“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “Last night was weird. I’m not normally like that. I just …” I still care about you. “My mom and all that.” I blame my mother, though my alcohol-fueled emotions got the better of me long before Dottie ever strolled in to drop a cherry on a ruined night.
He nods slowly, biting his bottom lip. “Yeah, it was weird for me too.” His gaze drifts over my mouth. Has he been thinking about that kiss since he woke up like I have? I have the urge to kiss him again, just to make sure it’s as good in the sober light of day.
Shit or get off the pot.
Justine may be crass but she has a point.
I take a deep breath. “So, listen, maybe we should try—”
“You were right.”
“Huh? I was?”
“Yeah. We should definitely keep this”—he waggles a finger between us—“straightforward and uncomplicated. I think it’s better for everyone involved.”
My stomach drops like a rock. Uncomplicated. I think that’s my new least favorite word. “Yeah. Right. Of course.”
He flashes a playful smile. “Try not to start any more fires, okay?”
“It was the stove,” I mutter, watching him stroll out the door, my disappointment swelling. So, I guess that’s a no to dinner, then.
Behind me, heavy boots plod along my hallway toward the door.
“Thank you for rushing to our aid,” Justine says.
“You have any more questions?” Dean’s deep voice is grating on my nerves. I want everyone to leave so I can crawl back beneath my covers and die.
“No, I think we’re good.” She flashes a wide, flirtatious smile and I struggle to hide my cringe. “But, just in case, why don’t you leave your number so we can call you?” She opens the notebook that sits on my hallway console table and holds up a pen.
I shoot her a glare behind his back as he bends over to jot down his number. “He’s the motherfucker. Literally!” I mouth.
“I know,” she mouths back. “Prank-call later.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Justine would do that.
Dean tosses down the pen. “Hey, listen, if you end up buying something from Murphy’s, skip the delivery charge and tell him I’ll pick it up and bring it here for you. I’ve got a dolly.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, more sharply than I intended. “I mean … why?” Why is he being so nice after last night’s debacle? Is Dean dumb enough to think he still has a shot at getting laid?
My question—or more likely my tone—seems to take him back, because he stumbles over his next words. “I just … I guess I figured you could use the help?” A small frown pulls his brow.
I could use the help. I’ve already been to Murphy’s to check out the appliances. They’re overpriced and they charge seventy-five bucks to deliver.
“Scarlet would love the help. And seeing as she almost had Dottie’s sloppy seconds and you feel super guilty about that, she’s going to take you up on your offer,” Justine says sweetly, batting her lashes for effect.
Dean winces. If he were entertaining any ideas of a post-delivery thank-you blow job, I’d say that sufficiently crushed it. “Text me if you end up buying one and I can grab it in the afternoon, after I wake up.”
“And you should get Shane to help you,” Justine adds.
He grunts at that and then marches out the door and down my steps to join the fray of loitering men on my front lawn.
I spear Justine with another glare. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
“It was definitely more fun than the fire. So, what happened with Shane?”
I sigh, eyeing his retreating form as he climbs into the truck. “He took the pot away before I could do anything on it. For good, I think.”
“I’m sorry, buddy.” She smooths a soothing hand over my shoulder.
“It’s probably for the best. You know, because of Cody.”
“Right.” We watch the truck pull out of my driveway and head back to the station, to wait for a real emergency. Thankfully, the neighborhood gawkers are dispersing quickly now that the action is over.
When the truck’s taillights are out of sight, Justine claps her hands. “Okay, get dressed. I’m starving.”
Seventeen
I’m sprawled out in my living room on Sunday afternoon and halfway through grading Friday’s surprise math test when a sharp knock sounds on my front door.
With a nervous flutter in my stomach and a quick glance in the hallway mirror, I head over to answer it.
Dean is standing on my front step with a dolly.
Alone.
“Hey.” My attention veers to the shiny black truck parked in my driveway and the sizable brown cardboard box. “Is that my stove?”
“I hope so,” he jokes.
I force a smile as my disappointment swells, and I realize how much I was counting on seeing Shane. “Are you going to be able to manage that on your own?” Did Dean not mention to Shane that he was coming here today? Or is “keeping it uncomplicated” code for “I’m staying the hell away from your crazy ass from now on”?