He ignores me, gesturing to the picnic spread. “Food looks good. Can I grab some cheese and crackers before I go? I do love Gouda.”
Shock slams into me, radiating to every pore. I can’t even speak or scream—no, you can’t have the Gouda, you jackass—because I’m so floored by his callous request.
The hungry jerk takes my silence as a yes and helps himself, bending to grab a few slices of cheese from the basket and a couple of crackers. My eyes burn with tears, and I want to smack his impromptu snack out of his hand, but I can’t because my blood has turned sluggish.
David turns to go, and I’m in quicksand, unable to move or speak. As his footsteps fade, something new replaces the shock.
Anger.
He took my cheese.
He took my freaking Gouda cheese.
“You don’t deserve cheese. You don’t deserve chocolate. You don’t deserve vanilla,” I shout between sobs, then grab the bottle of wine, open it, and guzzle a needy gulp.
A crunch of leaves sounds from the trail, and my heart speeds into overdrive.
He’s returned. He realized his mistake. He’s going to ask me to stay with him. I fasten on a smile, swipe my cheeks, and prepare to let him grovel.
First, he’ll apologize for taking my Gouda.
Second, he’ll take back that stupid vanilla comment.
Third, he’ll say he’s sorry he never piped up before about all these naughty bones that need tending to.
Then, and only then, will I let him enjoy the picnic of me.
I peer down the path, searching for my man.
But he’s still gone, and I’m still alone, dumped at a picnic lunch, when I planned to ask him to move in with me. My only company is a bird, an industrious robin, scouring the trail.
Why should he suffer because I’ve been ditched? I toss him a cracker and he pecks at it.
“Have a snack,” I mutter.
Another robin swoops down, joining his buddy on the dirt to enjoy the unexpected snack I’d planned to share with David.
The bastard.
How does he know I’m too sweet? He never asked me to be naughty. I wouldn’t mind trying. But he didn’t say a word about what he wanted. Am I supposed to be a mind reader? I don’t think so.
“You could have asked,” I mumble.
But I’m not in the mood to mumble. I’m in the mood to shout and stomp and throw. I don’t give a damn if this is childish. It’s cathartic, and right now I need to let go. I spin around, grab more cheese slices, and fling them in David’s direction, even though he’s probably miles away now.
“Take that.” I catapult one through the air.
“Here’s another.” I launch a cracker, then a slice of cheese.
More. I need more. This feels good. This feels so damn good. I bend to grab another hunk of cheese, then spin around and slingshot my arm to send it down the trail. Like a gunslinger, I fire, sending the dairy flying.
Only it doesn’t land on the trail.
The Gouda lands square in the middle of a chest.
A man’s chest.
Oops.
I cringe, lifting my gaze. I’m greeted by the sight of the man known as the Lucky Falls Panty-Melter. Star of the fireman calendar. Resident charmer. All-around ladies’ man. Dark-blond hair, soulful blue eyes, and a body that could advertise all the workouts in the world.
Kill me now.
Of all the people to run into. Of all the guys in this godforsaken town to inadvertently thwack with a piece of cheese. The bare-chested Gabe Harrison wears running shorts, sneakers, and a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his pecs.
As well as a slice of Gouda that sticks momentarily to his chest.
Stopping short, he surveys me and what’s left of the cheese and crackers, then his sternum, plucking the food from his skin like this happens every day and it’s no big deal. “If you’re going to turn more of the cheese and crackers into projectile missiles, allow me to help.”
“I’m so, so sorry,” I choke out, and the dam breaks.
The waterworks have been let loose, and anger has turned to sadness.
Tears fall as I sink down onto the blanket, crying into my cheese and crackers. Who cares if he’s the town playboy? It’s not like I’m on anyone’s naughty or nice list right now anyway. It’s not as if I’m looking for anything but a shoulder to cry on.
He drops down and wraps a strong arm around me. “Hey there. You want to talk about it?”
I can’t talk because I’m too busy crying the Nile onto his broad, slicked chest, the site of the cheese bullet I lobbed at him.
2
Gabe
Some women are silent criers. Some are snifflers, gently dabbing away at barely-there tears. And some are epic bawlers. Snot, soaked tissues, streams of water sluicing down their cheeks—the whole nine yards.
Then there’s Arden East. She’s going to need a new category. Because holy shit. I’ve encountered more than my fair share of tears in my line of work, but never enough to refill a reservoir.
