Page 19 of The Girl He Loves

In a flurry of words, she says, “Oh, I don’t care about that. But I think I might have blown it for you. He came in, said he was looking for the owner. I said I was the owner. He said the other owner, and I said there is no other owner. He said Heather Lowell then corrected himself and said Michaels. And I said, ‘Oh, that other owner. She’s not in today.’ I was totally caught off guard when he didn’t ask for you straight off.”

My heart is racing. “Then what happened?”

“Oh dear,” she says. “I said you were at home, and he asked where that was. I was so flustered trying to cover for you that I told him where you live.”

I gasp and stand up, suddenly knocking over my coffee mug, sending the contents across the table and onto the floor. “I think I might be sick.”

Jayne rarely gets flustered. If the fact that Dax was on his way to my house wasn't so unsettling, I'd call her on her BS. Likely, she was matchmaking. But right now I have bigger issues.

“How long ago?”

“He just left. If he comes straight away, then you have fifteen minutes.”

Holy crap. I needed to get out of here. I didn't want Dax to know where I lived. Fifteen minutes was not enough time to move or get Tyler out of the house. I glanced at my mother and knew she couldn’t be trusted to wave Dax off. She’d invite him in and make him breakfast, lunch, and dinner - all the meals until I returned home.

“Heather, what’s wrong?” Mom asks as she rushes to the sink to get a towel to mop up my coffee.

My white T-shirt is oversized and stained. My biker shorts are ratty since they’re older than my child but comfortable as heck to sleep in. My hair is a tangled mess. Actually, the only thing I did when I came in early this morning was brush my teeth and wash my face. I can’t sleep with makeup on; I’m quick to get acne.

I spin in a circle, trying to make a plan. “I have to go,” I say to Jayne.

“Do you want me to call in reinforcements? I can’t leave the shop but—”

“No, no. I got it. I’ll text an SOS if I need one.”

“Darling, I know you aren’t going to answer the door. But maybe you should. Even if it's to tell him to bugger off and slam it seconds later,” Jayne says.

It's like she read my mind. I was contemplating turning off the TV and pretending not to be home. Trouble would be my mom and Tyler. Neither are good at covert. But Jayne’s right. I need to face this head-on.

I smooth my hand down my T-shirt. “I'll meet him outside.”

“Atta girl,” Jayne says.

“Who?” Mom says.

“I’m hanging up now,” I tell Jayne and hold a finger up to tell Mom she’s next.

“Good luck,” Jayne says and disconnects.

“Someone’s coming from Jayne’s shop. I’m going to meet them outside. You good to hang with Tyler for a few minutes?”

“Sure,” she says and gives me the once over. “You aren’t meeting this person dressed like that?”

I cross my arms in defiance, about to claim I was, when I realize I’m not wearing a bra. “After I put on a bra,” I say, and scuttle to my room. Being a Florida girl, I don’t need to worry about shoes. We’re used to walking on scorching sand, so a driveway is nothing.

“And maybe a better shirt,” Mom calls behind me.

I’m outside in under five minutes. My van is in the driveway next to my mom’s Nissan SUV. I pop the back and pull out the blankets from last night, balling them up and throwing them against my non-working garage door as a reminder to wash them. They're not grody or anything, but my mom brain demands I wash them anyway.

My house is cute. Built during the second world war, it’s four blocks from the beach and just under fifteen hundred square feet. The bedrooms are so small a king size bed takes up the entire space. There’s no such thing as a master suite.

The outside is white stucco with navy blue shutters. The roof is orange Spanish terra-cotta tiles, though many have turned black with age. I have two lovely palm trees in my yard that are probably as old as the house, if not older. They’ve weathered many hurricanes. I can’t say as much for the roof tiles.

I sit in the back of my minivan and swing my legs back and forth until a motorcycle creeps down my street and turns into my drive.

Dax pulls to a stop a few feet from me and swings his long leg over the bike before lifting off his helmet.

“Do you sit outside in your van often?” He smiles big and friendly.

“What are you doing here?” I can’t afford friendly. The point of having a one night stand is to leave it at the one night. “I thought we agreed to let it be.”

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