Chapter Seven

Eve

I wince as Daphne’s words register with John.

“Married? You almost married Andrew Detweiler?” he asks, unable to hide his shock.

I shrug. “It was a long time ago,” I mutter, taking off the cape and hanging it on the hook. “I’ll meet you at the counter,” I add, reaching for the broom and quickly sweeping up the remnants of his hair. Hair I couldn’t seem to stop touching, mind you. My fingers were drawn to it, craving the feel of his soft locks. It was almost indecent the amount of time I spent with my fingers unnecessarily in his hair. I was waiting for my mom to call me out, but thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice.

Stepping away to allow him room to stand and exit my station, I listen as he chats with Daphne, promising to make plans to all get together with her husband Beck at Penalty Shot Sports Bar. Daphne was there that night nine years ago, but I don’t think she knew John and I left together, or she would have said something.

“Sixteen dollars,” I say as I approach the counter, grateful to have the piece of furniture between us.

He pulls a twenty from his wallet and hands it over. “Keep it.”

“Thanks,” I reply, slipping the bill into my bank bag in the drawer.

When I finish, there’s this awkward tension and silence hanging between us, like we both want to say something but neither of us know what that might be.

Finally, he says, “Thanks for squeezing me in.”

I nod and reply too quickly. “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

John takes a step back and retrieves his coat from the hook. I know I should look away, but I can’t seem to make myself. I watch as he slips it on and heads for the door. Just before he pulls it open, I blurt out, “John! Your pastries.” My legs scurry over to the table and pick up the small box containing two Danish treats.

He flashes me a slow, sexy grin that lights up his entire face and makes my thighs clench together. “Keep them.” With a wink, he walks through the door and disappears from sight.

“That man is still sinfully gorgeous,” Daphne mutters softly.

“Mmm,” I mumble, words evading me.

I guide Daphne to my chair, place a towel around her neck, and grab a cape. “Same coloring as last time?” I ask, pumping her up so she’s more on my level.

“He seemed a little shocked to hear you almost married Andrew,” she says, stating the obvious.

I shrug. “He was gone a long time.”

Daph holds my gaze in the mirror. “Yeah, but not that long ago either.”

Something passes between us, a knowing or understanding, and in this moment, I realize maybe she did know about him and me nine years ago. She was just polite enough not to bring it up.

A lump forms in my throat as I lift my shoulders once more. “What’s past is past, and believe me, everything about Andrew is in the past.”

“Still, it has to be awkward that he’s dating Roxie, who’s like barely old enough to drink,” she states, making me smile.

“Yeah, that’s a little weird, especially since she has no clue about the real reason why we broke up.”

Daphne just stares at me. “You haven’t told her?”

“What good will it do? She thinks he’s the greatest thing since Santa Claus coming down the chimney, and we both know Andrew will tell her what he wants her to hear,” I say, pulling the foil squares from my drawer.

“True,” she agrees. “What a wanker.”

We both laugh at the memory of John calling him a very British term. “I’ll be right back. I’ll go mix up your color.”

I step into the small room where we keep color and supplies and quickly whip up the highlights and lowlights I’ve used for Daphne’s hair the last couple of years. When I return, stirring the mixture in the first bowl, I find a Styrofoam container sitting on the half-wall beside my station. “What’s that?” I ask, looking over to Mom, who’s smiling but doesn’t say a word.

“A little birdy delivered you some lunch,” Daph informs me.

I set the two bowls of color on my cart and wipe my hands off on a towel. “Who?” I ask, peeking inside the container. My mouth waters at the sight of hot turkey over mashed potatoes and gravy with green beans.

When I meet her smiling eyes, I know the answer.

John.

I clear my throat and turn my attention to my job. The food will have to wait until I apply her colors, but that doesn’t stop my heart from soaring. He used to do things like this all the time when we were dating. He’d show up with snacks after school so I had a bite to eat before volleyball or cheerleading practice, was always surprising me with notes or flowers, and would always show up to give me a ride home from work, even though he knew I loved to walk. He was always caring, always attentive, and always took care of my needs well before his own.

“Are you going to the festival this weekend?” she asks once I start dabbing color onto her hair.

“Of course. I never miss the carnival,” I insist, folding the strands of hair up into the foil.

“I think we’re going Saturday for a bit. Cooper wants to ride all the rides,” she tells me, referring to her four-year-old son.

“I usually go then too. I might hit up the Bingo tent with Joy first,” I say.

“Oh, that’ll be fun. I haven’t played Bingo since before Cooper was born.”

“Well, you’re welcome to join us. Ariel will probably go too,” I say, working through the highlights and lowlights.

“Maybe I will. I’ll talk to Beck and see if he’s okay meeting me there.”

Once her hair is prepped and she’s positioned beneath the dryer, I take my container of food and head for the back. Mom is standing there, folding towels from the stackable washer and dryer unit as I grab a plastic fork.

“That smells good,” she says.

Taking a seat at the table and opening the lid, I nod. “It does.”

