Page 7 of Love You Too

“Please?” I add.

It’s thepleasethat seems to soften her resolve. Or maybe it’s the bag of paint samples on my shoulder. She sneaks another look at it and inhales, opens her mouth, then shakes her head.

“Fine. But only because my blood sugar is dangerously low.”

She starts walking toward the market while I put Truman on his leash. By the time I catch up, she’s holding the door to Oxbow for us, and I brace it with my hand so she can step inside first. “After you.”

As we stand wordlessly in the coffee line, Beatrix smooths the front of her beige sweater and brushes nonexistent dirt from her pants. Tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears, she looks at the coffee menu. My hands itch, dying to free the strands. In college, her hair hung loose and free, and unless we were going to a formal, she wore hoodies and jeans. I know she has a career now, so I don’t expect to find her in sweats, but there’s something else. She seems tense, wound up.

I love that for as smart and capable as she was, she showed me her vulnerable, messier side. I see none of that vulnerability now—just a polished, organized woman with places to go that have nothing to do with me.

Except that … “Or…we don’t need to have coffee. We could go back to my place and…”

Her eyes lock on mine. “Are you serious?”

I shrug. “You said you had needs, and I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“You’re. Not,” she grumbles through gritted teeth.

Busy tapping on her phone, she doesn’t notice that the person in front of us has finished. I gently place my hand on the small of her back to urge her forward. For a millisecond, she sinks against my hand. Then she jolts away like I’ve just fired the starting gun at a sprint. She leans hard on the counter, as if trying to get as far away from me as possible. “Coffee with cream and a muffin. Whatever you have.” She waves a hand, flustered. I won’t deny that I like seeing her ruffled.

I order a black coffee and a dog cookie for Truman and hold up my credit card. “We’re together.”

“No, we’re not.” She rifles through her purse, but I push the card forward, smile at the barista, and nod. She snatches the card, and by the time Beatrix gets her wallet out, I’m finger-signing the iPad screen.

She turns to me, pointing accusingly. “So, the morning starts at three in the afternoon for you? Out partying or posing for photo ops or whatever you do?” She asks me as though the whole idea bores her, yet the way her hands flit around betrays that she cares a little bit.

“No. I was researching craftsman design features and drawing plans. Not that it came to anything. I’m not much of an artist, turns out.”

Her frosty demeanor thaws slightly. “Designs for what?” She looks pointedly at the tote bag.

“Renovations. I have ideas for the house, but I can’t seem to make them look right on paper. And today, I got sucker punched by paint colors. Did you know that there are about a billion shades of white? I get overwhelmed when I have to choose between paper towel brands.”

I know from some casual Google stalking that she’s won design awards for the restaurants and inn she runs at ButtercupHill, but it seems that my project has caught her interest. If I toss out breadcrumbs carefully, maybe I can keep her here longer.

Her eyes soften for a moment, as though she’s imagining the glorious blank canvas of a dilapidated house and all she could do with it, but then the focus returns, and she frowns. “It’s harder than it looks. You should hire someone to help.”

I walk toward a tall round table with two chairs and indicate for her to follow. “I think it sounds like you’re offering.” She follows me with a huff that says she’s not enjoying my company.

“You thought wrong.”

I pull the chair out and extend my hand. Shaking her head, she pulls the fabric samples to her chest. “I’m not having coffee with you.”

“Okay,” I say, sitting down and waiting. Her options are to join me or march out, and I know she’s not rude. Beatrix grudgingly puts down her bundle and perches on the chair. She keeps one foot on the ground like she might need to make a hasty escape. “Do you want to see the paint samples? Like I said, there are about a billion, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them.”

It’s a last-ditch attempt to keep her here, and I can see I’ve failed when she shakes her head emphatically. Then she grabs for the bag. “Let me see what you have.”

I feel a secret thrill, realizing I’ve found her catnip. I seize the small opening when it presents itself. “Go for it. I can’t make heads or tails of any of it—seriously, Dutchess Tea Room? Sierra Stone? These are paint colors? What happened to gray and blue?”

I earn the barest shred of a smile. “When all else fails, go with Swiss Coffee. But seriously, it’s just a coat of paint. You can always paint over it if you don’t like it.” In her zeal to search through the bag, she perches more solidly on the chair, leaning toward me. I catch a whiff of jasmine, and it sends a ripple of want through my veins. I never expected to see Beatrix again. I’d hoped to, but even in my dreams, I’d never anticipated how itmight feel. I never expected to feel this—the sensation of being drawn to her like she’s the source of the air I need to breathe.

“Or if you want…you could come look at the place. It’s a zoo of fabric options, furniture catalogs, wood specimens, and paint chips, all rolled up in a disaster of a renovation.” I don’t deserve what I’m asking of her—a few more minutes of her day—but I’m asking anyway because I can’t help it. Now that I’m near her again, I want more. I want as much as she’s willing to give.

For the first time since Truman bowled her over, Beatrix Corbett gives me a smile.

“If I come, it’s only because I’m interested in interior design. Not…the other thing.” She waves her hand toward the parking lot, as if I need a reminder of what’s been bouncing in my brain for a half hour—she wants sex, and I know I can more than satisfy her on that front.

I pretend I don’t see her cheeks blaze pink again. “Of course,” I say. “Whatever you want.”

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