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“Did you manage to get a mattress?” She could have kicked herself for asking, but he had a way of drawing her in, of making it impossible to ignore him.

“Yeah, but they can’t deliver until Tuesday, so I have another couple of lumpy nights ahead of me. I’m going to need a chiropractor after this.”

She took a sip of coffee to disguise her smile at his disgruntlement. He was kind of endearing when he was grumpy.

“Help yourself to some of my coffee,” she offered before she could stop herself. But then couldn’t regret the impulsive invitation when he gifted her with a boyish smile.

“Seriously? God, you’re a lifesaver. Thanks, Bean.” He leaped up before she could rescind the offer—not that she would have—and strode into her house without pause.

She rolled her eyes at the nickname; he hadn’t called her that in years. When they were kids, he’d taken to calling Libby “Bug,” short—he claimed—for “Lovebug.” Tina, in the meantime, had been saddled with the much less affectionate “Bean.” She had never known where the nickname stemmed from, since he’d always remained closemouthed about why he called her that. Tina had always assumed it was a shortened version of “Jelly Bean” . . . and, being way too paranoid about things as a teen, had reached the conclusion that it was because every part of her body wobbled like jelly when she so much as breathed.

She snorted as she thought about the self-conscious, silly girl she had been. When she looked at pics of her as a teen, always slouching, or hiding behind a piece of furniture or someone else, she felt overwhelmingly sad. She hadn’t even been that overweight—she’d been on the slightly heavier side of average—but because of the importance everybody else had put on how her body should look, she had hated herself and the fact that she wasn’t perfect and petite.

She shook off the melancholy and stared into her mug. When Harris returned moments later with a fresh cup of steaming coffee, she waited until he sat down again before she broached the question.

“Why ‘Bean’?”

His eyebrows slammed together in surprise. “What?”

“Where did that nickname come from? I always assumed it was short for jelly bean, because of my weight.” He was in the process of taking a sip of his coffee when she revealed that long-held belief, and he choked on his drink.

“Shit,” he swore in self-disgust, dragging a sleeve over his chin to mop up some of the spilled coffee. “Why the fuck did you think that? I never gave you reason to think that, did I?”

She lifted her shoulders awkwardly, her red face betraying her embarrassment. He swore again.

“Jesus, the damage we do to ourselves and others when we’re dumb kids is just—” He stopped abruptly and glanced skyward as if seeking strength, but what he got was a face full of water as the heavens opened up. “Fuuuuck!”

He jumped up and ducked beneath the porch roof as a massive amount of water sheeted from the angry sky. He said something, but the thunderous rain clamoring down onto the tin roof drowned his voice out. Tina shook her head and cupped her hand around her ear to indicate that she couldn’t hear him.

He glared at her and very determinedly made his way to the swing and sat down next to her.

“It wasn’t short for jelly bean,” he yelled directly into her ear, and she winced at the volume. He toned it down a bit before adding, “I thought you were cute as a bean.”

She jerked back her head to stare at him in surprise.

“What the hell does that even mean?” she asked, and it was his turn to look surprised.

“You know, like the saying?”

“That’s cute as a button, Harris.” Her voice was dry as a bone, and his brows lowered even farther—he looked completely flummoxed.

“It’s not. Is it?”

“Are you being serious right now?” she asked, her voice brimming with laughter, because she could see that he was.

“You know English was never my best subject.”

“Yeah, I’m always shocked when you manage to string two coherent sentences together,” she said sardonically, and he shot her a moody glare, which just amused her more.

“I hated those things. Similes. ‘Poor as a vicar . . .’”

“Church mouse.”

“‘Strong as a bear . . .’”

“Ox,” she corrected again, a burble of laughter escaping with the word.

“‘Bear’ could work,” he said, his voice sulky, and she smiled.

“It could,” she agreed generously. “But I’m not too sure about ‘cute as a bean,’ though.”

“So . . . all these years I should have been calling you Button?” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like it. I prefer Bean.”

They shared a smile, the first genuine one in more than ten years, before she lowered her eyes self-consciously and he cleared his throat. He took a sip from his coffee and sighed again; this time the sound was long and appreciative and ended on a slight groan.


Tags: Natasha Anders Broken Pieces Romance