As I take my first bite of lukewarm turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a slice of Texas toast, she asks, “So we’re not even going to talk about the fact John brought you lunch?”

I sigh, forking another bite and eating it. “It’s just lunch. Don’t look too much into it.”

“Okay,” she says casually, but there’s something in her tone. I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

“Mom.”

She turns to face me, giving me her complete attention. “Yes?”

I exhale slowly and sag in my chair a bit, the weight of the world hanging off my shoulders. “It’s just…I…” I take another breath, trying to collect my thoughts. “Don’t think too much about this,” I end up saying.

“Of course,” she replies, coming over and sitting across from me, towels abandoned. “Here’s the thing, Eve. Sometimes life puts obstacles in your path because they help you learn and grow as a person. And sometimes, those obstacles are in the form of a second chance.” I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up her hands and continues, “It might not be a chance to rekindle anything romantic, but maybe it’s to form a new friendship or trust in your neighbor. Maybe it’s forgiveness.”

My mind grasps onto that one word. Forgiveness.

Despite me trying to tell him I was over it last Saturday night when he was about to apologize for what happened nine years ago, I know my heart still holds that sting. The rejection I felt waking up alone that next morning is still with me, festering like an infected cut. I need to let it go, and maybe then I’ll finally be able to let him go too.

I finish my lunch in silence, my stomach full and happy. It’s amazing how one home-cooked meal from the café can brighten your spirits. Or maybe it’s the fact John thought of me, knowing I was planning to work through my lunch, and went out of his way to deliver me food. He always did little things like that. His way of letting me know he cared.

Not that he cares now, at least not in the same way, I’m sure. He’s a nurturer at heart, a carer, a healer, which is why he went into the medical program through the Army. It doesn’t surprise me he’s working for the local hospital in Edgemere. In fact, I wouldn’t be shocked at all if they get him on the local volunteer fire and EMS program. And if I know John at all, he’ll do it in a heartbeat, because that’s the kind of guy he is. If he can help, he does.

I just need to remember that. He brought me food, he offered to help me cut down my tree, he wanted to pull the sled home for me because that’s who he is.

Our relationship is in the past, and so are any feelings that went along with it.

Sure, keep telling yourself that.

I round the corner and stop in my tracks. A big smile spreads across my face as I take in the lights. So many lights, way more than the single strand he’s had the last several days. I’d like to think it had something to do with my shock and displeasure at the fact he hasn’t taken decorating very seriously, but it could be something entirely different. Even though I haven’t seen any sign of a girlfriend, perhaps she influenced him into more decorating. Or maybe it’s just the fact he’s home and feels the Christmassy vibe again. This place does have a way of reeling you in. It turns even the Scroogiest Grinch into Buddy the Elf in no time. I’ve seen it happen.

When I reach the sidewalk leading to John’s front door, I take a deep breath and turn. There’s a slight tremble to my hand as I bring it up to the door and knock. Thank goodness I’m wearing gloves, and it’s not noticeable. A flash of light in the darkness catches my attention, my eyes are drawn to the small camera positioned above the door and off to the left. He must have a security system in place, one that catches movement in his yard.

John releases the lock and opens the door, standing there in a pair of low-hanging sweatpants, bare feet, and an old Army T-shirt. My eyes take a slow perusal down his body, shamelessly memorizing every square inch of delicious man, before making a return trip back up.

He shifts, leaning against the doorframe, his movement breaking through the lusty fog filling my brain. “Please, continue.”

My eyes narrow, finally returning to his face. He’s smirking, clearly having witnessed me violating him with my eyeballs, and of course, he’s having a good time with it.

Clearing my throat, I thrust the box in my hand toward his chest. “Here.”

“What’s this?” he asks, pulling open the lid and finding three fresh Danish and one apple pie cinnamon donut inside.

“A thank you for lunch. Well, and breakfast. And the afternoon snack, since I ate the second cherry Danish around three between clients.”

He grins. “And the cream cheese one?”

“Mom,” I tell him, having offered it to her at the same time I ate the second cherry.

“Ahhh. Good. I’m glad they didn’t go to waste.”

“And now you have your breakfast for the morning,” I say, trying not to take in his body once more, only to fail miserably.

“Do you want to come in?” he offers, taking a step back.

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I have…stuff.”

Lame. He makes me off-kilter, as if I can’t produce a single logical thought or sentence.

“Okay,” he replies with a shrug.

I look out at his lawn, and add, “Your lights look nice. Way better than the single strand.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through my under-used lady parts. “Yeah, I didn’t want to piss off my neighbor any more than I already had.”

I can’t help but smile, knowing he did it for me. “Well, I think your neighbor will be impressed. It must have taken you all afternoon.”

He shrugs, leaning against the doorframe once more. His arms are crossed casually over his chest, the T-shirt pulled taut around his arms. “I made Linus help. In return, I fed him fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy.”

My mouth waters. “Oh my God, was it your mom’s recipe?” I ask, my eyes wide as I await his response. I haven’t had his mom’s fried chicken with all the fixings since I was in high school.

