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~Cora~
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU’VE got a date tomorrow morning?” Wendy demanded. “We were supposed to hang out all day. Nobody goes on a date on a Sunday morning.” She stopped to drink her latte. “And who exactly is this date with? I can’t imagine it’s Mark, so that just leaves Hot Guy from the bar. I thought nothing happened?”
“Nothing happened. I swear, other than twisting my ankle and getting tipsy, it wasn’t any big deal.” I was such a liar. Well, maybe it was nothing big, but I felt things...things I shouldn’t be feeling. I grinned as the picture of Dixon’s smile, the sparkle in his eyes when he looked at me, popped into my head. The way he made me laugh, feel light inside. And that incredible pull to kiss him...to straddle him... Ugh, I was officially in trouble.
“And yes, I’m going out with Hot Guy—I mean, Dixon. He wants to check out the Trunk, and I said I’d go with him.” I pulled out a light-blue long-sleeve scoop neck blouse and held it next to my jeans. “Hmmm...does this go together? Or should I try this one?” I grabbed the multicolor raw hem sweater. “Wendy, help me out here...which one looks better?”
“Well, they both look fine with jeans, but the shirt shows off your...ah, assets...more. So definitely the shirt.” She winked at me. “Maybe he’ll check out your trunk, too.”
I threw the shirt at her, laughing. “And what, exactly, is my ‘trunk’?”
She wiggled her butt. “You know, that big ol’ thing you swing when you walk.” She straightened up. “Have you told him about Mark yet?” Gone was the laughter in her voice. Apparently it was time for Serious Wendy to show up.
I loved Serious Wendy, but she could be a real party pooper. Bringing me back to the reality of my life. Bummer.
“There’s nothing to tell. Mark exists. As much as I wish he didn’t. I keep putting him off. He continues to act as if everything is fine, like we’re still together. But we’re not.”
“Well, maybe if you told your father it was over, he’d stop pushing you two together and actually support you in your decision.” Wendy frowned. “I know—he’s more invested in your relationship with Mark than you ever were. But he’s got to hear from you that Mark’s just not the one for you. That you’re not going to marry someone just to make him happy. Or fulfill some dream he has of setting you up for life with a rich husband with a good name.”
I dropped the sweater back into the dresser and closed the drawer. “I know. I know. I need to tell both of them, somehow, in some way, that they each hear me. I swear, every time I try to bring it up with either of them, they shut me down or walk away. It only gets worse when they’re together. Last week at the club was unbearable.” I plopped on the bed, bouncing lightly, and flung myself back.
Mark and I had grown up together but last year, my father had pushed me to date Mark. I’d given in to the pressure and said yes to a date. It felt like going out with my brother, only ickier and grosser than that. He was a few years older than me, and we’d always been in each other’s lives. Mark was polite, cultured, dressed well. But he was also a snob, only interested in status. And the law. He was a stickler for the law. He saw the world in black-and-white—no shades of gray. Or, actually, any color at all. He couldn’t understand why I’d wanted to paint the walls in the penthouse. My royal-purple bedroom walls seemed to repulse him but they comforted me. That and the mountains of pillows propped at the head of my bed.
But now my father was doing more: he was actively trying to get me to marry Mark. And he’d enlisted Mark in this scheme. To be fair, it probably didn’t take much arm-twisting. In all likelihood, he’d been planning to ask my father for my hand—that’s the kind of thing he’d think was the proper and correct thing to do—and then inquire on the dowry. Get a prenuptial agreement drawn up. Find a huge, gaudy ring that I’d be afraid to wear for fear of either losing it or blinding people with it. Then, possibly, maybe, he’d remember to ask me. Or, more likely, tell me we were getting married. Mr. Romance, he wasn’t.
And he didn’t fit into my plans to run my own business. The thought of Mark being approachable and welcoming to a bed-and-breakfast guest was laughable. There was no way he’d encourage me to spread my wings and make my dreams come true.
I just needed to find a way to get Mark—and my father—to realize that neither of them controlled me or the trajectory of my career, my life. What that was, I had no idea.
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BRIGHT AND EARLY SUNDAY morning, I guided my car to Jake’s parking lot. It was mostly empty, so I had my pick of spots. This time, I parked close to the doors, on the side where the door to Dixon’s apartment was. No ankle twisting this time. Of course, I wore much more sensible shoes for this outing—my trusty Keds, not the heels from hell. The whole day promised to be casual, so the shoes matched.
As I gathered my purse and backpack—it was easier to carry my finds in that rather than dozens of bags—a knock on my window made me jump. A quick twist in my seat, and those pools of blue heaven stared back at me.
“Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you there.” Dixon’s sheepish smile brought the corners of his eyes up as his whole face joined in the smile. “You ready? I thought we’d take my truck. You never know what kind of treasures you can find at a flea market, right? At least this way, we can be pretty sure we’ll be able to get it all home.”
“Sure. Sounds like a plan. Do you know the way, or do you need a copilot?” I stepped out of the car and beeped the locks. As I stood close to him, the scent of sandalwood drifted over. And something intoxicating...something that was all Dixon.
He stared into my eyes, quiet for a moment. I started to drown in those pools, silently letting them wash over me. How did he do this to me? How could one person draw me in, make the rest of the world fade to black while I was captured in his sapphire eyes?
He cleared his throat. “Umm...yeah, sure, I could use a copilot. Every good expedition has a crew, right? Unless you’d rather be the Ginger on this three-hour tour.” His eyes sparkled with his teasing.
“Yeah, right. More like Mary Ann. And what does that make you—the Skipper or Gilligan?” I laughed, trying to picture Dixon in either a black skipper hat or the bucket hat Gilligan never seemed to be without. But neither of those characters had the physique that Dixon had, and my laughter died as I considered what Dixon would look like on a tropical island, shirtless...
Get a grip! You hardly know the man! But my dirty mind steamrolled over any weak objections some small, sane part of my brain tried to put up. Those abs would be lickable, for sure, and his arm muscles could hold me—protect me—for hours. Or hold me down as he pounded into me, over and over.
A sense of heat crawled up my face, now flaming red, I was sure.
“Hmmm...never thought of myself as either of those two. Although, that professor had it pretty good. Good-looking, smart...” He grinned.
“Not smart enough to fix the boat or build a raft that worked. But I would agree he was the best-looking of the bunch.” I stepped away, determined to keep my hands to myself, and headed for what I assumed was his truck parked close to the apartment stairs.
“I know this great little diner on the way to the Trunk. You ever been to Tony’s?” Dixon was clicking his seat belt in and stopped to watch me pull mine over my shoulder. “They have some of the best waffles I’ve ever had.”
“I’ve never been, but waffles sound good. Let’s go there and we can plan out how we’re going to attack the flea market.”
Dixon started the ignition. “Attack? You make it sound like we’re headed off to war.”
“Well, you have to know how you’re going to approach it. Is it just an easy, laid-back stroll through rows and rows? Are we looking at every vendor, or just at ones that catch our eye? Are we starting at the back row and making our way forward, or starting at the front and working our way to the back? All very important questions, I think.”
“Wow. I never would have thought you’d need to plan so much just to check out a flea market. I guess this is a conversation to have over waffles.” He glanced over at me and those blue eyes twinkled at me. “Here we are, my liege. Let’s go plan our attack.”
The diner was tucked between an antiques store and a bakery, a hole-in-the-wall kind of place. Definitely promising—I’d never had a bad meal at a small mom-and-pop place like this.
Dixon held the door of the diner open—a little bell tinkled to acknowledge our entry—and the smell of bacon hit me.
“Oh my God. Bacon. We’re definitely having bacon with those waffles.” I glanced back at Dixon, who now held the door open for an elderly couple coming in after us.
“Thank you, young man.” The woman’s crinkly face crinkled some more when she smiled.
“Now Barbara, don’t go smiling at him. Your smile can melt a man’s heart, and how’s a young’un like him gonna be able to take that first thing in the morning? Me, I’m man enough for you, any time of the day.” The old man grabbed her hand and pulled it to his lips, giving it a kiss.
“You’re welcome, Miss Barbara. You can smile at me anytime.” Dixon winked at the old woman and looked up at me. “But you might have competition in the heart-melting department.”
My heart did melt at the look he gave me. Just a little. I cleared my throat and prayed I wasn’t blushing too much. “Okay, enough flirting with the ladies. Time to plan for battle and fortify ourselves.” I turned back and found a booth in the corner.
After some of the best waffles I’ve ever had, some crispy bacon—the only way one should have it—and a debate on Mrs. Butterworth syrup versus authentic maple syrup (Vermont maple syrup all the way!), we talked about the Trunk and what we were looking for. Turned out he had very specific ideas on what he wanted. So we were going to be looking at a lot of furniture, which kind of dovetailed into my plans for the B&B. I wasn’t opposed to getting ideas for how to furnish my bed-and-breakfast, and I hoped the flea market would give me inspiration.
We left the diner, and the next forty minutes of drive time passed in a wink. I learned what kind of music he liked (eighties hair bands and boy bands of any decade as opposed to my love of country music), how he got his job (his high school buddy Ryan’s parents owned a construction company), and his middle name was Ray. Before I knew it, we were pulling into the parking lot at the Trunk.
