Shoving them out of my mind, I sigh. “Trust me. I won’t fall in love with this place. I’ll be home before you know it.”
“Why? What’s wrong with Dogwood Lane, Tennessee?” she asks in her best southern voice.
“Your New Yorker attempt at a southern drawl is pathetic.”
“I’ll work on it. Now, tell me what you see. Paint me a picture of whatever you’re looking at. Bonus if it includes flannel.”
I take in the first building on my right. “The post office was built a hundred years ago and has needed a new coat of paint for at least the last twenty years.” I flip my turn signal on. “Across the street is a church with musket balls from the Civil War lodged in the steeple.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m afraid not,” I tell her. “The whiskey barrels lining the main drag are filled with pansies because the first year they planted those, the high school football team made it to the state finals. That never made sense to me because they lost, but apparently that’s close enough and no one wants to rock the boat. Superstitions and all.”
Grace goes into a monologue just to hear her newfound accent while I watch Dogwood Lane roll by. Styrofoam cups spell out GOOD LUCK to the softball team in the chain-link fence surrounding the high school.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m now stopping at the Dogwood Café, the only place in town where you can get a cup of coffee besides the gas station, because even I am not that desperate.”
“Doesn’t your mom have a Keurig?”
“My mom started drinking decaf.” I pucker, flipping off the ignition. “It’s like I don’t even know her.”
“Ew. Okay. Call me later.”
“Bye, friend.”
My blonde hair is piled on top of my head, my face free of makeup save for a dash of mascara, as I make my way toward the front door of the café. I step up on the patio and nearly get run into.
“Whoa,” I say, scooting out of the way as a little girl finishes her gymnastics trick. “That’s pretty good.”
She turns to look at me, her strawberry-blonde hair and spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose reminding me of a younger version of myself. A grin splits her cheeks.
“That’s all I’m allowed to do out here,” she says, straightening her lavender shirt with AERIAL’S emblazoned across the front in gold lettering. “My nanny says I’ll bust my head open and she’ll have to take me for stitches. Have you ever had stitches?”
“No,” I say, laughing at the way her little nose crinkles like a bunny’s. “Have you?”
“Once. I fell off the trampoline and busted the side of my leg wide open. You could see my bones,” she says, her voice growing conspiratorial. “It was so gross.”
“That is gross.”
She watches me, her bright-blue eyes sparkling. There’s an ease about her that draws me in. It’s a charm, a charismatic element I’ve felt in only a handful of people over my entire life. Most people don’t have it, but she does in spades.
With a shrug, she flips a lock of hair off her shoulder. “Got lots of ice cream for dinner, though, so it wasn’t totally a bad thing.”
“Ice cream cures everything.”
“Yup. My leg is stronger than ever. I’m almost ready to get my back tuck with no help.”
Now she’s speaking my language.
I grin. “That’s awesome. I didn’t get mine forever. I think I was almost twelve.”
“Well, I’m almost ten. You weren’t that far behind me. But I have been doing this since I was three.”
Stifling a giggle, I nod. “Do you take classes at Aerial’s?”
“Yup. The Summer Show is coming up. It’s going to be amazing. Miss Aerial says it’s the best one ever!”
The pride in her little singsong voice hits my heart. The Summer Show is the biggest thing this town has to offer. It started off when I was a little girl as a dance recital. It now encompasses an entire weekend with gymnastics displays, dance-offs, and a parade. People come from all over to support the children’s charities Aerial’s sponsors. It’s the highlight of the entire town’s year.
“You should come,” she insists.
“I’ll try.”
The café door opens, and a woman with long black hair and glossy lips smiles and steps onto the patio. “You ready, rascal?” She turns and sees me standing next to the windows. “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”
“No worries,” I say. “Just coming by for coffee and got caught up in talks of the Summer Show with . . .”
“Mia,” the little girl chirps.
“With Mia,” I add. “Sounds like it’s going to be great.”
The woman nods, side-eyeing the child. “Is it wrong to say I’ll be glad when it’s over?”
“Yes,” the little girl and I say in unison, making her laugh.
“Well, I’ll keep that to myself then,” she jokes. “You ready to get some work done?”