He smiles proudly. “You know it.”

My stomach chooses this exact moment to growl. I blush a thousand shades of red, causing me to avert my eyes. “Well, I better get home. Snowflake is probably ready for dinner.”

John nods and holds up his hand. “Wait right here,” he says, walking away and leaving me standing at the door.

I peek inside, interested to see his house, even though I declined his offer to come inside. The furniture is basic, masculine, and clean. There’s a large television hanging on the wall and a few family photos on a shelf. When I spot the recliner, my eyes land on Biggie, lying there and sending an annoyed glare my way. My green eyes narrow at him, letting him know I’m still not very happy with him. The way he turns his head, essentially giving me the cold shoulder, lets me know he isn’t very happy with me either.

Before I can say anything, John returns, holding a container and plastic bag. “Here.”

“What’s this?” I ask, taking what he offers.

He smiles as the scents of cold fried chicken hits me square in the gut.

“Oh! No, I can’t take this,” I insist, trying to hand it back.

“You can and will. I have plenty.”

My stomach grumbles a second time, causing him to laugh. “Are you sure? I don’t want to take your lunch tomorrow.”

He crosses his arms over his chest once more, and I feel a bead of sweat slip down my back as I take in the sight of him standing there. “You’re not. Go home and eat, Eve. If you have an air fryer, throw the chicken in there and it’ll be crispy and perfect all over again.”

A smile tickles my lips. “I will.” Holding his gaze, I give him an honest, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Well, I better get home.”

“Have a good night, Eve.”

I nod. “I will. You too,” I reply robotically, taking a step backward and slowly descending his front stoop.

Spinning around, I retrace my steps and head for home, feeling his eyes follow me as I go. When I reach my porch, I risk a glance back to his house, finding him standing exactly where he was. He lifts his hand and waves, causing my heart rate to accelerate. I return the gesture and reach into my mailbox to grab the contents. Slipping my key in the lock, I carefully juggle my purse, the food, and mail and enter my house.

I slip off my boots, leaving them on the tray by the front door and take my goodies to the kitchen. The first thing I do is start to preheat the air fryer, anxious to taste Patti’s fried chicken. While it’s heating, I slip off my coat, gloves, and hat, hanging them in the hall closet. I place the container of mashed potatoes and gravy in the microwave and press the start button. Finally, I lean against my counter and reach for my mail.

Only, the first envelope I see has John’s name on it. I set it aside and prepare to open the next one. Same. It’s addressed to John Mitchell.

Frustrated, I find the other two envelopes aren’t addressed to me either.

Pulling out my phone, I fire off a text to Ariel.

Me: Ummm, why was my neighbor’s mail delivered to my house?

Ariel: I don’t know. Why are you asking me?

Me : Because you’re the postmaster!

Ariel: But I don’t deliver the mail. Just a little mix-up.

Realization sets in. That must mean John has my mail.

Ariel: No big deal, just take it next door.

Me: I’ve already taken off my boots and coat!

Not to mention the fact my dinner is warming, and I’m starving.

Ariel: Then put it back in your mailbox with a note that it was misdelivered and put the flag up. We’ll take it. Or just knock on his door and hand it over.

Me: Fine.

Ariel: Stop stressing over it. Just a merry little mix-up.

A merry little mix-up?

I think it’s more like fate laughing in my face.

With a huff, I go back to my boots and slip them on my feet. I don’t even bother with my coat, because I won’t be outside long enough to get cold. I take the four pieces of mail and slip outside, bypassing the mailbox and making my way toward his house. I know I should just do what she suggested and slip it in my box for the mail carrier to deal with, but that’s not what happens. When I reach his door and lift my hand to knock, that’s not what happens either.

Instead, I become a felon and open the mailbox attached to his siding by his front door. I close my eyes, careful not to peek at any contents, praying that makes my crime better, and practically throw his mail inside. Then, I hightail it out of here before anyone can see me and call the cops. I remember learning in high school that mailboxes are federal property, and only the postal service and the residents of the house are allowed to access it, so here I am, becoming a criminal at the age of thirty and doing exactly what I was taught not to do.

I don’t bother with the sidewalk to return home, opting to just run through his yard and into my own. Just as I cross the property line, I slip and fall, landing hard on my ass. My hands are covered in snow, my pants quickly becoming saturated too. I’m sitting in my yard, soaking wet, cold, and probably developing pneumonia with each passing second. Not to mention the bruised ass I’m probably going to have tomorrow, thanks to my little stumble, and the fact it’s probably all caught on camera by a neighboring house, including my illegal activity. Add in the fact I left evidence leading straight to my front door, thanks to deciding to run through the yard and not taking the sidewalk.

“Just a merry little mix-up,” I grumble sarcastically, peeling myself off the ground.

Coated in snow and blanketed in embarrassment, I slip into my house and send up a silent prayer that no one witnessed what happened tonight.

Especially John.

Then it hits me.

John has a camera. I saw it above his door.

Dread fills my entire body.

I’m so screwed.