Page 16 of Make Mine Sweet
What arethe odds Ian went inside and threw those cupcakes straight into the trash? I’m going with sixty-forty. At least I tried. If Amy asks, I can confidently say I’m doing my part.
Whether it’ll make a difference or not is anybody’s guess.
I sit on one of the patio chairs and watch August play. He’s settled a bit after his initial home from daycare blitz, and he’s sitting in the grass talking to the dog. Probably making all kinds of plans for what they’re going to do together this summer.
I keep reminding him Dutch isn’t ours, but it’s not sticking.
Ian walks back outside. His presence is mildly unsetting for so many reasons—the lingering ghost of my old crush, his unfriendly demeanor, the way he glares around like he wishes August and I lived anywhere else. He crosses his arms and stands by his door, our duplex’s grumpy bouncer. I half expect him to call Dutch inside for the night, just take his toys and go home, but he doesn’t.
Doesn’t say anything, either.
I still can’t imagine what could have happened to make him change so much. Sure, it’s been fifteen years, but he was outgoing and friendly, talkative and engaging. A major flirt, too, not that I ever experienced that side of him.
Frankly, the only thing I experienced of Ian Vaughn back then was admiring him from afar. But I watched him well enough to know he wasn’t shy with the local girls. He’d lean in close, whip out a devastating smile, and every girl in his orbit melted.
In my more embarrassing daydreams, I was a few years older, we were a whole lot closer, and he never noticed a single one of those other girls. He only had eyes for me.
“Seems awfully optimistic,” Ian grumbles behind me.
I startle out of my reminiscing, my cheeks going hot. There’s no way I actually said that out loud, right?
“What is?” I squeak, my stomach flipping over.
He nods into the yard. “Dutch doesn’t make a very good pony.”
I follow his gaze to where August is trying to ride Dutch like a horse. Thankfully, his feet don’t leave the ground as he awkwardly hovers over the dog, but he waves one hand in the air like a rodeo star. The dog doesn’t seem to mind.
“Don’t put any weight on him,” I call.
August stops spinning his invisible lasso and waves, then goes straight back to being a cowboy.
“Dutch weighs more than the kid does,” Ian says.
That’s true. Maybe I’m worried about the wrong one getting hurt. But it’s a gorgeous evening, warm without being overly hot like it will get in another month or so. I want August to enjoy it as much as he can. And right now, he’s certainly enjoying playing with that dog.
Ian steps closer but pauses before he reaches me. The porch stretches from one side of the house to the other, set up with double of everything: two patio tables, four chairs each, two barbecue grills. We even have identical fire pits at opposite corners in the yard. His table is about twenty feet from mine, and he’s hesitating like he might be inclined to walk to it.
“You can sit over here if you want.” Seems kind of ridiculous for him to stay all the way over there when we’re both watching the same thing. My offer is practical, that’s all. It has nothing to do with those long-ago thoughts swirling through my head. I’m trying to be neighborly like I promised.
Ian nods and walks over to my table, lowering himself into the seat farthest from me, and staring out to where August is accosting his dog. Two lines form between his eyebrows as though the sight of a little boy frolicking is somehow distasteful to him. His beard is as scraggly as it was a few days ago, and I don’t look at his sweatpants and T-shirt too closely. Those might be the same, too.
His long hair is different though. It’s up in a bun, a style I’ve never really found appealing on a man. But it shows off his deep widow’s peak and the streaks of gray starting to pepper his temples. Honestly, he looks more like a pirate than ever, which I will die before mentioning to Wren. The look weirdly suits him.
And matches me. I’m not sure I’ve ever had the same messy updo as a man five feet away from me before.
“Twins.” I snap my mouth shut and turn my face to the yard. Now, that Ididsay out loud.
Lovely.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I blurt. “What, um, do you do for work?”
Work is good. Work is safe. Way better than random comments on hairstyles.
His lips twitch for a few seconds before he responds. “Consulting.”
That’s nice and vague. Yet another thing I should have asked Amy about him. Not that it’s really my business, but as long as it’s nothing illegal…wait. It wouldn’t even have to be illegal.
