Page 35 of Just Like Home

“You didn’t bother to ask.”

He deserved that. He didn’t acknowledge it, but he knew he deserved it.

“Sorry,” she said. “That was rude.”

“I can take it.” He spotted the lawn mower buried in the corner.

“I met Jules when we were just kids,” she said from the doorway. “She was my only friend.”

He glanced at her, but she wasn’t looking at him. She seemed to be off in her own little world. When she snapped out of it and made eye contact with him, she shifted.

“She never mentioned me?”

Cole shook his head. “I really didn’t keep up with all the dance stuff Jules did back then. I had a lot going on at home.” He hoped she didn’t ask what—his dysfunctional family was about the last thing he wanted to discuss.

“But it wasn’t just back then,” she said. “We’ve always kept in touch, even after Jules left the ballet and got married. We were like pen pals.”

“Pen pals?”

“People who write letters to each other,” Charlotte said.

“I know what a pen pal is,” Cole said. “You’re from the city?”

She nodded. “Chicago.”

“So, how’d you end up here?”

She leaned against the doorjamb and watched as he gingerly took a step closer to the mower. “I needed a fresh start.”

“And you came here?” He would’ve laughed, but the look on her face stopped him. “It’s just really different from Chicago.”

“That was kind of the point,” she said. Embarrassment skittered across her face. “I wanted a quieter life.”

He tugged on the mower, clearing a path to the door. “Well, you’ll certainly get that in Harbor Pointe.”

“And I want to buy Julianna’s dance studio.”

He frowned. “Buy it?”

She shrugged. “Someone should keep it going.”

He squinted, sizing her up. He didn’t know Charlotte—had no memory of her, and Julianna hadn’t mentioned her to him, but he had a feeling she could do a lot better than owning a dance studio in a small tourist town. “Why?”

She looked away. “I have my reasons.”

“Fair enough.” He wasn’t one to push for conversation. He freed the mower and now stood at the front of the garage.

Charlotte came around the side to the driveway and crossed her arms over her chest. “Can I help?”

“Help what?”

“In the yard?”

He squinted down at her. “Have you ever done yard work?”

“No,” she said. “But how hard can it be?”

He eyed her for a long moment, dressed in her workout clothes (which showed enough skin to require him to lasso his wandering thoughts).

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