind prickly Charlie. Not at all.
“I told you I’d be back today,” he said, shoving his hands in his back pockets, not knowing what else to do with them.
“Ha, well excuse me if I didn’t exactly take that at face value.” She sniffed and adjusted her towel.
He tipped his head. “Fair enough. So, uh, what’s with the towel?”
“I…” She gestured helplessly and then quickly returned her hand to the towel with a wide-eyed grimace, apparently afraid to hold it one-handed. Something in Adam’s chest tightened and then warmed, and he looked down, hiding his smile. When he glanced back up, her bottom lip was caught between her teeth again.
God. So fucking cute.
“I locked myself out.”
“In a towel?”
She sighed impatiently. “The UPS guy was here, and I needed to sign for the delivery.”
He rocked on his heels. “Must’ve been important.”
“It is. It’s research material for a book proposal.”
“The one about the Red Sox greats?” She’d told him her idea during one of their chats. “You’re doing it?”
She nodded, a tiny smile tugging up the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. I am.”
“That’s so cool, Charlie. Seriously. It sounded like a great idea when you told me about it.”
She started to smile wider, and then caught herself. The smile dropped off her face. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”
He frowned, not following. “Do what?”
“Be nice to me.” She said it as though he were doing something wrong, her nostrils flaring.
His frown deepened, one eyebrow arching up. “You want me to be a dick?” he asked, unable to keep the note of frustration from creeping into his voice.
She snorted. “No, I want you to go.”
He yanked his hands out of his back pockets and jammed them onto his hips. “You’re real stubborn, you know that?”
She muttered something under her breath about the pot and the kettle.
He shook his head, glancing down at his work boots for a second, and then up at her house, torn between leaving out of sheer frustration, and staying out of a confusing jumble of things. Guilt, sure, but something else too. Something deeper and warmer than the guilt he felt over hurting her. Over putting that wariness in her eyes. “I can help you.”
“I told you yesterday, I don’t want your help.” She paused before continuing, her fingers curling even tighter into the towel. Lucky terrycloth. “I don’t need your help.”
He nodded and rubbed a hand over his mouth, deciding to call her bluff. “So then let’s hear it.”
Her brows knit together. “Hear what?”
“Your plan to get back in your house.” He studied her, eyebrows raised. “I assume you have one. Seeing as you don’t need my help.”
“I…I’ll just go to the neighbors and call a locksmith.”
He tilted his head, considering, and he shrugged. “Yeah, I guess that works. Assuming your neighbors are home. And who knows how long it’ll take the locksmith to come. Could be an hour. Could be longer. And you’re not exactly dressed. Leaves a lot to be desired, as far as plans go.”
She took another step closer to him, a challenge flashing in her brown eyes. “Oh, yeah? What’s your plan?”
“Pretty simple, really. I go get my ladder, climb up to your open window,” he said, pointing up toward the second floor of her house, “and I let you in. You’re inside in under five minutes, and then I can get to work.”
“Get to work?”
He nodded. “Yeah, fixing all this.”
Her nostrils flared again, and damn if that wasn’t cute, too. “I told you, I don’t need
you to fix it.”
“Yeah, well, I sorta promised Jared, and he’s a good buddy. I wouldn’t want to let him down.” He shrugged, trying to make the words sound lighter than they felt.
She took another step toward him, only a few inches away now. “Funny, I would’ve thought letting people down was your specialty. You didn’t have any issues doing it to me.”
Guilt slammed into him, and he curled his hands into fists at his sides. It was the only way he could stop himself from touching her, which he was pretty fucking sure wouldn’t go over well. But he could see how much he’d hurt her, and he wanted to soothe the pain he’d caused. The need to touch her was guilt, and regret, and lust, all rolled into a confusing knot that sat right in the center of his chest. “Charlie. I’m so sorry. I know I said it yesterday, but yelling it kinda takes some of the meaning out of it. So, I’m telling you now that I’m really sorry for standing you up, and I’m sorry for going silent. You deserved better than that. I hate that I hurt you.”
For several moments her eyes held his, and he waited, giving her space, giving her time, to process his apology. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet. “Why?”
A heaviness sat on his shoulders because he knew he owed her the truth. “I didn’t tell you this, but I was going through a divorce. I wasn’t ready to date.”
She frowned, some of the warmth leaving her eyes. “Then why were you on a dating site?”