Page 42 of Love You Always

But I don’t know what I’m doing instead.

The scenery slips past me under a half moon and a dark sky. I barely notice any of it. When I reach Vallejo, still thirty miles south of Napa, I pull off and find my way to a coffee shop that’s open andserving hot coffee and whatever else I want from the all-day menu. I want a huge stack of pancakes, a scoop of butter melting on the top, and a lot of syrup. It’s strange that Callum makes me sick at the same time that I have a huge appetite, but I’m too worn out to question it.

A tired-looking woman with a pink diner dress under a white apron sidles up to my table with a menu, but I shake my head and give her my order. “Cream in the coffee?” She writes everything down on a little pad with a tiny pencil, which she tucks into the apron pocket and makes her way to the kitchen. Her white clunky tennis shoes squeak as she goes.

Thumbing through the address book on my phone, I locate the number for my lawyer, who I can’t call at this hour. Even if I did, she won’t be in the office. I continue down the alphabetical list of everyone I know, ultimately deciding that the people who live in time zones where they’ll be awake aren’t the ones I want to tell about Callum. So I sip the coffee when it arrives and lean my forehead on my hand, trying to figure out something resembling a plan.

An hour later, I’m no closer to a plan, but my stomach aches from downing three mammoth pancakes and enough coffee to supercharge a rhino. That’s when I get back into my car, which seems to be on autopilot bound for Buttercup Hill.

I shouldn’t be here. I’m just a future wedding guest with no wedding now, and none of the people there owe me any of their time. Least of all Archer. Which is why I’m about to get back into my car and head for the Oakland airport when Archer’s front door swings open. Shirtless in a pair of low-slung sweatpants, he looks awake but tired. The smooth muscles of his chest and abs catch the pale light from his outdoor sconces, and my mouth waters. I don’t even try to look away. When my eyes land back on his face, I see him squinting but hardly scowling. He looks confused but pleased to see me.

Archer blinks into the relaxed, dim light of early morning—it’s maybe half past six—and cocks his head when he sees me standing between my car and his front door.

“What’s up?”

I open my mouth, but no words come out. His question is too big to answer.

“Did we have an appointment?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair and taking a step toward me.

Shaking my head, I take a step backward. “No. Sorry.”

What am I doing here?

I turn toward my car and yank open the door, but Archer’s long stride has him standing next to my car, blocking my access to the front seat. He’s pulling a shirt over his head, and my brain is a muddle of regret for coming here, disappointment as his naked chest disappears, and lust over his perfectly mussed hair and the intensity in his gaze.

“Wait. Would you just hang on a second?”

“You’re in my way.”

“Yeah, that’s intentional.”

“You’re a big oaf and I need you to move.”

A hazy, sleepy grin creeps across his face. “I’m an oaf?”

“Like Shrek, only a little less green.”

“Shrek was an ogre,” he says, smirking now and hanging his arm on the top of my car door. I wish he didn’t look quite so damn handsome when I feel like a mess, but it’s comforting to have something nice to look at, at least.

“Are we really splitting hairs over which word I should use to insult you?”

“Funny, I’m not insulted.” He definitely doesn’t seem insulted. In fact, he seems almost…content. If I didn’t know better—i.e., that it’s a horrific hour to wake a person on a Saturday, unannounced—I might even think he’s glad to see me.

“Why are you smiling?”

The smile fades and I worry I’ve scared it off.

“Wait, no. You were almost happy. I don’t want to ruin that.”

“Almost?” The crease in his brow is proof I’ve offended him, though I’d think the oaf comment would’ve dealt a heavier blow to his ego.

I shrug. “I just mean…I liked the smile.” Slowly, it returns, lips turning up at the corners, cheeks pulling upward, even if he seems to be fighting it.

“Why are you here, darlin’?”

As usual, being called darlin’ by the gruffest man in Northern California melts my resistance.

“I…” Shaking my head, I tell myself to ask the oaf in front of me to move aside because I don’t have an answer to his question, at least not an answer I’m ready to tell him.

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