trouble.”
“No trouble,” I say, getting up. Unless I don’t have any coffee—then it would be trouble.
From the kitchen pass-through I look out at him. He’s watching me, so I move away. His gaze makes me feel exposed and vulnerable as if he can discover all my private thoughts.
He’s such a curiosity to me. He’s a man’s man, but the kind who smiles easily and helps elderly ladies across the street. He’s athletic and competitive, yet compassionate and caring.
I look out again. He winks. I duck back into the kitchen with a shiver. Must be the sunburn. Has to be.
I reach for the coffee filters, absorbing the reality of Dylan Braun driving down from Daytona to see me. This is the perfect ending to my rotten day.
“I hope I’m not imposing on your evening, Macy,” I hear him say.
“Oh, not at all.” I peek around the door. He’s standing, shedding his jacket, moving toward the kitchen.
My knees wobble. “Good. I thought you might be on a date or something.” He boldly enters the kitchen and straddles one of the chairs as if he’s been to my house a hundred times.
“Well, I was on a date,” I admit with a laugh, reaching for the mugs that dangle from the mug tree. Dripping coffee fills the kitchen with the aroma of hazelnuts.
He stiffens. “Oh?”
I make a face. “The night ended early. He didn’t feel well.”
He relaxes with a grin. “Lucky for me.” His comments feel deep and personal.
“Let’s have coffee in the living room,” I suggest when the pot is perked. I pour the coffee, offer Dylan the remains of toffee-flavored creamer and shove the sugar bowl his way.
While we doctor our coffee, my mind swirls. Dylan, in my home. I’ve known him most of my life, but we’ve never really hung out.
Once in a while, when our moms got the families together, we played table tennis in the Braun basement or watched a movie in the Moore living room. But our high school and college social circles rarely intersected. This is a monumental moment in the life of Macy Moore. Earth-shattering. Should I call NBC, maybe Oprah?
Following me to the living room, Dylan asks, “Do you mind if I light a fire?” He motions toward the fireplace. “I’m a little cold from the ride down.”
“Not at all.” I smile and set my coffee on the end table. Frankly, Dylan Braun is all the warmth I need, but I’ll keep that as my little secret.
Dylan sets his mug next to mine, then lights the fire as if he spent every Saturday night in my living room. Whew, it’s warm in here. I fan my face with my fingers.
“So,” Dylan says when he joins me on the couch.
“So,” I echo, smiling. My gaze catches his and for a long moment it’s as if we’re the only two people on earth.
“Are you still with Casper?” Dylan asks.
I nod. “Yep, and you? Still torturing Beauty High students with math and science? Didn’t you coach track and football, too?”
He laughs, cupping his mug between his hands, elbows resting on his knees. “I gave up torturing last year.”
“Really? The bike business is that good?”
He grins. “It’s getting there, but I’m also doing some bronze and pewter sculpting. I have a few large sculpture commissions this year.”
I’m shocked. I’d always pictured Dylan as the steady job, Toyota or Honda kind of man. Leaving teaching for the elusive world of art shows guts and belief in himself. If possible, he’s soared even higher in my admiration stratosphere. At this rate, I’ll never reach his heights. “It must feel great to follow your dreams.”
He leans my way. “I learned it from you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
The phone rings before I can think of a snappy reply. I step to the kitchen, where I left the cordless.
“You made it home.” It’s Lucy.
“I did.”
“Did you call a cab?”
“No.” I peek at Dylan from the kitchen. He smiles and nods. I duck behind the wall and lower my voice.
“Someone’s here. I can’t talk now.” I hang up before she
“No trouble,” I say, getting up. Unless I don’t have any coffee—then it would be trouble.
From the kitchen pass-through I look out at him. He’s watching me, so I move away. His gaze makes me feel exposed and vulnerable as if he can discover all my private thoughts.
He’s such a curiosity to me. He’s a man’s man, but the kind who smiles easily and helps elderly ladies across the street. He’s athletic and competitive, yet compassionate and caring.
I look out again. He winks. I duck back into the kitchen with a shiver. Must be the sunburn. Has to be.
I reach for the coffee filters, absorbing the reality of Dylan Braun driving down from Daytona to see me. This is the perfect ending to my rotten day.
“I hope I’m not imposing on your evening, Macy,” I hear him say.
“Oh, not at all.” I peek around the door. He’s standing, shedding his jacket, moving toward the kitchen.
My knees wobble. “Good. I thought you might be on a date or something.” He boldly enters the kitchen and straddles one of the chairs as if he’s been to my house a hundred times.
“Well, I was on a date,” I admit with a laugh, reaching for the mugs that dangle from the mug tree. Dripping coffee fills the kitchen with the aroma of hazelnuts.
He stiffens. “Oh?”
I make a face. “The night ended early. He didn’t feel well.”
He relaxes with a grin. “Lucky for me.” His comments feel deep and personal.
“Let’s have coffee in the living room,” I suggest when the pot is perked. I pour the coffee, offer Dylan the remains of toffee-flavored creamer and shove the sugar bowl his way.
While we doctor our coffee, my mind swirls. Dylan, in my home. I’ve known him most of my life, but we’ve never really hung out.
Once in a while, when our moms got the families together, we played table tennis in the Braun basement or watched a movie in the Moore living room. But our high school and college social circles rarely intersected. This is a monumental moment in the life of Macy Moore. Earth-shattering. Should I call NBC, maybe Oprah?
Following me to the living room, Dylan asks, “Do you mind if I light a fire?” He motions toward the fireplace. “I’m a little cold from the ride down.”
“Not at all.” I smile and set my coffee on the end table. Frankly, Dylan Braun is all the warmth I need, but I’ll keep that as my little secret.
Dylan sets his mug next to mine, then lights the fire as if he spent every Saturday night in my living room. Whew, it’s warm in here. I fan my face with my fingers.
“So,” Dylan says when he joins me on the couch.
“So,” I echo, smiling. My gaze catches his and for a long moment it’s as if we’re the only two people on earth.
“Are you still with Casper?” Dylan asks.
I nod. “Yep, and you? Still torturing Beauty High students with math and science? Didn’t you coach track and football, too?”
He laughs, cupping his mug between his hands, elbows resting on his knees. “I gave up torturing last year.”
“Really? The bike business is that good?”
He grins. “It’s getting there, but I’m also doing some bronze and pewter sculpting. I have a few large sculpture commissions this year.”
I’m shocked. I’d always pictured Dylan as the steady job, Toyota or Honda kind of man. Leaving teaching for the elusive world of art shows guts and belief in himself. If possible, he’s soared even higher in my admiration stratosphere. At this rate, I’ll never reach his heights. “It must feel great to follow your dreams.”
He leans my way. “I learned it from you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
The phone rings before I can think of a snappy reply. I step to the kitchen, where I left the cordless.
“You made it home.” It’s Lucy.
“I did.”
“Did you call a cab?”
“No.” I peek at Dylan from the kitchen. He smiles and nods. I duck behind the wall and lower my voice.
“Someone’s here. I can’t talk now.” I hang up before she
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