Two hours later, I walk through my front door to find Harrison dusting in the living room. I toss my keys onto the table. “Harrison, my good man.”
He turns, a mixture of curiosity and mild surprise in his eyes. “Yes, Brent?”
I throw an arm around his young shoulders. “You know the Swedish au pair down the street who you’ve been crushing on the last six months?”
He gulps. “Jane?”
“That’s the one. I know for a fact that tonight’s her night off.” I slap three hundred-dollar bills into his palm. “It’s time to carpe diem, buddy. Take the car, take her out, show her a good time, and if you get lucky—go to a hotel. If you don’t get lucky—spend the night at your father’s. Whatever you do, don’t come home.”
He looks at the money in his hand, brows touching. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m having company tonight.” This is the first time I’ve ever asked him to make himself scarce; usually I’m encouraging him to watch. So I spell it out.
“Kennedy’s coming over. I’m making her dinner. Though you’re always impeccably discreet, I want her to be completely comfortable, so we’re free to talk about our feelings.”
Talk.
Strip.
Break the furniture, dent the walls, and defile every surface in the house. Could be wishful thinking on my part, but like the Boy Scouts say, it’s good to be prepared.
Understanding brightens Harrison’s eyes. “Ah, now I see.” He puts his feather duster down. “I should go change into something more appropriate for a visit with Jane.”
I smack his back. “Go get her, tiger.”
Doubt falls like a gray specter across his face. “Do you . . . do you think she’ll say yes?”
I rub his head, messing with his hair the way an older brother would. “She’d be batshit crazy not to. You’re a total catch.”
Harrison smiles, looking more relaxed.
We walk toward the stairs near the kitchen.
“Would you like me to prepare dinner for you and Miss Randolph before I go?” Harrison asks.
I step into the kitchen and wave him off. “No. I want to do it myself.”
“Very good, then.”
As Harrison continues toward the stairs, I call, “There’s just one small thing. How do I turn this stove on?”
• • •
By five fifteen, I have a simple lemon and chicken recipe in an “oven-safe dish” like the online instructions said, ready to go. I slide it into the oven and go take a shower.
By five thirty, I’m dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved dark blue button-down.
By five forty-five, the table is set—linen napkins, crystal glasses, china plates, silver utensils—Harrison would be proud. I turn the lights down low and put a bottle of white wine in the ice bucket to chill.
By five to six, I have the cooked chicken warming on top of the stove, hoping it tastes better than it looks. I light the candles on the table, sit on the couch, and wait for Kennedy to get here.
By six fifteen, I’m still waiting—but I’ve never met a woman who was actually on time, so it’s all good.
By six thirty, I turn on the TV and use my handgrips as I walk around the room. Watching and waiting.
By six forty-five, I pour myself a glass of wine.
By seven, I risk looking completely pathetic and dial Kennedy’s number. It goes to voice mail and I don’t leave a message.
By seven thirty, I’m on glass number two. And I blow out the candles.
At eight, I thought I heard someone on the front step, but when I went to check, there was no one there.
By nine, it starts to rain hard, thunder and lightning galore. I lie on the couch, arm bent under my head, legs stretched out, shirt open.
But it’s not until ten that I actually believe Kennedy’s not going to show.
12
When I first open my eyes, I’m disoriented. I don’t know what time it is, or how long I’ve been asleep. Then I realize I’m on the couch, it’s still dark and raining outside—and as the recollection of Kennedy not showing for dinner hits me like a sharp jab below the ribs, the knowledge of what woke me up breaks through my foggy brain.
It was a knock on the door.
I walk to the door and open it, just in time to catch a petite blonde going down the steps.
“Kennedy?”
She stops on the sidewalk and slowly turns to face me. She’s soaked through—her jeans molded to the curves of her legs, the sleeves of her white and navy striped sweater dripping, her hair flat, lips slightly tinged with blue.
“I wasn’t going to come,” she says.
My voice is drowsy and deep. “Yeah, I kind of figured that when you didn’t show up.” I open the door wider. “Come inside.”
Instead, Miss Vinegar to my Mr. Water takes a step back.
“I don’t know why I’m here.” And she sounds genuinely bewildered—even a little panicked.
“Obviously because I’m irresistible.” The wind blows, spraying ice cold drops across my bare skin where my shirt hangs open. “You’re shivering, honey, come inside.”
She stares at me, so many emotions swirling in her expression. She’s like a skittish kitten who can’t decide if she should let the stranger pat her head or haul ass up the nearest tree.
And it breaks my heart.
“I don’t think I can.”
So I go to her.
The rain is cold and hard, soaking my shirt. Her eyes dart from the sidewalk, to my chest, up to my eyes and back again, like she’s ready to bolt—but her feet stay planted.