Page 3 of Safe With Me
Those weekends, we didn’t make a big deal about boundaries or anything. We got one room, took turns paying, and slept in the same bed. We didn’t cuddle up or anything, but the last time, I woke up when the train rumbled by and found him on his side, facing away from me. I shifted, almost pressing my nose to his nape. He smelled good, some subtle aftershave and a clean, almost-not-there soap.
A chuckle rumbled up from his chest, so his neck brushed the tip of my nose. “Are you sniffing me?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“Okay.” His deep voice held a that’s-a-little-weird-Hannah note, but I didn’t care. The bed was warm and cozy, my body tingled and ached a little in a good way, and Coney was far, far away. My sigh breathed melancholy over his skin, and he reached back to pat my hip. “Hard to believe there’s nobody back home right for you. You’re great, Hannah.”
I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight. “I am.”
“Surprised you and Dix didn’t suit. He’s a good guy.” He was half-asleep, voice a drowsy rasp, and I let him ramble, enjoying the low–stakes ease. “I’d introduce you to my friend Beech, but he’s kind of an ass when it comes to women. He sleeps with colleagues. What the holy hell is he thinking?”
“Mmm.” I took another tiny sip of a breath, cologne and soap. Enough of that and his deep voice, and I’d probably reach an arm over, touch him and draw him into another round of let’s-forget-our-lives-for-a-little-while. “Who knows?”
“Wait.” He vibrated awake, snapping his fingers with a sudden idea, and rolled to face me. Jolted to awareness, I blinked at him in the dimness, the dark cut by streetlightsfiltering into the room. “What about Tate Edwards? You’re friends–”
“No.”
He heard it, of course he did because my voice was ice, and he blinked once, then nodded, dark eyes soft and a little sad. “Got it.”
“Good.” I flipped over, away from him, staring at the opposite wall, at the pale light and shadows there. He settled on his back, sheets rustling with his movement.
Silence stretched. I blinked hard, my throat tight and hurting, my eyes burning.
He expelled a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Um-hmm.” I swallowed and drew my knees up, trying to make myself as small as possible. “Me, too.”
That was the last time we were together. Our dates had piddled out the first night we slept together, and our sleeping together had come to a piercing, bone-shuddering halt with that non-discussion in the dark. I wasn’t going to be the future Mrs. Tick Calvert, he wasn’t going to be the right man for me, so that was that.
Clean breaks were better. I knew all about them, how to walk them out with every man who wasn’t the right one.
Too bad I couldn’t make a clean break when it came to Tate Edwards.
And it was really too bad he couldn’t make one, either, when it came to my sister Elizabeth.
Shrugging off the memories – the past, like lots of things, couldn’t be changed – I bid Mrs. Lenora a good day and a sweet goodbye and hustled for the store. Downtown Coney continued to come alive, and I smiled and waved at our fellow shopkeepers, the new florist shop and the hardware store flying by as Ihurried. 85 Broad and the Bistro wouldn’t open until later, but Shay called out a hello as she set out her board with the bakery specials for the day listed. Oh, I was later than I thought, then, after stopping to chat at the coffee shop.
Spying the sidewalk in front of our store, I cringed. Rows of tall rolling carts full of plants angled in front of the parking spaces, which meant Daddy had pushed them all out.
And in the central parking spot closest to the door?
Elizabeth’s BMW.
Coffee and bile burned the back of my throat, and I swallowed. Gripping my cup, I lifted my chin, straightened my shoulders, and hurried inside. Familiar aromas – acidic seeds and fertilizers, rich leather and warm spices – enveloped me, centering me before the yuck settled in.
The blinding brightness of Elizabeth’s circular spotlight had me blinking. And her dulcet voice, sweet and excited, set off an ache behind my stinging eyes as she unfolded sweater after sweater in the alcove that held our women’s clothing.
Daddy had indulged my idea, had been pleased when it took off, and I’d dubbed it The Niche, a perfect name for a sweet little spot where I was finding my space.
Now, I bit the tip of my tongue, hard. I’d set up that display before heading home last night, painstakingly folding the cashmere and stacking them just so, wanting a display that whispered warm and accessible and attractive.
Just so Elizabeth could rummage through them and gush about the soft knit, the sturdy construction, the joy of finding them and bringing them to our clientele.
The sweaters were incredibly soft and well-made, that was all true. But Elizabeth finding them for our customers? Uh, no.
Ignoring her lie, ignoring her, I turned toward the wooden counter that ran along the south side of the store. The originalshelves, built and installed with the counter by my great-granddaddy, towered behind Daddy, dark with layers of varnish and filled with winter bulbs and bags of potatoes and other root vegetables.
“Hey, Daddy.” I set his coffee on the counter, and he looked up from the ag bulletin, his ready smile slipping as he studied me over his reading glasses.