She cries and cries and cries, and when she’s maybe, possibly, almost finished replenishing the Pacific Ocean, she launches another pair of geysers from her eyes.
Judging from the picnic blanket and the food, I have a wild hunch her man disappointed her.
Badly.
In my field, I’ve learned plenty about how to handle this kind of sadness.
You need to let the tears fall, plain and simple.
After a few more minutes, she starts to quiet. “I’m so stupid,” she blurts, the first sign that she’s nearing the end of the crying jag.
“Of course you’re not stupid. Why would you say that?”
“I thought . . . he wanted . . . to be . . . with me.”
David.
She’s been dating one of the ER docs. He’s a solid doc, but that’s about all I know of David Green. Except now he’s most likely a dickhead, since he’s the one who disappointed her badly. Who makes a woman cry like this but a guy who deserves the Dickhead of the Year Award?
“I made a picnic for him, and he dumped me.” She swipes her palms against her cheeks. “He showed up and broke up with me, and he still asked for a piece of cheese.”
My brow knits. “Seriously?”
“He said I was too nice. He didn’t want to be with me, but he still wanted a cracker. Apparently, my food is enough for him, but I’m not.”
I scoff. “I’m pretty sure that goes against all the codes and bylaws in the handbook of How to Treat A Woman.”
Arden’s chocolate-brown eyes are shot with red, but they twinkle the slightest bit. “I’m pretty sure I’d like to chuck that handbook at the back of his head. Please tell me it comes in hardcover?”
I smile, pleased she’s retained her sense of humor in the face of the ultimate bonehead move. “It does, and also, on behalf of all men everywhere, I want to let you know that he’s officially won the Dickhead of the Year Award. The guy committee has unanimously voted for him to receive it because the kind of shit he pulled gives men a bad name.”
She offers a contrite smile. “That’s why I was throwing the cheese. I’m sorry I hit you.”
“I’m just glad it wasn’t the bottle of wine you were practicing your shot put skills with. Wait. I don’t want to give you any ideas.” I grab the open wine bottle and hide it behind me.
“I promise I won’t throw the wine at you.” She cracks a grin through the tears.
Carefully, I set the wine back on the blanket. “Or almonds. Those can pack a punch too. You might have taken an eye out.”
“I do have good aim.” She laughs, then it morphs into a mournful sigh as she swats at the remnants of a final tear. “And I was going to ask him to move in with me.”
I drop the attempt at humor, squeezing her shoulder. Even if the guy’s a first-class jackass, she truly liked him, and that’s nothing to joke about. “I’m sorry, Arden. You must be hurting a ton right now.”
An errant sniffle sounds from her, and she nods. “I am. I wanted it all to go so perfectly.”
My heart aches for her, for the effort she made, for the hope she must have had when she planned today. “It does look perfect.” I take a cursory glance at the meal.
“He didn’t think it was perfect enough.”
I peer behind me, impressed with the spread she packed, from the wicker basket, to the wine and the glasses, all the way to the cloth napkins. Damn, this woman is a thorough planner and some kind of sweetheart in the girlfriend department. Inside the basket, I spot a container of hummus and three kinds of olives, along with the almonds and more cheese and crackers.
My stomach rumbles. “Any man who doesn’t realize the value of you, almonds, and olives doesn’t deserve to have lunch, breakfast, or dinner with you. Ever.”
“Thank you.” Her whispered voice is soft and pretty.
Hell, even with her splotchy, tear-stained cheeks, she’s still so damn pretty.
Fact is, I thought she was lovely to look at the night I met her a year ago, shortly after I moved to town. Pretty and witty and sharp, but very taken, so I didn’t think twice about her.
Today, she’s still pretty, and now she’s single.
Wait.
Chill the hell out, Brain. It’s not cool to think a woman is pretty when she’s crying her eyes out over another man.
I wipe those dickhead thoughts from my head. I don’t want to give David competition for the dickhead prize.
“You really think he doesn’t deserve me?” Her tone is wobbly.
“I know he doesn’t.” I point at the food. “Every decent man knows when a woman makes you a picnic, you damn well better eat it, and you will most certainly enjoy it.”
A small smile seems to sneak across her face. “It was a nice picnic.” She unleashes a sob again, tripping over that adjective. “Nice. He said I was too nice. Who’s too nice? How is it possible to be too nice?”
I set a hand on her lower back, gently rubbing. “Nice is what we should all aspire to be.”