Page 21 of The Wedding Run
She sips again, then licks a dollop of foam off her lip.
Get a grip, Maine!A flash of red forces my gaze to the braking lights ahead of me.Pay attention.
“I’m not picky about coffee,” she continues. “I want it hot and with more than the legal caffeine limit. Derek was lousy at making coffee.”
“Derek has other qualities,” I say, remembering my promise to him. But I also don’t elaborate.
“This is…” She pauses, drawing me in like a moth, then says, “It’s lovely.”
I flex my hands and then clench the steering wheel hard. For some reason, I care too much about what she thinks.
“But how hard can it be," she adds, "to make a good cuppa joe?” That tips me off kilter. “It’s only beans, not magic ones, and hot water, right?”
I hit the gas harder than I intended, and the truck lunges forward. Then an idea leaps to mind. “You’ll have to prove it.”
“Prove what exactly?”
“That making coffee is as easy as you say.”
“You want me to make you a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah,” I say, but clarify, “but not instant.” I toss the words down like a gauntlet.
“Sounds like a challenge,” she says with a confident smile. “I’ll figure out the best cup of coffee for you. But you’ll have to make one to knock my socks off.”
I reach out my hand. “Challenge accepted.”
She shakes my hand but touches my arm with her other hand. My bicep twitches in response. I pull my hand away and grip the steering wheel as if I’m driving on black ice. For some stupid reason, I imagine what it would feel like to have her touch my bare skin.Whoa, right there, Maine.
Shaking off the unnerving reaction, I clear my throat and shift gears. “Derek stopped by last night. To check on you.”
“Or to rail at me,” she suggests.
“He was very concerned about how you were holding up. Nice of him, considering.”
She drinks more coffee, which I take as a good sign. “What exactly did you tell him?”
“Nothing much. Just that you were, you know, tired, that’s all.”
“You didn’t tell him about yesterday? About our date?”
“Date?” A cold sensation flows over me and then melts into panic. Is that why she’s flirting with me? “You misunderstood, Libby. It wasn’t a date.”
She nurses the coffee, which boosts my confidence. She likes it; she just doesn't want to admit it. What game is she playing? I concentrate on my own task. “Don’t you want to know how Derek’s doing?”
She shrugs with indifference. “Oh, Derek. He’s a survivor. He’ll be fine. Probably finding a date on what would have been our honeymoon. He’s not the type to stay single long.”
“Well, actually,” I improvise for Derek’s benefit, “he’s upset and wants to talk to you. He wants to work things out.”
“That’s impossible.” She leans back, arching her neck, making me swallow hard. “If he’s so upset, why hasn’t he called?”
Good question. I tap my thumb against the steering wheel. “You don’t have your phone.”
“But he knows where I’m staying. Your folks have a phone, don’t they?”
She has me there. “But,” I counter, “he came by. Which is better than a phone call. More personable. Besides, it’s my fault,” I take the heat. “I told him you needed rest. I thought it might be better for him to wait. Let things cool down. I shouldn’t have interfered.”
Nor should I now. But I promised Derek. We have a long history, and our friendship includes a business partnership as well. Did I have a choice?