“You ready to score?” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could catch them. Never mind that my body hummed from being so close to him for so long. Never mind that I imagined his hands not on the wheel but on my body. That was not what I meant. “S-score some deals, I mean.”
He gave me a heated gaze. “Yeah, I’m ready to score...some deals.”
His stare fired up my body up even more, and his hand was now touching mine, causing a tingle to shock me into a silence. Okay, maybe my body meant what it sounded like. But my head was in charge here, right?
A grin—one I was quickly looking forward to—grew on his face. “Let’s get it done.”
We’d decided to start in the back and work our way forward, so we headed off to the back corner without stopping at any booths. It took a good ten minutes of walking to find our starting point.
“Geez, after that quick march, it’s really like we are in a military campaign!” But the sun felt wonderful, and it was warming up to be a beautiful spring morning in Connecticut.
“Hey, this was all your idea. I wanted to start in the middle and go out in concentric circles—well, squares...whatever—but you nixed that idea. So no complaining about the hike.” Dixon wagged his finger at me, pretending to lecture me while his dimples fought to stay hidden.
“Yeah, but this way, we won’t miss anything. We have to go past it all to get back to the truck, right? Let’s go, Mr. Cub Scout.”
The first few booths were little more than someone’s tag sale leftovers: plastic housewares, kids’ toys, and strangely enough, a toilet. A note on the porcelain throne said: Please do not use toilet.
“I wonder who it was that made that sign necessary.” I poked Dixon in the ribs to draw his attention to the sign. Oh my God, not an ounce of fat—pure muscle. That construction work definitely had some side benefits.
“Probably some kids goofing around. I can picture myself around ten or eleven, being just enough of an idiot to dare one of my friends to use it.”
“Oh, look! This is a cool chair.” I almost ran over to the next vendor. A classic Craftsman chair, with dark leather and walnut wood, caught my eye.
“It reclines.” The vendor stepped forward. “A true Craftsman classic. Here—sit down and lie back. You can have all the great quality and design and still lay back like a Lazy-Boy.”
I sank into the soft leather. “Oh my God. This is so comfortable. And,” I reached to move the handle, “such a smooth motion to lay back. This is awesome.”
“Just two hundred bucks. We can help you get it to your car, no charge.”
The man could see the sale coming, but I had to shut it down. “Sorry. I really don’t have room for it at my place. I love it, though. It’s got great lines, and it’s in great condition. But I can’t take it.”
Dixon jumped in. “It is an awesome chair. But we’re just starting out on our flea market excursion. Do you have a card? Maybe I can sweet talk her into splurging and call you later on.”
“Sure. Here you go. But don’t wait too long...a chair this good won’t last long.”
I reluctantly got out of the chair. As much as I loved it, I couldn’t take it home. Frankly, there wasn’t any room, and I didn’t want to hear from my father about my habit of collecting chairs. There were a dozen or so at our family home I’d had to leave behind when I moved into the hotel after college. A few made it into that new space, but not all of them. I’d held myself back this time, but something about the varied ways a thing as simple as a chair could be made amazed me every time. I wanted them all. Silly, I know, but some chairs just called to me, to be part of a home, part of someone’s life. A place at a kitchen table. A place to cuddle in. A place to relax. A place to hold a crying baby. To make a home. All things I wanted someday.
We wandered over to the next booth, which looked like a Home Depot tool department surplus store. I recognized hammers and screwdrivers, but had no names for the power equipment and other tools. But Dixon scrutinized the tables, obviously looking for something.
“See something you like?” I ran my fingers over the tools, trying to figure out what the sharp objects might do.
Dixon grabbed my hands. “You have no idea where those tools have been. They could be full of rust and dirt, and if you cut yourself on any of this, it’s off to get your tetanus shot update. No more flea market for you, young lady.” He pulled them close to his chest, pulling me along with them.
I could only look into his eyes and once again fall into those heavenly pools of blue. Just the smallest taste of being his full focus, and I could barely think, much less speak. “Oh. Yeah. Right.” I thought I was breathing, but the little gasps that came out weren’t enough to get oxygen to my brain, apparently. I sensed I should tug my hands away from him, but the urge to hold tight overwhelmed me. Maybe I could stay like this, hands on his chest and staring into his eyes, for a minute or two longer. Or much longer than that. I shook myself at that thought.
Taking a deep breath, I found the willpower to pull my hands back to my sides. “Yeah. I’m not a big fan of needles, so I’ll take your advice.” Somehow I was colder now, without the warmth he telegraphed into my body.