Mia nods.
“Have a good day,” I tell them, reaching for the door.
“You too,” the lady calls out over her shoulder.
“Bye!” The little girl tosses me a big wave as they step into the parking lot.
Scents of bacon and sweet-smelling syrup lie thick in the air as I pull on the door handle. Chatter from the remaining customers telling stories mixes with the clatter of silverware and dishes from the kitchen.
Stepping inside the cozy little café is like stepping back in time. The walls are the same white with a touch of yellow from the deep fryers in the back. There’s a country-blue chair rail lining the four walls of the dining area. A bar separates the front from the kitchen area, and the vinyl barstools sport a brown faux leather that crackles when you sit on them. Or, at least, I suppose they still do.
The cash register pings as I force my feet forward toward the bar. I don’t look at anyone. I just need coffee.
I take another step toward the counter and then jolt to a stop. My hip knocks a table, salt and pepper shakers rattling on the top.
Eyes the color of leaves at the beginning of spring snatch my gaze and pin me in place from a few feet away. They’re a green so bright, so lively, so familiar.
Oh, crap.
CHAPTER TWO
NEELY
My brain goes dead. All coherent thoughts and processes come to a screeching halt. A low-keyed hum whispers through my head as I watch Dane Madden’s eyes sparkle. Flecks of golds and blues catch the light as the corners of his lips tug toward the ceiling.
No, no, no.
Self-preservation kicks in, and I take a step back. He takes one toward me.
“Hi, Neely.” His voice is grittier than I remember it. Deeper. Gravelly, even. The timbre rushes across my skin without permission, slipping deep into my inner workings and flipping switches like it’s second nature. I can feel the struggle between us as we wrestle silently for control.
I clear my throat. “Hi, Dane.” My voice is even, practiced, and I send up a prayer of gratitude for the communication classes forced upon me in college.
His heavy brows, a shade darker than his sandy-colored hair, pull together. Back and forth goes his squared jawline as the hint of a smile disappears.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.
“That makes two of us.”
My breath is hot as it passes my lips, like his gaze actually upped the thermostat in my body. Moisture accumulates on my palms, and I slide them down my shorts as the waitress pulls his attention away. I vaguely hear him order coffee.
A heather-gray T-shirt stretches across his broad chest, hanging loose enough to not be pretentious but tight enough to skim the tapering of his waist. There’s a hole in one leg of his jeans a few inches below the pocket and a pair of dirty brown work boots on his feet.
He’s as different from the stockbroker at the deli as I could get. There’s a reason for that, I remind myself.
As my eyes travel up his abdomen and my brain attempts to use facts and logic to put out the fire starting to smolder in my core, Dane plucks my gaze out of the air with his own.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Getting coffee.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
I struggle to take a lungful of air from beneath his gaze. “Am I not allowed here?”
“That’s not what I meant either.”
The lack of oxygen makes it difficult to come up with words. I just look at him like we should break into chatter about our lives, joke about things that used to make us laugh. Only we can’t. There’s a wall between us we can’t skirt. It’s built with just as many tears and just as much betrayal as it is any good times we shared.
I shift my weight, lift my chin, and feel my guard start to wane. My lips part to speak when I’m cut off by the sound of a high-pitched squeal.
“Neely! Is that you?”
I rip my eyes off Dane, and they settle on a set of bright-red curls. “Claire! Oh my gosh. How are you?” I pull her into a hug as she holds a cup out to each side.
“I’m so excited to see you, girl,” she says. “I haven’t seen you in, what? Ten years?”
“Close enough.” I laugh. “How are you? What have you been up to? Still seeing Happy?” I ask, pointing to his name tattooed on her wrist.
“Oh, hell no. That was a drunken mistake years ago.” She sighs, rolling her eyes. “I just tell people I got it for my cheerful demeanor.”
“That’s a crock of shit,” Dane mutters. Claire bumps him with her hip, careful not to spill the coffee in her hands.
“I have to jet to the back and help pack up an order for the fire department.” She hands Dane a cup. “This one’s for you. And this one,” she says, turning to me, “must be for you.”
“I didn’t order anything yet. I do want a cup of coffee, though. Black, please.”